A.C Lippert
Published: October 23rd, 2015
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A. C. Lippert is a graduate student at the University of Louisville. He attended Central Michigan University for his undergraduate work, and is orginally from Grand Ledge, MI. His fiction has previously appeared in Tales to Terrify Magazine, Down in the Dirt Magazine (2x), and Conceit Magazine (2x). 
Buried Treasures
A die: the red plastic had clouded over the years, and the white spots had faded to yellow like disgusting fingernails. 
A miniature statue of liberty with the torch missing: the wrist had broken when dropped down the stairs. 
A magnet tied to a string. 
A toy horse: the brown paint settled at the bottom of the can in flakes. 

Staring into the metal coffee can, Floyd sits on the damp grass and shines the objects with a pencil-sized flashlight. His hands and sleeves are slimy with mud. A hand-shovel lay next to his knee. Years upon years have passed since Floyd last sat in the grass like this, probably not since the boys were young. Lila had put together the best picnics. One summer, a square patch of grass near the bay became discolored and wilted from frequent suffocation under the red picnic blanket Floyd had bought. He and Lila had joked about it for years.
Veins hump the skin of Floyd’s hands and neck and there are deep wrinkles around his tired eyes. He hasn’t been home since the early morning, and still wears his best suit. It’s been a wearisome day. 
It is 1 a. m. The stars and moon are mesmeric tonight. A warm breeze caresses the world, but without Lila these things, any pleasant thing, doesn’t seem to exist. 
Floyd’s childhood home lurks behind him with dark windows. He has no idea who currently owns it. Anyone could be sleeping inside. When he was six, Floyd’s father switched to a more lucrative law firm and they moved to Traverse City, although, not far enough away that Floyd had to find new school friends. But, Floyd hadn’t seen this house in seventy years, since he buried the coffee can of objects under a young oak in the front yard the morning he left, wanting to leave something behind. At the time, these were his most cherished possessions; his buried treasures. 
Over the years the can has frosted over with rust, and the metal now feels serrated, frail, like his heart. The metal lid has a small crack. A wet, moldy stench rises to Floyd’s nostrils. Things change so much over seventy years. Floyd longs to be a young boy once more. Life was so simple back then. All he had to bury were toys.