Guilty Fruit

The walls are white between the bright crimson spattering of juices. On the floor, pooling over the tired nude linoleum along the floor boards, the juices are partially dried around the edges to create a stain. Here and there the seeds of the guilty fruit lay like red tear drops the size of baby’s teeth. They are on the ground, spread sparingly from one wall to the next as carefully distributed as stars throughout the universe, giving each other a wide berth and only occasionally meeting in groups of three or five.
On the dirty white seat cushions they sparkle like delicate jewels and on the table the white inner membranes of the fruit are strewn over the plaid table cloth among paper towels. The red and pink and speckled outer skins are there too, keeping their disgorged inside company.
On the tile countertops all parts of the fruit that bring death to the world lie scattered and the juice runs in tiny rivers over the grout. A butcher's knife lays gleaming on the cutting board, also sullied with sticky sweet nectar, adding to the unsettling aura of gore that permeates the room.
The red liquid splattered on the walls, pooling on the floor, running in rivers over the countertops, is highlighted by the stark whiteness of the cabinetry, tiles, and unsullied portions of wall. White and red fight for control of the atmosphere and both loose sway at the stainless steel sink crowded with soaking pots and baking sheets. The sink is an explosion of soiled steel nestled in the greater explosion of red and white, like the pink nipple and aureole at the tip of a pale breast, or like the pollen laden burst at the center of a flower.
There is an odor particular to dirty drains and stainless steel sinks which mingles with that of burnt remnants absorbing water on the surfaces of cookie sheets, and of course, the musky smell of that fruit. It is difficult to smell the juices over the unique and strong odor of the membranes and peel, their smell is unlike the smell of other fruits.
On the counter, nearly hidden by ruffles of crumpled paper towels lies a wedge of the fruit possessing all of the parts; tough red skin, white membranes holding and hiding their treasure, and a multiplicity of ruby hued seeds. The pattern calls to mind the nests of wasps while the color, especially the juice, begs to be confused with blood.
A white bodied lamp holding a pear shaped light bulb without the modesty of a lamp shade bathes the scene with a butter cream light. It is aided by a light mounted on the ceiling where multiple bulbs are occluded beneath a dome of etched glass. The pattern of the etchings is a precise array of concentric rings textured with ribs or diamonds in an alternating pattern.
Light glows in the shape of a shamrock on the glossy white paint of the ceiling surrounding the light fixture. No red here, only white and crystal and butter cream playing peacefully together above the mayhem. The jealous red is stealing its way up the walls in the form of those bright splatters, but it never quite reaches into that last bastion of pale solidarity.
The stovetop and oven, like the sink, are engaged in their own game unconcerned with the struggles of white and red. They enjoy the geometric austerity of square doors and round burners dressed in black and white like nuns. Underneath this happy pair a seed or two of the messy fruit lays sequestered, enjoying the solitude and anonymity of darkness where their crimson stain is stripped of significance.

Final Walk

There is a black car parked just beyond the trail, on the shoulder of a forgotten road. The air is crisp with chill and a little damp.

Escaping from pale pink lips is an apparition suggestive of vitality. Breath, or spirit, it flees from those thin parted lips with every exhale. The breasts heave under the crisp blouse and tailored suit jacket, clinging to life as the lungs expand to take in another sacrament of life from the atmosphere, before expelling it again.
The shiny black shoes with their commanding square heels plod awkwardly along the dirt course. Shapely legs move mechanically towards their destiny, their elegant contours hidden by the smart gray skirt.

Their master, bleary eyed with un-cried tears has ceased to plead indignation or innocence. Her fate is certain.

In another setting, in a banquet hall, before a podium, in a marbled office, this elegant blonde creature would be an imposing figure, only those with power would dare to hold her frosty gaze. Here, her glossy hair and fine suit hold no enchantment against the low growing yellow grass and petite white wild flowers. The trappings and tricks of the cunning human animal and its politics fade against the elemental. In this quiet field laced by the outlines of towering trees, they only betray her mortal vulnerability.

With fawn-like submissiveness she tramples onward, the menacing figure at her back driving her along the path, towards the wilderness and oblivion. Calm and sure footed, this other moves with the absolute certainty of triumph. One black gloved hand wields death in the form of a drab 9 mm Luger. A shadow in a wool overcoat, this calculating, patient adversary urges its ward forward.

On she goes, waiting for the tell tale "crack" that will shatter the silence as bullet parts from chamber and slices through the same air that she now labors to breathe. With each progressing step the expectancy grows, but the only sound is that of her own ragged breathing and the crunch of dirt clods under heel.

A far away mist veils the sky muting the sun's seeking rays. It hangs like a white backdrop against which the jagged tree tops are a sinister green-black. They cut into the whiteness like a hungry line of teeth. The trail slopes downward to pass through a barren little valley. Nothing there but the stunted blades of yellowed grass fringed with sparkling frost and the little white flowers drooping with wet and cold.

Little Dorothy

I still want to tell him about my dream, but we leave the stone courtyard with the bench and its withered occupant: the eavesdropping old man.

My companion leads the way to the street. His black hair is blowing in the brisk breeze. I insist that I have more to tell him but he says he doesn’t want to hear anymore. The sky is overcast, the atmosphere cool and moist suggesting that we are near the sea. There are people out on the street busy with their own affairs. The have an idyllic old world look to them. It seems possible that they are Dutch. They wear funny shoes, white aprons and hats. My companion is walking quickly and it is difficult for me to catch up. He isn’t waiting for me and takes no notice when I fall behind. Frustrated I stop. He hurries along oblivious to my absence. I watch him for a moment, my own straw colored hair lashing my cheeks in the wind. Resigned I let go of my open umbrella and it tumbles down the street, blown in the same direction as my companion. I turn my back on them and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

Suddenly I hear tires screeching in the road behind me. I turn and see a little girl in a blue dress and white apron crumpled in the street. She lies unmoving at the nose of a big black automobile, a classic car with a shiny chrome bumper. A woman cries out,"It’s Dorothy! She’s dead!"The girl, blonde braids spilled about her crown, is indeed dead, but the woman must be mistaken.
I am Dorothy.