Cynthia couldn’t explain what she’d just seen in the vegetable patch.
She didn’t want to look again. She considered going back into the house, crawling back into bed with Mikey, and putting it down as a beer-inspired dream.
But that pinkish dome with the fuzzy down had felt soft under her fingers, and there had been the smell of manufactured newness, like a dusting of talcum powder wafting up to her nostrils, as she had pulled the coarse outer leaves of the cabbage apart…
Tales of parental love gone awry in this week’s unsettling Drabblecast.