Word Count: 110
She watered the pepper plants with arsenic. Imagined it winding its way through the stems to the veins of the leaves.
She fed indigo ink to the roots of tomatoes, turning them plump and a violent purpley-pink.
The fast-growing squash squooze through fine netting she’d crocheted around each as soon as they popped out beneath their bright yellow blooms. She liked the effect; thought they looked prettier that way.
The snow peas dangled like daggers. Their vines braided and tied into shapes.
The cucumbers lumbered their way into forms, twisted together like party balloons.
And the baby, her own sweet Thomas John Junior, changed too, with each growing day.
