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Weekly Contest #80
It’s lying in the center of my plate, limp and green, its heart stabbed by the tines of my fork. Steam rises from its salted surface and assails my nostrils. It smells of wet afternoons in Grandpa’s garden when the sky is grey and the black soil smells sour with horse dung and cabbage leaves. Afternoons when my knees are raw and muddy and the east wind from the Channel is burning my eyes and making them water but I can’t complain because Grandpa is glowering under his rain hat and forking manure into a fresh pile at the bottom of the row – o...
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