Published by Journal of Compressed Creative Arts
When a crisp graham cracker falls through the slot and into her waiting hands, she gasps, does a little dance. It might have been an apple. Or a celery stick. Or a kosher pickle. Or a radish. It might have been nothing. Or too much something, like a whole head of cabbage or a meatloaf. A graham cracker is precisely what she wants and she exults in it, puts it to her nose and takes deep, luxurious whiffs as she walks to the back wall and sinks into her haunches.
Claire Guyton 