By Evie Skene
As a kid, you know to be scared of quicksand, but they never warn you about the peanut butter. My peanut butter mother makes peanut butter toast for dinner when she naps on the couch and can’t unstick herself.
“It’s coating the roof of my mouth,” I whine to my sister, words blundering from my creamy tongue. She wants to speak but her dry toast throat stops her. I move to get a glass of water, but my feet get stuck in the sludge, like a mammoth in a tarpit.
“Mot agaim!”
Mom has turned the house to peanut butter.
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Evie Skene is currently working on a B.A. in Creative Writing and a B.F.A. in Media Production at the University of Cincinnati. She is currently interested in surreal poetry and flash fiction, and she has been working toward writing a feature film. Her poetry and fiction have previously been published in Short Vine Literary Journal.