The Filing Cabinet

The filing cabinet taunts me. Engorged with unpublished stories, rejection letters, poems meant for only me, clips from magazines that actually bought an article, book contracts, book proposals that never made it. It sits there, asking me – reminding me – that I should see if anything is worth a revisit, see if anything can be fixed.

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “the filing cabinet.”

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

7 thoughts on “The Filing Cabinet”

  1. It was rusty, with a big iron bar that stretched right down the front for a lock. “Look what I brought for you,” he said. “For what?” she said. “I can’t use that thing.” He turned and left, shoulders drooping.

  2. Graduation ceremony 2025 has ended in Kokomo, Indiana. Stan starts to toss device into air to celebrate new Ph D. Forgot it was still plugged into his shoulder. Catches in time to push link to open door of new office. Large object, almost his height, looms in middle of unlighted room. Green or black, possibly metal, three once-shiny protuberances at front. Stan calls Security.

  3. The study had papers strewn all over the desk and a lot of them had fallen haphazardly to the floor. Why did he have to be so messy? Were all teachers like that or was it just him? She couldn’t stand the clutter, so she suggested buying a filing cabinet.

    “What for?” he asked

    “To give this room some semblance of orderliness, at least, ” she answered.

    “Well it’s my mess, and it doesn’t bother me,” he said stepping on the papers as he approached the desk.

    “Well it’s OUR study, and it bothers me!” she retorted.

  4. The gray metal filing cabinet lurked in the corner, taunting me with its silent, insistent presence. One of the drawers was a bit lopsided and there were rust stains near the floor. It should have looked pitiful instead of menacing.

    I’d almost finished cleaning out my deceased parents’ house, but put off going through the filing cabinet. I dreaded going through it, afraid of what I might—and probably would–find.

  5. Deep in the recesses of the fiing cabinet, covered in the cobwebby dust, I turned to the section marked “L”. I pulled a folder with the word LIFE on the cover. Very tattered and very thick, I started to read. Did I really do all that? I swelled my chest, smiled, and I thought, YES!! I pushed the unfinished folder back and closed the drawer.

  6. What ruins a man is bitches like me who are trying to tell him he’s ruined. Maybe that’s a little morbid. But that’s just how I feel. Men were ruined from the start, from the top of some tower he built for himself until he came tumbling down and broke into a million pieces when he hit the ground. All the Queen’s horses and all the Queen’s broken men couldn’t put the broken man back together again.

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