Fiction: A Husk
By Tyler Plofker
Friends reach out. Come by from time to time. If I stay still it’s not so bad. From the outside it’s hard to tell anything’s changed. Sometimes they mistake me for what was. But if I sit too fast or step too hard, they hear it. The broken, hollow hum. Then they know.
Often now I turn them away at the door.
It has become a quiet life. Each morning I clean my bed of the pieces broken during the night. Then sit and wait to do it again.
I hope it’s not much longer.
Originally published in Door is a Jar's Issue #22
Tyler Plofker is a writer living in NYC. In his free time, you can find him eating sugary breakfast cereals, laying out in the sun, or walking through the streets of New York City in search of this or that.
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