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 raspberries and blueberries, blackberries and strawberries, perhaps even the occasional boysenberry 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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