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THE BAG, BY JOHN HENRY NEWTON

For one, I didn't have a pound and for two, the hassle of withdrawing cash to buy a solitary pack of Orbit was too much for this morning. Besides it felt good to walk into the haze of conflict with a young yet appropriately contextual customs man over a less than one millimeter sheet of polyethylene plastic. I thought of the foiled bomb plot hidden inside the colgate tester I had received one month ago or the hair wax tin with its malleable engine brown appearing like what I thought plastic explosive. Then the hereditary worry floods back, images of hundreds pairs of nail scissors marooned across international bins, not to mention the size-able mound of oil of olay bottles staring back at me. The majority influence is the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back as the whole queue fondles their balls, like shit adult kinder eggs containing the seed of my doubt - the bag. I retreat from haze and ask shee...camelishly?

'Not a problem sir'

Oh how the weight of that invisible pound feels good in the pocket.

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John Henry Newton, Frutta Gallery



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