Soft-poached eggs in a quivering heap on my plate. A stab of my fork and the yolks bleed heavy and slick. My belly cramps like a memory. I wolf the eggs down, as if they might replace the ones I’ve lost. As if they might make the next one stick.
Sumitra writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She has won the Writer’s Playground and WOW! Competitions. Words in Jaggery Lit Mag, National Flash Fiction Day, Every Day Fiction, Cheap Pop and upcoming in Janus Literary and The Hooghly Review. She works in mental health. Her twitterings: @pleomorphic2