By Milo Cooper
Gloria plucked lettuce, zucchini, and carrots. The last led to confused squinting before her consciousness was hurtled fifteen years into the past.
“I’ll do it,” she said. Her lip and voice quivered. Cool metal dug into her palm with the force of her grip.
Despite the warning, he took a step. Silver glinted beneath stormy skies.
In a blink, she was back, sunlight baking her spotted skin.
Her hand was empty. During the memory, she had lost the plant. Knees in dirt, she scrambled among torn leaves for the once-in-a-billion carrot.
There, strangling the orange root, shone a silvery wedding band.
You know what they say: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!
Great job!
Thought provoking.