Fruit Stand Wonderland


It was no ordinary Saturday at the fruit stand. Her dress flowed freely as her wedges took her far among the fruit. The wind blew back locks, her newly dreaded hair. She walked through picking them up and putting them down. Yes it was a burden. Apples, oranges, pears, peaches and plums. And so much more. The awnings were bright and fluttering, Hyde Park at the Farmstand. It was unkind to wrest these fruits out from hiding. There was a man, burning and selling incense. Smoke followed his every move, from head to toe. His wonderful brown skin made his purple eyes look strange. Strange enough for her to follow. There, behind the bronze statue of Martin Luther King was the mos precious and largest orange. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He began to blow scents of jasmine, cooing at it. Suddenly it opened itself to her. It peeled and grabbed her locks, it’s rinds, and swallowed her. She was a seed.

A world uncovered as she awoke and opened her eyes to the green walls. The suited men above her. Fondling her, smelling her and smiling. They rolled her around and many others like her, but unlike. She flew through hands and conveyor belts. The silver streaks of men, humans, silver suits. Ambiguous zero. The one. There was no rejection here, but she was the girl with no face, the little girl with no face. Then the scent entered. Purple eyes peered. Smiled a great smile, sticky juice running around the chin. They are drawn to the sun, moon and dots and disks of all descriptions, including periods, stop signs and stars.

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