Write four lines of prose about: the liquid.
It's that time of year again... time to weed out and mulch the strawberries.
Not so much.
I'll save the hurrays for when it's done.
In the flickering candlelight the liquid in the cracked wooden bowl glistens darkly. The woman seated across the table from me reaches out a wrinkled finger and uses its long, curled nail to stir it slowly. I half expect it to dissolve in a surge of black bubbles.
What I don't expect is to hear the voice of my dead grandmother.