“I feel used, unappreciated,” my dishwasher told me.
I thanked it for its service.
“Too little, too late,” it said, then fell silent and refused to turn back on.
After a week of hand washing, I realized I had taken it for granted. I sank to my knees, pleading, “I want you back. It’ll be different this time.” No response.
A week later I replaced it. The new machine was more efficient, less needy. Still, at the end of each load I made sure to give it a little pat of gratitude and whispered, “keep up the good work.”
About the Creator
Emily Fine
I'm a writer and psychologist from Western, MA
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The Seed
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. In my dreams his lips form a silent plea again and again until his mouth finally stills. Other times he is quiet, eyes glassy as he watches our ship disappear, a flash of silver gone before his last breath.
By Emily Fine3 years ago in Fiction
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