Renovacion, Mexico City, Mexico

Antonio got there early.

“You’re in luck,” bossman said. “Today we got a load from Texas. We can use you.”

It was two hundred pesos a day. A fortune, compared to his father’s factory job.

Inside, a woman showed Antonio how to pry the precious metals from the motherboards, how to free the veins of copper from their insulated sleeves, and how to cover his mouth with his t-shirt when hammering apart the screens.

“See how nothing is wasted?” she’d said and then she coughed into a curled fist.

At dark, bossman came back and counted out the bills. “You party big tonight,” he chuckled. “Come back tomorrow.”

The woman waited until bossman was gone and tugged at Antonio’s sleeve. “Don’t listen to him. He keep you here til you choke on a lung. Be smart. Save money. A year or two of this, and you can leave Renovacion for good.”

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click below:

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When I randomly landed upon this location for Pegman, I had no idea what it was. I wondered at the tarp-covered stacks of debris, and after a bit of research learned that this is where mountains of discarded electronics go to be recycled. You can learn more in this great article by Michael Smith:

In This Mexico City Neighborhood, Life Revolves Around E-Waste

Screen capture of photo sphere by Oskar W. Kristensen

He’d said a lot of things while we were growing up.

He’d told us men were born of trees, and that the world had ended five times since Musepell. Once in ice, once in plague, once in wind, and twice in fire. We’d thought him proud and more than just a little mad.

“You’re never beaten,” he’d say, when we’d whine about losing. He’d pound his fist on the table. “Du er norsk.”

And then the cruise in my fiftieth year: Grandfather was long in his grave, so far from his homeland. We crossed the ocean, to finally see the land he’d spoken of. A land of ghosts and giants and trolls, of winter-long night—where the resurrection god danced light upon a glacier-frayed shoreline, where the undefeatable city rose anew from ash and loss.

And now that I’ve seen Hammerfest, I’d have to say: the old man was right.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. This week’s location was suggested by Alicia over at Up From the Ashes. To read more flash fiction inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click the froggy button:

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Urban St., Buffalo NY

“Ms. Hope says I got potential.”

“Potential,” the old man spat. He tossed the picture back.

Mama stroked my shoulder in that way she did that used to make the world go smooth. “Don’t you listen to him. Ms. Hope is right.”

He just snorted.

I studied the drawing again, squinting closer. I tried to imagine what Ms. Hope had seen. I could see now all the places I’d erased, where I’d rubbed the paper raw. How dumb to think it was special. I started to crumple it.

Mama eyed me. “Here I thought Ms. Hope was right. But you’re not special.”

I looked at her, surprised.

She shook her head. “You’d throw your potential away based on what others say? That’s not special.”

The old man stared at the broke-down Chevy in the drive and shook his head.

I pulled the paper back and made it smooth.

—

148 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

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This week’s prompt plunged me into a rabbit of research. Murder under the tracks maybe? Or a body in a vacant lot snagged from this week’s headlines (blocks away, as a matter of fact)? But then I stumbled upon a nearby school, run by an actual Ms. Hope. I loved the name so much I decided to do my best for her.