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Weekly Contest #16
I’d always hated the smell of oatmeal and that morning, the same as every morning, the hot wheaty-cardboard stench clawed its way up to my bedroom as Dad yelled Time to get up, baby! Baby. One day I’d get out of this house, I promised myself as I slunk downstairs in the semi-darkness: I’d get out of this forest, like Mr Piper next door, and go somewhere no one called me baby. Mom was lacing her running shoes by the front door and Dad, already squeezed into his spandex, was stirring the large vat of oatmeal on the stove. “Come on, baby, get...
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