Do they emerge as ruby lotuses from the humbly mucked peat-bogs, vines winding skyward. Do they fall into the bog, enveloped in preserving mothersoil? They wait for a child with bucket and squelching galoshes to deliver them, take them to their _maker_. Not quite at home with other fruits, they sit uneasily by as rasp*berries* and blue*berries*, black*berries* and straw*berries*, perhaps even the occasional boysen*berry* are plucked and popped, into watered savoring mouths. They must wait for the penetrating drying assault of the sun, or the thanksgiving grinder to unlock their unappreciated potential; the **kranebeere**, acid-red and waiting.
writeNOTHING
Writing and I have a love/hate relationship. And by that I mean hate/hate/love. But I’m gonna do it anyways… so you might as well come along for the ride
Comments 2
For all of your making fun of my topic- you did an excellent job. It’s kind of creepy- the idea of fruit waitng to be taken to It’s MAKER. Been listening to too much METAl lately? Perhaps?
I liked it none the less- “ruby lotuses” wasn’t an Image I would have written for “cranberries”, but it worked.
In fact, I just re read the last sentence- and it’s rather gloriously gorey. Sweeny todd esque even.
No suggestion- for a hundered words, this is complete
Posted 28 Jan 2008 at 2:31 pm ¶Inventive and thought-provoking, Alex. I love the multiple plays on words, on images, on our notions of human/nature interactions.
bg
Posted 29 Jan 2008 at 6:32 pm ¶Trackbacks & Pingbacks 1
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