The rain fell like tears. Big drops falling slowly. The book lay in
Tatters, dirty from years of thumbing and flipping. Dog eared pages and a faded cover. The irony of the situation was not lost on me. A weary book, reeking with despair and teeming with sadness. Wet in a quarter box on the edge of the West Virgina line. You ask where the irony is... well this book changed part of history. Its pages are filled with tales of woe about the very hills it is a stone throw away
from. Once upon a time, this book sounded the horn for the people of the Appalachia, causing millions of dollars of aid to be sent to the mountains.

Now, who will sound the horn for it? I tried, but the pages crumbled beneath my fingers and fell like the rain, finally resting in the mud.

How easy we forget our prizes. I look around at the people digging through bins of junk searching for treasure. Keep looking; it’s there – hidden messages, pieces of history, and long lost wishes rest at the bottom of the $1 bin.

Photo - S
Words - N