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At first it was just a foot that grew in my garden, so soft and supple in the rustling green. Soon the rest took shape: a leg, long and delicate, hips blooming outward like an ink blot test, a spine, knotted and bowed like a string of bluebells. Finally I could see my strange fruit, her hair as brown, her dress as bright, her eyes as dark and wild as the day she was planted.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Matthew Henry
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