Twilight Walk and the Thorny Vines in Grocery Bags

Twilight Walk and the Thorny Vines in Grocery Bags

I was walking back from the grocery store at twilight, carrying two heavy paper bags, but the walk took way too long. The street looked like my childhood neighborhood mixed with some ancient, crumbling European alley. The streetlamps weren't electric; they flickered like torches in iron cages, casting huge, distorted shadows. I ran into an old coworker, Sarah, only her eyes were completely black, like pools of ink, though she was just casually asking me if I'd finished my quarterly reports. I tried to answer, but when I looked down into my grocery bags, all the bread and fruit had turned into dark, tangled thorny vines that were slowly creeping up my arms. There was this quiet, heavy dread in the air, like something enormous was sleeping under the asphalt. I just apologized to Sarah, turned around, and tried to run toward my porch, but my legs felt like they were sinking through wet tar.