Daisy Jones

100-word novel

As a newlywed she’d fantasised about a herb garden, imagined snipping stalks at sunset. Had that fantasy come with a straw hat and flat basket? Most of the seedlings had died, or if they survived, had soon got leggy and brown. But the mint grew obscenely, arrogantly. She’d thought it might struggle, being a soft herb, but it bushed at the end of the garden — alongside the toilet outlet pipe, truth be told, — with a pungent posture. It was like a group of youths, that mint bed, she mused. So verdant, so coarse, so plump with stink and so oblivious.

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