From Issue 12: The Mysteries in a Jar of Olives

Jonathan Gonnet   When I finally got around to walking into the kitchen I found the dinner table set and undisturbed. The condiments and all were just sitting there, lonely, and the room resembled a scene staged from New Mexico in homes built on nuclear test areas. I picked up a spoon left by the coffee maker from that morning. It had a dried, brown outline and smelled a bit roasty, but I regarded it as clean enough. Standing at the refrigerator I hacked rice out of an old Chinese food carton like someone using a hand trowel in permafrost…

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