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Sharon Trevelyan Dean

In a Pickle

Pickles. Bathing in brine. Singing "oh hurrah hurrah" to the hum of distant traffic. For pickles can't help imagining how truly cool they'd look tearing down the road on the latest Italian motorbike–the wind in their pickle-bristles, dark sunnies on their cactus-shaped heads. Their fantasy destination? Irrelevant! When you spend your days in a jar in someone's fridge, slowing down isn't high on your list of priorities.

midnight kitchen
nothing to eat
but gherkins