Gemotions

The cereal box stared at Amelia from the kitchen table. It had done so for at least three days. Bits of sugary flakes clung to the cardboard, evidence of past breakfasts. Amelia shifted in her chair, the pull of the couch strong, its cushions practically beckoning her. Another episode of the baking competition was calling. "Maybe later," she muttered, the words barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.

Her mother’s voice, sharp and questioning, sliced through the quiet. "Amelia, did you put the trash out?"

Amelia sighed, the sound echoing her internal resistance. The garbage bag, heavy and overflowing, sat directly beside the back door. It had been there since Tuesday. "Almost," she mumbled, shrinking in her chair.

Her stomach rumbled, a complaint that did not encourage any action on her part. "Gotta find the energy," she grumbled, eyeing the fruit bowl. Or, more accurately, the two shriveled bananas resting there.