Gromet's PlazaTrashcan Stories


by Herb

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© Copyright 2005 - Herb - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; bond; tape; bagged; cartrunk; transported; object; dumped; cons; X

The car bounces down the deserted lane, it is evening, and its lights wobbly as the car slowly makes its way into the gathering gloom.

A cold wind blows, and it is threatening to rain.

The vehicle stops, and a man gets out. He opens the boot, and looks around.

Although a lot of people do use this track, for jogging, for transit from the new estate half a mile away to the old estate, there is no one in sight tonight, the weather, which has started to spit a cold drizzle, has driven most folks indoors.

The path is raised slightly here, and is bordered by thick grass. It is a favourite dumping ground, and is littered by all the things that inevitably end up at places like this – the old freezers, garden cuttings, destroyed machinery

The man struggles with several large black trash bags, dumping them down the slope. He laughs quietly as the last, and largest rolls twice down the slope, coming to a rest against the other ones. It is black, and obviously several bags in one, and taped strongly at the top. You would have to look closely to see a clear tube sticking out above the tape.

But in this weather and gathering dark, who is going to look closely at the top of a bag of trash.

The man stares at the garbage ‘See ya Trash” he quietly speaks out. Another laugh.

And then he drives away.

And now it is dark, and raining.

And the trash does what all trash does, it remains behind, abandoned, forgotten, hidden.

The rain falls on the plastic, it patters, the wind blows, all is dark.

* * *

The rain patters on the plastic around me.

All is dark, and I am cold, occasionally the wind blows the plastic against my face, and it makes it harder to suck air through the tube.

It is so quiet out here, abandoned. Trash. Dumped.

Again I wonder, will he come back?

I'm not going anywhere. Hands bound to ankles in front, arms thrust between knees. Breasts crushed.

My entire lower body and limbs under miles of tape. I can't even move, or even start to think about poking a hole in the bag.

My limbs are going numb.

Will anyone know I am here?

What if someone sees me?

Impossible, who is going to open this bag of trash.

* * *

It's far later in the night.

The bag of trash does what all bags of trash do. Nothing. It remains, abandoned.


Inside I shiver, shake. I want out. I am going nowhere. The tube, that once seemed so tightly taped into my mouth, is now a little loose. What if it comes out?

What if it gets blocked?

Why did I ever suggest this too him?

I know I can normally trust him, trust him enough to surrender all control.

"I want to be used, discarded."

So he has.

* * *

Later still...

A car drives up. A boot opens.

I freeze, I can hear it, above me.

Then the rustle of more plastic, and more bags fall about me.

It is not him

Just more trash adding to the trash already here.

The car drives away

* * *  


I await, will he keep his word? did we have a word?

I need to move. Limbs scream to be released, stomach cramps, at being bent over for so long.

But I can't

Joggers, I hear them, thud, thud, thud. I want to be found. I don’t want to be found. My face jerks against the plastic pressing against it.

The thudding  fades.

* * *

Mid morning.

The trash lies in a pool of sweat, the sun beats down on the shiny black bags indifferently. One, if you listen closely, is moaning.

The wind blows, the trash bags rustle.

It is quiet, and quiet, and quiet

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