April:
These are the fruits of promises made. They bear the weight – so firm, feel it – of sworn oaths and crossed hearts.
At dusk they flourish, growing ripe and heavy and hot, like a new-born baby. They grow off spindly branches, half withered, amidst weeds and lone bushes, out of sight. Come sunset, it would be easy to pluck them. Warm as skin and heavy as a pheasant, yet only the size of a human palm, they snap clean off the branches without so much as a rustle.
You would be surprised at how many there are. It often takes me the whole night to pick my fill, and then some. People make promises too easily. And not too many last, which I am happy with, seeing as how I have no use for the un-spoilt fruits.
The bad ones, you see, are the best kind. The kind that you can gorge on, all the pleasure minus the guilt. Just one fruit alone, as big as a persimmon, could fill you up so you could barely move.
The beginning of the year is the best time for harvest. New Year resolutions, fresh starts and blank slates, all of them waiting to be broken and sullied. Unfortunately, that is also the time when competition is the toughest.
We are scavengers. Parasites, if you must. Names don’t bother me; I see it as Darwinism. We do what we must to survive, though there are those who think we don’t deserve to exist.
Every broken promise costs you your blood, whether you notice it or not. Often, you don’t. You just feel a little light-headed at the thought of that little act of rebellion, of defying expectations. That is when the fruits grow swollen with blood, so heavy they bend the branches, staining the soil scarlet.
Tonight, the branches will sag, the fruits ripe and oozing, ready for our taking. Tonight we will race to harvest.
*
Sean:
My brother was late. And the weather was snappy. The first observation annoyed me more than the second. Wayne was late, when he specifically told me he wouldn’t be. He even promised.
I had just about worn out the pavement when I heard the sound of his sneakers scuffing towards me. In my hand-me-downs, he looked, as always, like a kid playing grown-up, but my little brother could never grow up, not when he was this absent-minded.
I folded my arms. “You’re late.”
He flicked his too-long hair out of his eyes and stared up at me. “I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”
“If you don’t want to come, just say so.” I was being tougher on him than I had to, but he needed to know the importance of keeping promises or he’d end up like our parents.
His eyes widened. “I want to. Really. Come on, Sean.”
Wayne seemed different than the last time I’d seen him, even though it was only last week. He seemed to have grown more than I expected him to.
“Whatever.” I gave him a light shove and he punched me back.
The cemetery was deserted. Even the most valiant joggers had called it a day as the storm pressed closer down on us. But Wayne was bent on this. Ever since I showed him the fruit, the one stained with juice as sticky as blood, he had been eager to look for them himself.
“I don’t see it anywhere,” Wayne complained.
I took him down a dirt path flanked by untrimmed rows of hedges. “It’s not in plain sight.” Nothing was, on this island. Not tears or smiles or fruits. People here were a private bunch.
