Everyone thought she was a writer, so on every festive occasion they bought her blank notebooks. Black ones with lined pages and rubber bands to hold them closed. Red ones with half blank, half lined pages so she could write and doodle. Leather ones that smelled like new shoes. Brightly colored ones with magnetic flaps. Notebooks with mythical creatures depicted on them in varying styles. She accepted them with smiles and enthusiasm, as her mother had taught her.

One day a shooting pain started in her lower belly and grew worse until finally she found her way to the hospital. By the time she left, she had a scar above her groin and was lighter by a few thousand dollars and one reproductive system. Her mother was devastated at the prospect of no grandchildren.

She arrived home to realize she hadn’t done the dishes before she left. Methodically, she washed them and stacked them on the drying rack. A bird wailed outside and she thought of all the notebooks piled up in her hall closet, empty. It began to rain.

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2 Responses to “Empty”

  1. Very melancholy, but no complaints as to the composition. Still =/

  2. Valerie says:

    I am in melancholy mood, yes?

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