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Weekly Contest #102
Because we are creatures of habit; Sam watches her mother paint her nails.Green. Like a dirty lake. Where summer goes to stagnate. To rest in a grave of moss, and murky water. In the deep, where the light can’t reach. Where the plants are pale and the fish are grey. She paints her nails the same shade. Every time.Sam wrinkles her nose. The smell burns the back of her throat and tastes like soap; but she doesn’t mind. It masks the stench of her mother’s perfume: roses and rainwater. Or something like that.The chair creeks as she straightens h...
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