Mum has ketchup on her finger, she’s been painting on empty plates again. Bobbi and I, elbows on the table, wait for her promises to sizzle, to pop. The kitchen smells of fried and crispy nothing balls and in the TV ad some kids are licking colours, chewing Gummy Bears, their tongues all rainbowy. It’s all an illusion, this life thing, Mum says. But still. Bobbi’s eyes water, my mouth too. The plate is a pizza is a plate. The plate is a pizza and it breaks when Dad kicks the table. Mum has ketchup on her finger.
Nora Nadjarian is a poet and writer from Cyprus. Her short fiction has been published in journals including Milk Candy Review, Ghost Parachute, Fractured Lit and was chosen for Wigleaf‘s Top 50 (selected by Kathy Fish). She placed third in the Welkin Writing Prize in 2025.
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