Aurora 2024

Sara Allard

my own uniform out of the box and start measurin’ the sleeves for historical accuracy. “You better keep those rules in that noggin of yours, Miss Finn. Dandelions only disappeared because the riffraff saw them as weeds and didn’t bother tryin’ to protect them.” “And wearin’ these costumes while waterin’ miles of flowers with dollar store hoses is…sophistication?”, says Layla while holdin’ her own shirt up like a snakeskin. “You best believe it!”, I clap back while tossin’ Layla the skirt she’d been tryin’ to ignore. Once we were changed, it was time to welcome our esteemed guests for the day. As usual, the day goes by all too quickly. Layla left work without even sayin’ goodbye, leavin’ me with the inelegant job of trash duty. As I walk to the dumpster, my eye catches an uncanny flash of color in the ditch across the street. It was the same dazzlin’ shade of yellow that creeps up to the second-story ceiling without much help, that dusts all the counters of my kitchen, and that pulses around my old eyes when I go to bed. My noggin wracked itself for explanations, but my eyes already knew what it was. There in a backroad ditch, grew a bona fide dandelion. I barely hear when the trash bag falls and starts leakin’ old tea on my brand-new skirt, because the horrors are already playin’ out in my head. Thin’s would start innocently enough, with the trash truck. The boys will ask each other if they had one too many at the bar last night before accepting’ that yes, the dandelion curse

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