"TRASH" - a tale of small-town grief, obsession & ambition. ”Heathers” meets “The Stepford Wives”
- ZedBear
- Sep 5
- 5 min read
This is my original short story - you can read the original post here:
FRANK
Frank died on a Friday. For forty years, he hauled garbage for the town, and in the end, he dropped, right there next to it.
Not glamorous, not lauded-but he took pride in it. “Somebody’s got to keep this town clean,” he’d say, shoulders squared, hands scarred and calloused.
Rain or shine, he was out there, humming to himself. Steady, dependable, a man who never asked for praise.
Brenda, his wife, had always been there, too. She packed his lunches with care, washed his uniforms, and ironed the shirts no one ever saw beneath his coveralls. She watched him leave each morning, sunlight glinting on his dust-streaked hair, and felt a quiet pride swell in her chest. She knew the toll the work took on him.
But she wanted the world to see it too. A man who gave his life, day in and day out, to a town that barely noticed him.
She wanted him to have the plaque: Citizen of the Year. The dark wood, the golden letters.
Frank never cared about stuff like that. “A man doesn’t need a prize to tell him who he is,” he’d say. And Brenda, practical and loyal, nodded.
She understood, sure. But it didn’t mean that she had to accept it.
Now that he was gone, that God-damned plaque consumed her thoughts.
She stared at the chipped Citizen of the Year mug Frank had brought home from a thrift shop-a joke, he’d said, because trophies never went to people like them.
Now it wasn’t so funny.
Now it felt like the whole town was waiting for her to join him in the ground.
Apart from a few workers, no one came to his funeral.
No one checked in to see if she was okay.
Even the neighbours who waved and nodded in passing gave nothing more than polite smiles, and the empty words “call me if you need anything”.
And when she did.
Nothing.
They pitied her for about a week, then forgot she even existed.
But the universe hadn’t finished giving Brenda the middle finger. Nope. No Sir.
Two weeks later, her doctor sat her down, and whispered the words: “Stage Four.”
His voice soft, almost tender, as if gentle words could blunt the blow.
Brenda barely heard him. All she registered was the click of the nurse’s scale beforehand.
Down three pounds.
If Frank couldn’t get Citizen of the Year, then she would.
And she wouldn’t win it by being pleasantly plump.
She would need to be all the things she wasn't:
Precise.
Efficient.
Ruthless.
Calculated.
And three women stood in her way, always those three, year in, year out.
Three obstacles.
Three sacrifices.
Brenda sharpened her smile in the mirror, a spark of vengeance for every slight, every whispered insult, every unnoticed day of her husband’s labor.
She would make them pay.
CHERYL VICHY“Queen of the charity circuit”
The charity fashion show was meant to be lighthearted. Local ladies strutted donated gowns for auction, waving to a polite applause.
Brenda scanned the rack and pulled a pink satin number.
Too tight.
Too young.
Too pink.
“Careful, Brenda… that cut can be unforgiving on the hips,” Cheryl sniggered, voice sharp, brittle.
Laughter rippled through the room. For Brenda, it was high school all over again.
She swallowed it, took it like a champ, and wore the dress anyway.
Backstage, Cheryl swept past her, perfume trailing like smoke.
Brenda was meant to hold the door, and smile politely.
But Brenda didn’t.
One misstep, a stumble, a shriek, and a spotlight rig, toppled.
Cheryl disappeared beneath a sea of metal and blood.
Gasps, running feet, sirens.
Brenda adjusted the strap of the dress, walked out under the stage lights, proud as punch.
Outside, the wind carried leaves and litter down the empty streets like confetti.
At her next hospital appointment, another four pounds gone.“Are you eating?” the doctor asked, concerned.
“Oh yes,” Brenda said sweetly. “Eating well.”She imagined Frank, smiling at her, proud, steady, like he had always been.
MARLA FINCH“Bake-sale tyrant”
The bake sale was Brenda’s battlefield.
She laid down her raspberry pound cake - dense, moist, perfect. She’d measured every ingredient twice, tasted each morsel with obsessive care.
“Still at it with that old recipe?” Marla smirked, sliding her lemon meringue pie into place.
“Some things are just… too heavy for people’s tastes.”
Her eyes flicked at Brenda’s waist.
That night, Brenda carried a bag of “extra sugar” to Marla’s kitchen.
Only it wasn’t sugar.
By morning, Marla’s showpiece pie had curdled into a salt-brined disaster.
Judges gagged.
Laughter spread.
Marla’s face broke.
Marla fled, her car squealing. Minutes later, Route 9 claimed another victim, a horrific car accident.
No winner was declared.
Brenda savoured her slice of pound cake alone, chewing slowly, enjoying every bite of well-earned victory.
At the clinic, five more pounds gone. Hands trembling with excitement.“You’re wasting away,” the nurse murmured.“No,” Brenda whispered, “I’m winning.”
DARLENE DOUGHERTY “The kale crusader”
By autumn, the community garden thrived.
Darlene hovered over her kale rows like a priestess, sermonizing about fibre and purity. “You should try greens, Brenda. Potatoes? Those carbs!”
That night, Brenda crept through the garden, fingers tightening around Darlene’s beloved shears.
Darlene believed plants grew taller if whispered to under the stars.
She never got to ask why Brenda was there, why Brenda was waiting in the dark.
The shears bit. Darlene’s voice cut off. Her mouth filled with blood and metal.
Brenda worked quickly, trimming her like a stubborn stalk, precise and efficient.
The kale swayed gently in the night breeze. Fertilizer, she thought.
Darlene was buried deep, the earth accepting her in silence.
Next week on the scale, Brenda was skeletal. The nurse gasped.
“Beautiful,” Brenda whispered.
Brenda thought of Frank, imagined him waiting in the truck, cigarette glowing. She smiled. “Almost there,” she whispered to the empty sky.
THE AWARD
The ceremony was nearly empty.
Cheryl, gone.
Marla, dead.
Darlene, missing.
Brenda’s name alone.
She wobbled on stick-thin legs, clutching the plaque. “Citizen of the Year,” the mayor announced.
At last.
She lifted it as high as her bony arms could take, she had won…
The applause fizzed to static.
She collapsed.
Plaque splintered.
Blackness.
BRENDA
When she opened her eyes, a garbage truck idled under a pale, morning sky.
Frank sat behind the wheel, cigarette glowing, just like she had dreamt.
“They're letting anybody up here now,” he said, grinning. “Took you long enough!”
She pressed the plaque into his hands. “I did it, Frank. Finally got it for you.”
He turned it over, unimpressed. “This old thing?” With a shrug, he tossed it out the window.
He reached down to help Brenda in the truck, and she climbed in beside him.
He placed his hand gently on hers and smiled.
The truck growled to life.
The metal, crunched under the heavy wheels.
And the Plaque scattered into dust.
The truck rumbled on - steady, dependable, and without fuss.
THE END.
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