“Can you believe it? Have you ever heard of anything
so ridiculous?” she asked.
She’d met a new employee at work that morning, who’d
told her she collected antique handkerchiefs.
“Seriously, what a stupid hobby. Who would want a
bunch of old snot rags? I don’t care how lovely the embroidery is on them; they
were all used to blow someone’s nose.”
She waited for an answer, knowing it wouldn’t come, but
she waited all the same.
In the dim lighting of her living room, her little
army of carefully-preserved cicada sheds listened without ears, and watched her
without eyeballs.
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