Thursday, May 21, 2009

Number 27 Story of an Empty Glass

The empty glass sat on the table which occupied an otherwise spartan room. Only moments before, the glass held what was left in the now equally empty bourbon bottle sitting next to it. Pessimists and Optimists would have no argument over this glass. For it was most decidedly, undeniably and irrefutably empty.

This glass, modest as it was, happened to be about the only remaining possession of the man who had just emptied it. This man sat and stared at the glass. He contemplated and regarded this humble object that had proven so useful to him over time.

He recalled this glass being part of a set, the only surviving one. He reminisced about the wedding, his wedding, for which the set of glasses was given to his bride and him as a gift. He pictured his daughter drinking milk from the glass. She was so sweet and beautiful. He envisioned his son, gulping water from the glass after coming in from a run. He had such promise and potential.

Oh what times they had, all gone now. The man had lost it all. After the accident, all he could do was hide inside the bottle. He lost his job. He lost his house. He lost his soul. Eventually, all that remained were his memories and that one glass. And now they are all empty.
The man sits and stares at the empty glass on the table. He sees the emptiness. He knows the emptiness. He is the emptiness. And as the man passes out, he slumps forward, knocking the empty glass to the floor. The empty glass, like the man's life, shatters.

Reblog this post [with Zemanta]