Powdered light sleets through the drab garden, each photon fluorescing on my retina. Rough brick blocks the path, and the rubble of all my yesterdays litters the flowerbed. Some have taken root, slick tendrils already clutching for the sky, dragging themselves upwards to sprout monstrous fruit.

I must pass through. I cannot. The gateway will not yield without a key. The gate is the answer. But answers are useless without the matching question.  

Slumping, I pick one of the bloated fruits and gnaw.

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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here