All the fruit drabbles are making me hungry. But for some reason, a bad week at work inspired mine:

In my world, they mean magic, witchcraft, and temptation. They are a symbol of other worlds, imagination, and decadence. I’ve looked for lipstick and velvet with that depth and clarity of red for years, never quite finding it.

None of this, however, is what springs to mind when I see them stacked in an uneven pyramid in the cafeteria one day. All I can think of then is this company’s uncomfortable similarities to Hell, and that I don’t dare eat one here; what if I’m forced to stay?

Pomegranates should not appear at Microsoft.

Jilli, I already giggled like a loon in the lj entry.

Brilliant, Jilli.

Jeepers, Kristin.

That's - damn, that's a corker.

Thank you so, Deb. I write a lot of poetry by share little of it. High praise from you just made my night.

I'm going grayish on much of the board (so much work to do in the next two weeks as school lurches to a close), but I plan to keep up here. I just love this thread.

There's a fruit drabble about my Gram bouncing around in my head, but it hasn't materialized yet. It will soon.

Memories of homemade peach cobbler are making my mouth water, now.

Also, Jilli, I love yours. Makes me laugh out loud.

She closes the distance as she sees the car slow. She moves quickly, brightly coloured cottons against cocoa skin. Her smile curls up her face, but stops short of eyes glittering with calculation.

They follow standard roadside protocol - her lips caress each syllable as her hands move slowly over rounded flesh.

"Is firm, you know, Sah," she croons. "And sweet like you like it."

My father nods, gesturing with the money. "In the back."

I reach through the window and take the bag of oranges from her. I've never been to the same fruitstand twice, never had a different experience.

At first, I thought the last line was contradictory, but I think I understand now. I like it.

Thanks.

I'm awed by all the fruit this week's topic is producing. Heh.

And Kristin's poem is thought-provoking.

ita obviously has a future in fruit porn.

Here's a fruit drabble:

At each meal they sat there, next to the plates, grinning their evil orange smiles. I picked up my spoon and slowly scooped up smaller orange sneers. In my mouth, the tiny scoops grew larger and larger as I struggled to swallow each one. The smell was sickly, almost like something that was just starting to decompose.

"Do we have to have cantaloupe at every meal?"

"The cantaloupe is very good here."

That statement was true enough. It was also irrelevant. There was, however, no reasoning with my father's parents.

"Can I go now?"

"Not until you've finished your lunch."

Oh Ginger, I just remembered. Poor wee Ginger.