Trifecta’s word this week is hollow with the definition: : lacking in real value, sincerity, or substance : false,meaningless <hollow promises> <a victory over a weakling is hollow and without triumph — Ernest Beaglehole> These are so fun, gotta go to the site and link up!
He knew her threats were hollow. Like every time she’d threaten to vacuum up all his Legos.
“I’m not finished,” he’d tell her, about some Lego project long since abandoned, its pieces left scattered across the playroom. Even ones so tiny, he could barely see them against the carpet’s mottled pattern.
She could see them. She’d nudge one with the tip of her slipper. “One day, whatever is left here will wind up with the dust bunnies.”
This caught his attention away from the tiny brilliant Nintendo DS screen. “Dust bunnies?”
“Sure. Like under your bed. You know, where we find all your unread overdue library books. Then I suck up the bunnies, sometimes even along with your tooth fairy money.”
That may be true. He tends to toss the dimes he finds under his pillow, and they probably wind up on the floor somehow. The tooth fairy leaves whole bills under his friends’ pillows and all he gets are stupid coins. If he suggests some disrespect toward the “fairy,” his mother rants on about some children not having enough coins even for a hot meal.
He forgot about the bunnies; Batman was after the bad buy on his tiny screen. “Whatever….”
But the bunnies came back to him. In a nightmare a few nights later. After his mother’s threat, this time, didn’t turn out to be so hollow: when he came home from school, the playroom carpet was devoid of a single Lego.
Even the Lego bin was gone.
When he asked her where the bin was, she was too-carefully folding his old jeans out of the dryer.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t actually suck them up. But I did give them away. To some child who might not own a single Lego. And might actually appreciate them enough to put them all back when he’s done playing with them.”
That night, a large dust bunny ate him whole.