The Hand Soap by Mariah Eppes
The hand soap in this cafe smells like somewhere I've been before. One of those desolate flat places where my dad sometimes played country music. My sister and I would wander around on the short grass or dry dust, eating on bench-style tables covered in written ephemera; words scratched into the wood with keys. What the hell was that place he brought us? I remember feeling bad about how expensive the food was, and feeling bad that I still begged for ice cream.
“I couldn’t figure out what this piece wanted to be. There wasn’t enough story for flash fiction, and it didn’t seem poetic enough for a poem. I tried changing the capitalization style, but that didn’t feel right. I liked the simple language and the brevity. I submitted the piece to a couple of places—one of which told me it made the final round—but ultimately was rejected. I decided the piece just didn’t ‘click’ and let it go.”
Mariah Eppes (she/her) is a writer currently living on traditional Lenapehoking land. You can find more of her work around the internet and at birdbyrocket.com.