I've been reading The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. It's an amazing book. I was re-reading a section about the tenants trying to sell what they owned in order to make enough money to reach California when I had this idea. It uses some of Steinbeck's language, but it's Spashley.

It goes from third person to Spencer addressing the shopkeeper back to third person. There's one little bit of the shopkeeper addressing Spencer in the middle that I put in Italics. Hopefully you're not confused utterly, and this turned out somewhat good.

...

In a dingy L.A. apartment, the blond searched through the boxes that had been locked away in the closet. Barely looked in half of them before she slammed the lids shut again. She was cold because their contents would have incinerated her otherwise. She wouldn't be opening them up at all, but she needed the money.

That bracelet, that chain, remember on my birthday when she gave it to me? Remember how she tried to give me a diamond necklace? Anything for you, she said, but there was no way I would let her. Bring out the clothes—get a few dollars at least for some of them. Fifty for that collector's vest.

Drums, notebooks, autographs, little guitar picks. Bring 'em out. Pile 'em up. Load 'em on the cart. Take 'em to the shop. Sell 'em for what I can get. Sell the guitar too. No more use for any of this.

Two bucks isn't enough to get for that vest. That was signed by Raife Davies himself. That drum set cost three hundred and fifty dollars. Ten dollars isn't enough. Need the money though—Well, take it, and a bitterness with it. Take the necklaces and skirts. Take earrings, picks, pillows, and frames. Take the thick gold wedding rings, glinting perfectly in the sun. Got those the day before we got married. Remember the way she reached for my kiss at the ceremony?

Junk piled up in the shop. And the greedy-eyed shopkeeper.

Now look, lady, I can't sell those drums, who's got money to buy them? And jewelry? When's the last time you think someone had enough change to come looking for jewelry in the last five years, lady? Practical stuff's all that sells.

Well, take it—all junk— and give me forty dollars. You're not buying only junk, you're buying junked lives. And more—you'll see—you're buying bitterness. Buying a silver chain to chain your children with, buying the heart and soul that might have saved you. Forty dollars, not thirty-five. I need the money—Well, take 'em for thirty-five. But I warn you, you're buying what will chain your children until they die, weak and shivering. And you won't see. You can't see. Take 'em for thirty-five.

Now, what'll you give for the guitar and case? The soft spruce wood, unscratched it is, unscratched body, unscratched mahogany neck, seamlessly attached. In the quick pluck—vibrating strings and wood, resonating profoundly. And each evening, laid gently to rest into soft green velvet. It was ready for us, seemingly always in tune no matter how humid the night and ready to pluck out a melody, and the thick guitar strings! My girl, she loved to play this guitar, wiped it down every night. Loved to do it. Not anymore. I could tell you a funny story about that girl and that guitar. Would make you laugh. Guitar was made ten years ago, designed the case especially for it. See? The fretboard. Unmarked ebony. Warm sound. Tones rich and deep.

How much? Ten dollars? For all of it? And the case-Oh Goddamn it! I'd burn 'em for firewood first. Oh, take 'em! Take 'em quick, mister. You're buying a brown-eyed girl dancing her fingers over the strings, smiling at me and me alone for half-a-second, sitting straight, curly brown hair a tossed back slightly, singing with an endearing rasp to the song. You're buying years of diligence, practice in the studio; you're buying a sorrow that can't talk. But watch it, mister. There's a premium that goes with this pile of junk and the guitar—so beautiful—a packet of bitterness to grow in your shop window and to flower, some day. I could have saved you, but you cut me down, and soon you will be cut down and there'll be no one to save you.

Yeah, that's all there is—wait—here in this shoebox. Like it? Nice revolver, right? Practical, isn't it? Five of the six bullets still there. Only ever needed to use it once. Pay forty dollars, huh? What about forty-two? I see you. Knew you'd be the type of man who'd pay more for a gun crusted with dried blood than a beautiful guitar. Well, take it for forty-one then. Here, it's yours now.

But let me tell you something. This gun comes with a bonus heavier than the rest of the junk combined. You've bought a brown-eyed beauty, who should have been singing happily instead of drinking away the money. You've bought a drunkenly scrawled apology and empty beer bottles. You've bought a girl putting a gun into her mouth, pulling the trigger, caving in the back of her skull with a single bullet. You've bought a gruesome anniversary present, a horrific room, blood drying on the carpet, bits of brain stuck to the walls, little bone shards scattered like glass and a blue-eyed girl's cry of anguish. You've bought a year's worth shock, grief, disbelief, confusion, guilt, and horror all rolled into one. But most of all, mister, you've bought a bitter, bitter fury and resentment.

So take your gun and go home and tell your children fairy tales. Come back here tomorrow and cheat another poor soul who needs the money and can't get it anywhere else. Just remember you've bought a boatload of bitterness that you'll always have, even after you sell it or give it away. And that bitterness will be a part of you until the day you die.

The blond returned to the apartment and pulled out the rest of the boxes. In here were the things she'd have to pay others to take. Photographs and love notes, birthday cards and letters. She took them all outside. No cars coming down either side of the street. She took out a small can, oil scrounged from a gas station's cement, and dumped it over the cardboard. Then produced a match she stole from the same gas station. She lit it and tossed it on top, barely flinching as the pile suddenly burst into a column of flame. Barely flinching as she turned away from the destroyed memories and walked back to her apartment. She only laughed when at the pandemonium of cars that crashed into the burning treasures. Her heart, after all, had been burned away by bitterness.

Then, why is she crying?

...

So if you didn't get it, Ashley committed suicide for reasons unknown. Spencer needs money and sells Ashley's stuff. Spencer is also very bitter about the fact that Ashley killed herself and left Spencer with nothing.

Review, please.