jellybean568 (United States) published:
PROMPT: Food Writing Competition 2021
Six a.m. Your hands are coated with pearls, beads of rice. In the morning, there is a lingering of cucumber, a promise you say, but never tell. Anyways, they will tell you otherwise, when they tumble like late birds screeching into the kitchen, mismatched socks and rushing to catch the bus. To your daughter, whose hair is still the entire bird’s nest stadium, cucumber is just water. And water is the loss of scent.
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