Pickle Write

The sun streamed throgh the crystal pickle jar on the dusty pine shelf, making a criss-cross pattern on the checkered wall-paper. The pale green tinge on the plaster made me think of green grass on a summer day. Of picnics on the green grass. Of the pickles in the picnic basket. Just waiting. Waiting to be taken out and put into someones mouth, so that they could explode thier bitter flavour in juices that coated the eaters teeth and slid down the throught like a good tasting cold tonic, if there ever was one.

All of this thinking of breathtaking juices and swirling flavours awakened my stomach. It growled and twisted like a couger in captivity. My mouth watered like it hadn't eaten in weeks, quickly filling my mouth and threatening to spill over to dribble on my chin.

I had to have one. Just one. One bite would satisfy this stomach-churning hunger. I suddenly felt this longing. A longing for a pickle that surpassed any wanting I had ever felt before. It made me as wild as a dead branch in the hurricane. Making my feet spin and run a reached and grabbed it wildly. I had it.