The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #233

The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #233

Saturday, June 3, 2017

One Image, One Prompt, One Emotion

200 Words

a grapefruit

melancholy

6 thoughts on “The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #233

  1. “Such melancholy, Chester? Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world!” said Roy, munching on his stale hotdog as they walked the grey streets of Pittsburgh.
    “No, I guess not. That’s next Tuesday when Trump meets Kim Jong-un on North Korean soil,” said Roy. He stopped to look at some of the fruit and vegetables on display at the local grocers. Among the discolored strawberries and off-green apples lay a sad, miserable specimen of a grapefruit, going slightly moldy with green fur.
    “Oh come on! The Russians set this meeting up, it’ll be fine! Trump always has the bestest words! Covfefe!” Roy straightened his “Make America Great Again” baseball cap with the aid of his reflection in the window.
    “I don’t know about that. I mean, look at our city. Since it said it was for the Paris Accord and not him, its been getting some rough treatment from the government and now it can’t afford to keep our streets and air clean of pollution. Look at it, Roy.” Chester held his arm ahead of him and couldn’t see his hand for the thickness of smog.
    “Ah, fake news! It’s fog, nothing more!” Roy walked on.
    “Yep, fog. Distraction, distraction.”

  2. Poet’s Corner

    My limousine cruises like a shark through the foggy waters of the theatre district. Outside people spill out from late shows, but we continue another few blocks, the theatres giving way to a seedier sort of night-time entertainment.
    “There.”
    Ahead a lone figure lurks beneath the misty spotlight of a street corner.
    “You sure?” My driver replies.
    “I know a poet when I see one.”
    We slow to a halt and I wind down the window.
    She steps from the curb, leans in and I catch a heady grapefruit whiff of cheap perfume.
    “Want something sweetheart?” Her mouth smiles, but melancholy eyes betray a feeling of despair.
    “I’m looking for some Bronte”
    “Emily or Charlotte?”
    “Branwell.”
    “I don’t do Branwell.”
    “You sure?” I thrust two crumpled Benjamins in her direction.
    “I’m sure…that stuff’s messed up.”
    She steps away from the car, then stops, before scribbling a note and handing it back through the window.
    “There’s a girl on Tennyson Street. I think she does Branwell, but only for regulars…don’t tell her I sent you, got it?”
    I roll window closed and she resumes her position under the streetlight.
    “Branwell? Sicko.” She spits the words into the darkness as we depart.

  3. Admittedly, this is too long for a quickie, but it’s a story that must be told.

    The Bitter Truth

    Grapefruit sat in the produce aisle and watched as housewife after housewife fondled the California navel oranges; sniffing them, squeezing them, and making a varied assortment of happy noises as they piled more than just a few into their shopping carts. Grapefruit sighed as he looked around at the other grapefruit sitting dejectedly next to him. In a flat, depressed tone, he spoke aloud, “It’s like we have cooties or something.” The others barely raised their eyes as they, too sighed under the weight of his sentiment. They all felt undervalued.

    Shortly after the dinner hour a single woman slowly hobbled her way down the produce aisle. She perused the pile of bananas until she was satisfied with the yellowing green bunch she gingerly slid into her cart. She moved a few steps closer but halted at the dwindled pile of oranges, rummaged through the remnants and chose two or three to add to her treasures. Moving forward, she stopped in front of grapefruit and smiled before exclaiming, “Grapefruit! I love grapefruit!” She reached out and firmly caressed the plumpness of grapefruit body. Lifting him to her nose, she gave him a gentle squeeze and pressed her nail into his skin to release the hidden aroma of his unique scent. “Ahhh!” she moaned, “Perfection.” Grapefruit yielded to her forwardness in his most submissive posture, then blushed realizing the impromptu affair had been displayed in front of the others. Intoxicated with the passion of her desire, he was swept away and added to her collection of desirables.

    Grapefruit was in love.

    Grapefruit never took his eyes off the woman as she rolled her cart through the aisles and up to the register. Continuing to stare at her with adoration from within the paper bag as she left the store and headed down the street, Grapefruit’s thoughts were filled with the ecstasy of their inevitable rendezvous. He longed to pleasure her with every drop of the sweet juiciness he was saving for her within the carpels of his flesh.

    Setting the bag down to hail a cab, the woman inadvertently set the paper bag onto a small puddle of water. The paper absorbed the water so that when the taxi pulled up and she hefted the bag into the back seat, the bottom corner gave way and grapefruit fell through to the ground. The taxi door slammed and as it pulled away ran over grapefruit, squishing his juicy, sweet flesh onto the soiled pavement, leaving him crushed and heartbroken. “That’s done it.” he thought, no one would desire him now. Pain swept through his being as the remnants of his sweetness drained away and he faced the ugly truth.

    He had begun to think that maybe he was desirable enough to compete with the oranges, but that was not the case.

    Grapefruit died that night; lonely and bitter.

  4. The fog had rolled in, reducing the city from sharp angles to murky shapes. At the end of my shift, I left the precinct station and headed to the automat for something to eat. I pumped a few coins into the coin slot and a small glass window separating me from a lonely sandwich clicked open. As I reached for the sandwich, the lights dipped to black, popping and sputtering when they came back up. Stood at my shoulder was a six-foot tranny, my hand jumped to my revolver.
    “That’s no way to greet a lady!” he said. And then with dawning recognition, my shoulders slackened.
    “Christ! Not again Kenny,” my coat slid back over my revolver “It’s been a long day and I don’t—”
    “Kendra! It’s Kendra goddamnit!” he snapped before I could finish. My hand did a slow drag over the length of my face in frustration. I fished in my pocket and held up a twenty. Kenny’s eyes lit up, snatching the note he checked his lip gloss in one of the little glass windows and wiped a smudge at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “You like that Pops? Ruby grapefruit it’s called” he said pushing his bottom lip into a pout. He spun and clattered out into the fog on stiletto heels.

    Kids… I thought to myself… I grimaced and looked at the melancholy sandwich with no appetite.

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