Devonne Brown

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Junebug looked at the stack of dusty handwritten journals in the corner. Like hell she wanted them. That’s all she needed, a stack of hundred year old books piled up beside the toolbox in the laundry room. Maybe they’d be better next to the washer, between the shelf where the charger for the weedeater was kept. They’d be just as useful there. 

She looked at her brother, Max. He was proud he’d found them for her. He was proud of her love of antiques, the way she displayed family heirlooms had always impressed him. She had a knack, an eye for making art out of anything, even old furniture, nearly useless antiques were beautiful in the right light. He couldn’t wait to see what she’d do with their great grandfather’s ledgers. 

Junebug gagged at the thought of bringing one more thing into her house. 

“Max, you’re so excited about these records, you keep them. I don’t have room for them,” Junebug said. She didn’t have sorrow in her voice. Max was surprised.

“Junebug, you don’t seem excited about our great grandfather’s legacy. I am dismayed at your lack of interest, sad, and surprised,” said Max.

“Max, I don’t want these things. Take them please,” said Junebug.

“I don’t want them either,” Max admitted.

“They’re no good to anyone. You know what we should do?” asked Junebug.

“Got a match?” asked Max.