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Submitted to Contest #285
‘There’s never anything to eat here, God,’ says Chelsea. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I say, gesturing at the four boxes at my feet that I’ve already cleared from the pantry. I’ve got what I think is flour on my cheek and grains of what I hope is some spice under my nails. It smells smoky. Cardamom maybe? I’m not good at spices. ‘Oh, yes mum, please,’ says Chelsea, picking out the nearest jar, ‘let me eat some whole green pickles in brine from...’ she turns the jar over, ‘nineteen-ninety-seven.’ Horror and disgust fight for first...
Submitted to Contest #284
‘Pâté!’ Exclaims Sylvie, clattering a plate of neatly cut sandwiches in the centre of the table which clanks noisily against Judith’s best porcelain. Judith winces but manages to turn it into a gracious smile, eyeing the thick, greyish filling. ‘How lovely,’ says Judith. ‘Who eats pâté anymore, Sylvie?’ I ask. Judith has her little round table set with all her finest, as is tradition in an event such as this. Her thin, porcelain teacups with the cherry blossom design, the silver tray of her old mothers. She’s even bake...
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