The landfill of lost letters

Creative Writing  

When the letters arrived, they drifted in like snow.  

One by one, they danced through the breeze. They tumbled over empty milk bottles and beer cans, wedged themselves in the cracks between rusted fridges, some finding haven in piles of rotting food.  

They swirled for hours through the grey sky, weaving between scavenging gulls and wind tossed plastic bags. The letters settled next to broken furniture and mouldy linen.  

No one saw who tipped them in here. Some were stained with lipstick and grease. A few smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and regret. Addresses and names had all been crossed out, once, twice, then scribbled over completely.  

No letter bore a stamp. None made it to their intended recipient. Now they lie half-buried in waste and muck, their mouths sealed shut. 

By morning, the letters had begun to curl at the edges. 

After a few days, the paper began to shrivel under the invisible weight it carried. Whispers crept out of its folds, aching to escape.  

A week later, the rain began to fall.  

Droplets eased their way through the glue enclosing each envelope. Ever so slowly, they sighed open. Their pages softened. Then they spilled.  

Through the battering rain and the howling wind, a symphony of sorrow echoed through the landfill. Next came the whoops of laughter, the whispers of unkept promises, wails of loss, bellows of blissful happiness, and apologies given but never received.  

Angry notes demanding answers. Love letters which fell flat. Goodbyes which were too raw to deliver. All of them found a home in the landfill of emotions.  

It was strange at first. Save for the gulls and the crunch of garbage, the landfill had always been quiet. Now, the air pulsed with voices and memories that didn’t belong to anyone. 

But like everything in the landfill, it began to break down.  

It was the ants who found the sugary-sweet handwriting first, tracing the loops of cursive who whispered sweet nothings.  

Then came the termites who ate away at the words of heartbreak and hatred. A deceitful lover. A backstabbing best friend. Now digested and forgotten.  

Gulls swooped down and flew off with pieces of apology clutched in their beaks. These were built into nests for screeching, scrawny, chicks.  

Ink smudged, the paper yellowed and rotted, words dissolved, insects ate the hurt, and fungus and weeds grew from apology. 

Memory, like waste, broke down into something unrecognisable. 

The fragments of what once was urgent decomposed.