It’s a weekend morning. I should be watching cartoons. Or looking through my new comic book. We should have eaten breakfast.
My brother and I are stuck with mom. She woke us up to come, gag, shopping.
Clouds erupt out of metal plates in the ground. A withered old man yells about some nuts he’s burned. They smell terrible. My brother screws up his face. My head feels light.
“Not much farther,” Mom says. We trudge along.
The smells of cinnamon and butter, fresh-baked bread, and chocolate assault us. My mouth waters. My stomach grumbles, stabbing me. It looks delicious.
Picture is copyright by Ornickarr Greenbarrow.