Cookies for the Insomniac (Dysphemism)

The idea struck her in the grocery store, while waiting on the pharmacist across the street filling her prescription. She was resisting the urge to purchase cookies. The candy coated chocolate chips were bright and multicoloured, more like a circus act than a pre-packaged culinary delight.

She walked home.

She had not left it on, but she had left the door down. On the rack, the baking tray sat unblemished by the lasagna pan that had boiled upon it hours ago.

Dated, numbered jars sat on the counter.

Thus, she baked.

The dough rose. The scent wafted. The pills glistened.

The End

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