Empty Wrappers by Kevin Jiang
“I’ll give you my Skittles for your Twix!” shouted Johnny. “No way!” Emily bluntly shot back. The brother and sister, dripping from the pouring rain outside, burst through the heavy, dark oak entryway, pushing through the crowds of children still swarming at the door. Dragging their muddy shoes through the crisp, freshly vacuumed white carpet, they finally found a home for the next several hours, setting up the black market that is post-trick-ortreating candy trading. “B-but you don’t even like chocolate. Give me the Twix!” Johnny ordered, reaching across the floor for Emily’s pile and munching on an already half-empty pack of M&Ms. Wrappers flew all around the living room. Raised voices and high-pitched whines bounced off of the walls and ceiling. The house bubbled with frustration. Why won’t she give me her candy? Johnny thought. Why does he want my candy? Emily thought. Why won’t these kids just SHUT UP? Mr. Garcia thought, slamming his fist on the table, rattling the empty bottles strewn all over the floor. The room reeked of week-old beer and the scent of an unbathed man. The persistent arguing of the kids was drowned out by what must’ve been Mr. Garcia’s twentieth bottle of the night. CLANG. Another one dropped to the floor. Arguing and drinking, the two staples of the Garcias, consumed the household. The kids were left without a moderator in their fights, while Mr. Garcia, absorbed in his own reality, downed bottle after bottle after bottle. “Stop it, Johnny! Those are my Starburst! Give them back!” shrieked Emily as she lunged towards Johnny, grasping at the stolen goods. Suddenly, the sound of tearing paper filled the empty flat, with the individually packed small squares launching through the air like fireworks on the Fourth. One landed behind the TV. One landed in Johnny’s orange pile of Reese’s. One landed in the trash, already full to the brim
