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.

It had been a banner year for murder in Fruitopia. Twenty-seven stiffs a week. The latest victim was one Herbert Maypole, found on the sidewalk in front of a video store.

Detective Apple surveyed the body.

Two minutes was all it took. Precinct record.

Someone had clearly modified the old "sack of oranges" trick with a sack of strawberries. But upon finding that fruit less efficacious, he had shot Maypole. Once in each limb, to immobilize him. Then he had poured the strawberry mush over Maypole's helpless head, leaving the poor sap to suffocate.

Death by strawberries, thought Red. What a way to go.