Chelsea Armstrong
Glass jars line the porch from 7 a.m. Later, when the sun dips from view, Lila darts outside and tightens each lid. “Still warm,” she says between grunts.
“Eh?” As Granny turns away from the dirt-dusted street, the ice in her cup cracks against the plastic.
“We’re gonna be rich, Granny. Richer than … race car drivers.”
Granny sucks a sound from the space between her tongue and cheek. “Stop stealing my jars. I need them for jam.”
Lila shuffles inside with two jam jars in hand. Then she returns for two more. She repeats this route until Granny’s fingers grapple at her arm.
“No one’s buying empty containers, girl.”
A smile tiptoes across Lila’s face. “Granny, they’re not empty,” she says, then lowers her voice a notch. “They’re stuffed with sunlight. For winter months.”
Granny’s ice traces a full moon around the inside of her cup. She tosses it back, chews on the cubes. Once every particle is crushed and thawed, Granny reaches into her pocket. A paper bill presses into Lila’s hand.
Before Lila can form the question, Granny answers it.
“Your first investment. Now go to bed. You’ve got work in the morning.”
Chelsea Armstrong
Chelsea is a lover of words and other weird things. She writes fiction and non-fiction in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. If you’re into sporadic tweets that showcase a general lack of focus, you can follow her on Twitter @keyboardclicks.