The house was more or less like any other house in the 1980’s – chintz wallpaper, lace curtains, abundant pastel drapes – but at the same time, it was different.
“Are they dinosaur eggs?” I asked, peering into the fruit bowl.
Martha, my host’s aunt-by-marriage from Ghana, laughed a deep, jolly laugh. She picked one up. Sliced straight down its middle, revealing soft orange flesh. Juice dripped around my mouth as I bit into it.
When Tommy found out, he’d ride to London on his Vespa to fetch me home. Hose me down outside. Scrub at my tongue with a wire brush.
Rachael Charlotte is a writer and poet based in Lincolnshire, UK. She recently studied for an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Lincoln, and has work published or forthcoming with Truffle, can we have our ball back?, Burning House Press, Streetcake Magazine, Hedgehog Poetry, 3 Moon Magazine, Horla, and Fly on the Wall Press. Follow her on Twitter @rachaelg2601 or Instagram @rachaelcharlotte14.
The Centifictionist 
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