The Box Under The Bed

This prompt became one of my own sometime last year, taken from the theme calendar at Duotrope's Digest.


(Duotrope is an excellent resource for writers, providing detailed info on over 2000 publications, letting you track your submissions, and more.)

The box under my bed holds dolls. There's an eyeless, broken doll with blond noodle curls, tiny spider-leg eyelashes, pink white mounds for cheeks, a touch of red over open lips, and tiny white teeth.

It is a doll that asks nothing, says nothing, lies there. But the doll belonged to my grandmother. I feel obligated to take care of this doll. I feel burdened by it. I do not love it. It might be a treasure someday. It might be fixed someday. These shoulds are like the porcelain sockets in the smooth head, devoid of eyeballs. The form is there, but the soul is missing. I can't remember why fixing this doll is important.

What's in the box under your bed?