The Life Cycle of a Cucumber
Incipit del racconto pubbblicato su Constellate Magazine.
People think birth is romantic. Nature is romantic. Truth is, someone spat you out last year during a barbeque party. You were part of a salad, or a tzatziki dip. Somewhere in the house there’s a scrapbook with the menu of that night written in flowery letters, and a Swiss toothpick flag stuck to the page.
There were three of you, covered in a film of saliva. That’s how your life started – pff, pff, pff. Hardly romantic, is it? You flew into the air, dived into the soil. Lucky for you, it was in the vegetable garden, and she later turned that soil. Hid you without even knowing you were there.