General

The junkyard was our salvation. When the home generator stopped running we went down to the man at the government hardware store and begged for the parts. But he stared at us with a face less labile than a store mannequin and said to come back when we'd pawned something for cash. "What should we pawn?" my uncle had argued, "Our cooking pots? The clothes on our backs?" Then on the way home he just stopped in his tracks and said "Come with me." I followed him all ten miles to the junkyard. It was daunting at first. Machinery was piled in tall precarious heaps as high as a two storey house. There were dogs of course, but they were starved for attention and soon became loyal to only us. There were no guards though, I guess the powers that be are too cheap to employ anyone.

By antonellaroberts92, October 4, 2014.
General

The junkyard was where all the street kids lived. They climbed into those piled high rusty cars like they were bunk beds and slept while the rain railed against the cracked windshields and metal work. In winter they would set a fire made from tires and watch the thick black smoke disappear into the bitter air. They would cook fish stolen from the harbour nets and share apples poached from the commercial orchards on the hill. When a new car came the pecking order decided who got it. First dibs went to Bernard, always, then Suki, then Pete. Sometimes the lower ranks got mixed up with who was the boss of who and there'd be a punch up, especially if some kid had shot up a few inches and put on some muscle.

By robertgreen, October 22, 2014.