This month’s writing prompt was Fruit. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.
Fruit prompt: The citrus tang of a lime in soda, strawberry juice dripping down your fingers, watermelons on the beach. It’s the season to pick coconuts off palm trees and lie under the sun sipping mango juice. But remember to spit out the pips, eat around the stone; not all fruit is edible. Don’t pick the poisonous berries, look out for those ones. Fruit decays and rots, browns and grows fuzz. Wait for it to ripen then suck out its juice.
bittersweet
i imagine what we could’ve been and smile because it’s lemon sweet
i didn’t know you even if i convinced myself i did, and i’m embarrassed of that
to love someone without knowing them truly is like walking into a road blindfolded.
our love was bittersweet
by Cara Lou (@lou.the poet Instagram)
Red Delicious
Your mouth is not an apple,
not core or seed or skin
It is not a purple-ripe plum,
the juice from a soft august peach
It is not the burst
of summer-warm berries
coating a hungry tongue
I do not peel it like an orange
slow curl
and then all at once,
not exactly anyway
It is certainly not a perfect cherry
red-drunk and dripping
Or a sun-plump mango that gives
way to the softest touch
Your mouth is not an apple,
it is the serpent whispering
feast
by Marisa Gedgaudas (@marisavictoriapoetry Instagram)
drosphila melanogaster/to be a vinegar fly
I wrap cellophane round a small clear glass with a wide rim
filled with apple cider vinegar and dawn dish soap, meant
to drown fruit flies invading our kitchen our bathroom
our home. their young aging selves hesitate in the air before me, sad
hovering black dots made of insect, of hexagonal eyes
I cannot perceive and can they perceive me? I place these
poisonous concoctions out for them to be lured into, poke
holes into the taut plastic so they’ll scrabble inside, tricked,
left to suffocate. they were promised something sweet
and instead died stupid and covered in oil. they die scared.
were we not promised something better?
I am fruit fly, stuck and stupid, staring up at the hole I crawled into.
I am dying. I am desperate. I want that sweet juice.
by Sara Siepker (@sarcasticallyfantastic Instagram, @sawatonin Twitter)
Dark Fruit
I was catching strawberries from the floor
Their juices dripping down my hands
The weather: sunny and inviting.
Come outside child, earth is smiling.
I am playing mindlessly surrounded by fruit
Taking in every sunshine and downing a fresh soda.
There’s a little stream flowing
Along my right side and I dip my hand in it
I feel life flowing with life.
Except there are no fruits
And I didn’t pick a strawberry
I picked up whatever was left of you in this
Hot summer day.
There is no life in us,
Since I left you outside to melt.
I picked up your heart and watched it
Rot away dripping black.
I picked strawberries today
But they tasted like whatever we taste
After we’re gone.
by Karolina Santos (@mousaikalliopewrites Instagram)
The Sweetness of Coconut Water
During Summers in India, I would accompany Grandpa on his morning walks along Marina Beach. By the time it was 7 am, the sun would be up in the sky, and sweat would trickle down our faces. My eyes felt as though they were on fire. If Grandpa found the heat unrelenting, he never complained. I’d point to the ocean and ask Grandpa why we could not drink that water. He’d laugh and fondly pat my head. “Silly girl, it’s salty and dirty, that’s why.”
I wonder why Grandpa never carried a water bottle. When I asked him, he ushered me to the part of the beach near the car parking area. A few cart vendors were selling different kinds of fruit. The carts would look like tables on giant wheels. Each vendor had a multicolored umbrella. One vendor was selling raw mangoes. Another jackfruit. I stuck my fingers to my ears whenever I heard them call out loudly to all the regular joggers and walkers on the beach. Grandpa took me to the vendor selling coconuts.
I gazed at these green heart-shaped fruits placed on top of one another. Like human heads without eyes, noses, and a mouth. The vendor was old, like Grandpa. He had white hair and a cloth wrapped around his head. His face was brown and wrinkled. He had kind eyes and held a large knife. It curved at the ends and looked like a deadly weapon. I stared at it fearfully. Grandpa was bargaining with him.
“Twenty rupees is too high,” he said.
“Saar, high-quality coconut. You would have never tasted water like this before,” the vendor would reply.
After a banter, they settled for fifteen rupees. I glanced at the beach and watched the fishermen walking toward the sea. They carried boats and fishing nets. I watched crows flying around me and cawing loudly. At a distance, I could see a flurry of vehicles on the road. The sun would glare at us from above. I felt like I was trapped inside a furnace. My throat was parched, and I let my tongue hang loose like a dog. Even my lips were getting dry. I shuffled my feet and watched the vendor slice his giant knife over the coconut. For some reason, I imagined a human head being cut, and I closed my eyes.
Then Grandpa patted me and handed me the coconut with a straw.
“Drink this,” he said.
The coconut felt heavy, and I almost dropped it. I took a sip and felt a sudden rush of sweetness swirl inside my mouth. The water was cold and soothing. The taste differed from those juices or milkshakes I was accustomed to. This is probably what water would taste like if I added sugar. I gulped it down in a jiffy and took a deep breath.
Grandpa laughed and asked if I liked it.
“It’s very sweet,” I said.
“You’ll taste something even sweeter,” he said.
I watched the vendor slice the coconut into half. Spurts of white flew in the air. I looked at Grandpa quizzically. He was sipping coconut water. I watched Grandpa’s ‘elongated shadow on the ground. Thin and tall. He had sturdy legs to carry him through four km morning walks. His white beard matched his white hair, and the wrinkles on his face became even more apparent when he smiled. The vendor handed me small white jelly-like pieces in a plastic cup. I looked at him quizzically.
“Coconut malai,” Grandpa quipped. “Good for your heart.”
I took a bite. I closed my eyes to savor this exotic blend of flavors. It was fruity, milky, sweet, and buttery with a tinge of salt. I had never tasted anything like this before. Who knew what treasures lay inside that heart-shaped human head like fruit. Amidst the salty air of the beach, I gorged on this sweet milky white delicacy. I accompanied Grandpa throughout my summer holidays until school started. Grandpa continued his walks while I’d be at school, cramming away math problems in my fourth-grade classroom. I would join him on weekends and holidays. This routine continued until that fateful day after Christmas.
I woke up to the bed shaking that morning. In the room next to mine, Grandpa was groaning with his hand on his chest. His heart was in pain, he mumbled. Mom was attending to Grandpa, making him drink water. Dad was calling his doctor friend who lived in the next street.
“Give Grandpa coconut malai,” I shouted. “It’s good for the heart, right, Grandpa?”
He smiled feebly and beckoned me to come near him. He held my little hands and placed it on his cheek. In hoarse whispers, he advised me to keep eating the coconut malai. Then he closed his eyes.
When the doctor came, they placed him on a stretcher and took him away in an ambulance. Dad accompanied them. Later the news streamed about the giant waves killing people on Marina Beach. People were crying. News reporters shouted from the television screens. They reminded me of those vendors. Then a sudden thought struck me. What about the coconut vendor? Along with those who lost their lives to the sea that day, I lost my Grandpa too. A heart attack. The doctors couldn’t save him in time.
I never ventured to the beach after that for several years. I could never have coconut malai again. I left India to study and work in San Francisco. Here I was, surrounded by the ocean. There were no crows or vendors. Just seagulls and surfers. When I returned to India in the summer of 2018, I accompanied Mom to the market. A coconut vendor stood there selling coconuts. He was old and wrinkled and had a cloth tied around his head. The heat was unbearable, and I was soaking in perspiration. I bargained with the vendor and, later, found myself sipping coconut water. This time, it tasted a little bitter. I requested coconut malai. I gazed at the white jelly-like pieces in front of me. I let the milky, sugary, buttery taste linger in my mouth. As I took another bite, I encountered a salty taste. As though the vendor dipped it in salt. Grandpa’s words about malai reverberated in my head. I spat the pieces into my handkerchief and trashed it in a bin nearby. My eyes stung with the heaviness of all that sorrow over the years. The barrage of waterworks blurred my vision of the bustling marketplace around me. I was betrayed by the irony of how this malai couldn’t save the man who advocated it the most.
by Swetha Amit (@swethaamit Instagram, @whirlwindtots Twitter)
How do you know when a watermelon is ripe?
Swollen and heavy
from long days in the
summer sun.
He tends to his seedlings with care.
Vining, flowering, fruiting,
until warm yellow bellies
birth bitter babies,
with a soft wail in the night.
Like the witch in the woods,
he’s waited.
Sharp knuckles
against green flesh
produce a hollow sound and
a triumphant smile
that haunts dreams.
The thwack of metal
cuts more than skin,
and ripe, pink blood
dribbles down his chin.
Sweet.
Juicy.
The spoils of his war.
Held on the tongue
until next spring.
by Daphne Fischer (@daphnefischer Instagram, @_daphnefischer Twitter)
Rotting Sweetness
I once read a poem about mangoes in the icebox.
Or maybe it was plums.
I know what it is to taste cold and sweet,
when we met for the last time.
I remember
Watermelons at the community pool; red dripping over my fingers.
Peaches at summer camp on the ancient picnic tables that splintered my mind.
Starfruit for the first time in the innocence of kindergarten; shooting for the moon since.
Apple slices off my grandfather’s knife.
Strawberries dusted with sugar; drowning the ants in dizzying ecstasy.
Tomato sandwiches on the lake.
Or the roadside stands with every color imagined; on the forever drives to the temporary home.
Grapes in every form. Cut, candied, fermented.
Could not rival you,
until we withered on the vine.
by Daniel Wartham ( @DanielWartham Twitter)
POMERGRANATE
The rush of tearing through
thick skin to reveal vesicles
Blood filled capsules,
bonded by cartilage
Red stained hands pick
and peel the fruit apart to
savor the sour,
pierced by sharp teeth,
crushed between molars
Swallow the bone,
seed of the divine
evidence of indulgence
on stained hands and lips
by Kai J (@aloneinverona Instagram)
Underneath The Mangifera Indica
Time passes and you are remembered. In the languid, lush arms of summer I sit with my back reclined against a firm cushion. I invite you here again. You are wanted. Your presence is desired just as the roots of a dormant mangifera indica spread spindly and firm veins beneath the soil, towards the core of the earth, to seek nourishment and moisture.
The particular species of tree also happens to flourish in my backyard, where we once roamed openly as beasts of prey. Your arms entwined with mine one second, and then plunging into the flesh of a fallen mango the next.
Ripping the large pit from the fruit, you grinned at me, the wet squelch of pulp sounding much like what I imagine carved human flesh would in the palm of a hand. The comparison is uncanny, so is the fact that in this garden, small and assorted — a bare collection of herbs and flowers my old grandmother ripped out of her childhood, really — smelling of summer and wet sunshine and the salt of sweat, we looked upon each other as though we were never to be parted.
When you grinned you were the waning crescent of the moon. I fell under your spell and turned into the darkness that precedes an eclipse. For you, in that moment, I would have damned my soul to eternal darkness, the kind that blooms into existence upon the death of a star, the darkness I was willing to become to coax your light into a blaze. So that when you become alight, your presence might absolve me of all that I am — the light of the sun banishing the spell of night.
I digress.
You invited me to share a half of the cleaved mango as its essence bled through your fingers and warmed. I licked the sweetness of its passing ripeness. Another day feeding off the low-hanging branch of the tree and it would have been sweeter, overly sweet, rotten. I was glad, then, that you had chosen to do as you did.
Perhaps I should be glad that you had chosen to do as you did.
I do not remember the last time I indulged in the ripeness of a mango. Of any fruit, in complete honesty.
After you departed, summer changed. The brilliant lightness in the air was replaced by a heavyset humidity, the oncoming of monsoon. My old grandmother once fed me a slice of pickled mango from the batch she always makes upon receiving the surplus from her gardens. In the remaining sweetness of the fruit that a preparation of pungent oil and brightly coloured spices failed to disguise, I tasted that memory, travelled to that space in time, and felt you again. The grin on your face an eerie reflection of mine, your fingers still under my tongue, cold and pale.
I turned to my side and spit it out.
Such is the manner in which I have attempted to excise your memory from my being. Each year my estate produces fruits, each year I turn my head in distaste and a fever overcomes me.
That is all to say, I still miss you. Summer is not summer without the sweetness of mangoes. The coolness of your presence besides mine, huddled underneath the mangifera indica, performing surgery on fruits to discover the sweetest, most hidden parts.
I have a premonition that you will arrive as the monsoon does. Changed and charged with an electric anger. You may be angry at many things; my enjoyment of the summer season despite the cold sweats your absence brings upon me, the way the koel bird sings you into existence, the way I sometimes stumble — lost in my thoughts and madness — upon the afternoon I created you.
I know you are as good as gone. You never were.
Still, you are remembered. I shall continue to sit here until the roots upholding this house rot. Then I shall join you.
by A. Hasach (@a_hasach Instagram)
Nectar
She’s soft like summer rays,
skin dotted with moles like sunspots
and hair the colour of chestnuts.
She’s a gentle thing, a messy thing,
with daffodils sprouting from her bones
and sunshine spilling from her tongue.
She’s sweet, lips tasting of peaches,
and I long to lap up the excess,
to feel my teeth sink into tender flesh.
by Caitlin McCarthy (@hocusperkus Twitter)
oranges
i. cracking
little by little,
a husk, or rather, a landmine, filled with cracks
until i am left to dry up
a ‘was’, a ‘had been’, an empty
shell.
juice runs down your fingers
does it sting?
do the remnants get stuck under your fingernails?
do they stain them red?
ii. peeling
if you douse a jar with orange peels,
you’re left with the façade of juice.
ever so carefully,
little by little,
you peel back my shell
little by little
but the only thing that truly remains
is a heap of skin
dry, stale, cracked, fragile
drowned in water to create a lie
and you drink it anyway.
by Julia Liu (@juljiewels Twitter)
ORANGE
I know it’s silly but I don’t remember the last time I ate an orange.
I used to love them. But I don’t think I have time for them anymore. I don’t have the time to invest in peeling that luminous shell away. Or to scrape at the pith of it with my index finger, watching the nail yellow from the first drops of juice bursting out of its skin. I can’t bring myself to put in all the work of peeling and scraping and separating each little slice of orange only to find it hard and yellow and dry and tasteless. For it to leave me wondering where that juice staining my nails and now stinging at split cuticles has gone. Or to have to spit hard round pips into sticky palms.
Oranges are the shape of sunshine, the smell of happiness and the taste of childhood summers.
But I am all grown up now.
by Kate Hansell (@kate_owen_scribbles Instagram, Twitter)
The Fig Tree
I recognized the walled garden from maps
I had seen.
The house, abandoned for some time,
Spent its life overlooking Dunscombe estate,
The grounds I had come to know
Like the back of my hand.
My father and I had scaled the wall,
My little feet had to step over the weeds and the overgrowth.
The servants’ cottages lined one side,
They used to grow a myriad of exotic fruits here,
I had been told,
Their ghosts still remained,
In the ruins of a greenhouse,
A gnarled tree clung to the red brick wall,
Long dead, just bones I see,
I heard my father’s voice cry out
A ways ahead of me,
He had found a fig tree,
In the shadowy corner of the garden,
Its branches drooping with fruit.
Though young I was,
I marvelled at it,
That despite the years that have passed,
In the garden that had not been stepped foot in
In fifty years or more,
The tree still grew, unnoticed,
The estate that I knew so well,
Still held its secrets,
Buried though not dead.
by Ava Palmer ( @avajanepalmer Instagram)
Orchard Sweets
Rhubarb reddening near succulent strawberries
The last black currants gobbled by
Hungry blackbirds not able to access
Radiant raspberries beneath gardeners’ netting
Clusters of gooseberries glow green and red
Swelled by summer showers
Enticing the eye away from swelling pears
Apples and plums not yet ready
Deciding what will sweeten the morning porridge
Refresh the afternoon palate or follow
Savoury dinners to satisfy sweet teeth
In an orchard of plenty.
by Daithí Kearney (@daithikearney Instagram, @dceol Twitter)
Of Fruits and Knives
When I was a child,
my sister and I, under the evening sky,
ran about in the orchard of our ancestral home
picking up mangoes that had fallen on the ground.
My mother sat on the patio,
washing and cutting up the fruit
we handed to her,
as we giggled and stole bites in between.
With cut up fruit,
a mother’s love and a story untold,
I wished for youth,
the fullness of mind
that allows freedom.
Fruit has passed from hand from hand,
from mother to daughter,
as the moon changed shape
and the sun’s light has burnt.
I reminisce about the child I used to be,
that was allowed to love;
love the moon and despise the sun.
I love like a child,
fully yet naively,
my heart shaped by my mother’s promises my father’s cruelty,
my mother’s hands that fed me sliced mango
and my father’s which held the knife.
Years later, I come home to my mother,
whose hands can no longer hold mangoes.
But love remains, a resilient flame,
in the depths of my heart, it claims its name;
when all else fails,
there’s always a bowl of fruit that my mother left.
by Urvie Bhattacharya
I, Apricot
You pass me between your hands,
to let me roll against your forearm,
and then elbow me to the wind. I land with
a
bruise.
And I think.
It is saccharine.
To be held like this.
Before the rot took over, before we
decided it was better to salt the earth,
I was dreaming of apricot mornings
with you. I was dreaming of all
my mornings with
you.
Only, all you wanted was a piece. You
slice the knife over the flesh, and I love you
for not
running it like a saw.
I move from the ground you left me on,
and the bruise rears like a sunrise, I am tender
this way. The bruise will spoil before it
heals. Forever
a soft spot.
by Chelsea Yanga (@chelsea_yanga Twitter)
Happiness is the syrup thick sweetness
of a passion fruit warm in your palm,
Surprise is the sugar-tart pulp just beneath
the shell of the modest looking guinep,
Disappointment is plainly papaya
Love is a crisp bite into the sunset skin
of a honeycrisp apple,
Anger is the flesh and skin of lemon
gnashed between your teeth,
Sadness tastes a lot like a bruised tomato
Envy has a surprising flavor of plum,
Amusement is the bright, tart punch
of pineapples dusted with salt,
And loneliness often holds the dark flavor
of Concord grapes
Pride is the musky headiness of a mango
plucked before the birds can feast,
Compassion is the gentle, quiet sweetness
of the white meat of coconut,
Fear is the strange, beautiful flavor
of pomegranates
Anxiety is the dark burst of black cherries,
Boredom the passive flavor of banana,
Satisfaction, though, can either be the
honeyed bite of rambutan, or the rush of oranges
I hope to never figure out what hatred tastes like
by Danny Fantom (@ThrillandFear Twitter)
summer days
plant your feet firmly on the ground,
the core of your soul is the seed you sow,
don’t plan to bloom all year round,
but watch and learn how to grow.
find your perfect season.
peel away the layers of the grey;
know you’re loved for many reasons.
you’re ripening before my eyes today.
floating free under twilight’s blue bliss,
cozy koala cuddles and splish-splashes,
swaying coconut palms dissolve into a kiss;
epiphanies washing over you in flashes.
watermelon juice dripping down carefree;
adrift in a summer daze by the sea.
by Nitika Balaram (@musings.by.nitika Instagram)
Fever
I drink pineapple juice in my bed.
My head is spinning I wish I could hold your hand.
This fever is not my friend then why it visits me often?
I feel vulnerable again, mixed fruits with powder milk are my escape plan.
The fruit lady gave me free fruits.
When I have a penny she gave me discount.
She thinks I worry too much.
She tries to calm me down.
This fever will go away, again I will pretend I have a lot of work to do.
I won’t check my phone but I will wait for your calls.
I will say thank you to the fruit lady.
Her fruits cure my fever.
I feel vulnerable again, mixed fruits with powder milk are my escape plan.
by Inner Monologue (@inner__monologue__ Instagram)
Citrus Scented Grin
At home in our garden,
A tiny hand meets mandarin.
Plucked from our tree,
She hands it to me.
Doe eyes and a
Citrus scented grin.
Our garden is filled with fruits of our labour.
I smile and peel you another;
Biting out seeds,
Now spat in the bushes.
Passing it’s seedless carcass to the
fruit of my womb –
A citrus scented grin;
Waiting –
Sticky,
Sweet,
and smiling.
by Elizabeth Santaromita
trigger warnings: suicide, blood, abuse
Pick me, please
There is room in your hands
To grasp curve so gently
And twist to release blame
Squeeze me, drain me dry
This citrus wont juice itself
I am already bleeding
From pores gaping
From fingers grazing
Hold claws tight
It is too much for a peel to handle
Digging in gives darker colour
For spotted paintings undiscovered
On curves left wanting
Please, grind my skin to seed
To pulp and pith to make me bleed
For anything, I’d give to feel the juice
Run free against this noose
Scrape me, now, skin me down
I do not want to feel when I am thrown out
by Madeleine Chan (@madeleinelyc Instagram, @madeleinechan Twitter)
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