Gabriel Ologunde

A Handful of Hope & Broken Flour

Emily The bakery smelled of failure. Not the comforting warmth of yeast and vanilla she’d craved, but the sour reek of disappointment. Each day it seeped further into her skin, and her hair, as if the place itself was rotting from the inside out. “Failure ain’t much of a spice,” she muttered, twisting the dishtowel so tight, it might snap. That’s what Mama would’ve said, followed by some mangled proverb about too many cooks and a spoiled pie. Misremembering was almost as painful as the memories themselves.