He takes a step, but comes no closer to an answer discerning between
squish and squash.
The mismanagement of a vowel is sometimes inconsequential. Soup and soap bear little difference; both can be delectable, pending your selections. Boot and boat each claim watertightness, but they equally sag and sog after even the smallest of punctures.
Another step tests the
squish or squash.
If his name was Ted or Tod, he doubts he would care. But it’s not. Tad feels a compulsory pull towards the short straw. Tad imagines the sharpened peak of an A pierced the hull of his craft, impaled his investment, skewered his savings. If Tad stood for anything, he trusts he could endure. But it doesn’t. He doesn’t. His world is reduced to a slight i or a squat a. So he spends his days deciding whether his boots
squish or squash
while rationing a sudsy cake.
Written for Issue 147 of Ad Hoc Fiction, prompted by the word ‘Squash.’