Sunday, 29 November 2009

My heart was once a Ruby Red

My lover gave me a vial the day he left with the rest to find the colours of the world.
In it lay the fragile frame of a hummingbird that had fallen victim to the Great Monochrome Sleep.

It had been a few years since the GMS. Many had died. Most in fact.
Who knew humans could not cope with no colour?
The few that had survived had already been drained of some colour by life. They were ill, or sad, or just simply pale in complexion.

The few that remained were now the Rainbow Warriors. They had now awoken to the tragedy of a bleached and blackened existence, and seeing their surrounding being consumed by the dark and the white, they decided to reform, reshape, and resist.

He had left me 24 white suns ago, and I had sat by the shore of the grey sea, watching sunset turn the sky gradually from white to black sun after sun after sun, waiting for a shout, for a cheer from far off, a sign that they had come back, that the colours would come back, that they had found the solution.

We had begun to lose hope once again. Our bravest, strongest, smartest had gone, and come back, and gone again, and come back empty handed. Our tomatoes were still grey, our bread still pasty, our appetites bland.
The GMS had claimed the red blush in the cheeks of young girls winked at by doting boys, the blue in the face of the old man who coughed and coughed, the green envy in the eyes of the wife of the two-timing husband.

The days were black, white and every shade and shape and form of grey in between, but after all that time, the grey was just one.

The Rainbow Warriors were our continuous hope. Our only colour.

And then that day came. I opened my eyes, head still resting on the soft pillow that I usually shared with the crown of my heart's prince. And I saw it.

The hummingbird. In it's clear glass vial, colour spreading slowly but unfaltering through the plumes, like blood in vessels. Blue, green, turquoise, teal, red. They flooded its being, and with every colour that appeared, the words that accompany them flowed through my head like a gushing river that broke a tenacious damn. Ruby red, emerald green, Sea blue, grass green... My eyes began to sparkle, and my now pink lips stretched into a smile. The lifeless bird glowed with colour and verve, like a brand new sun rising from the sea.

I straightened up hastily, and quickly my head turned toward my window, where I heard people shouting and laughing and cheering with glee at the orchestra of hues and shades.

The Great Monochrome Sleep was over.

And I waited, day after day, grapefruit sunset, after grapefruit sunset, by the sparkling sapphire sea. But my love was no where in sight.

And while the rest enjoyed the red of a freshly picked ripe apple, the purple of the wild irises, and the indigo of dusk, slowly but unfaltering, my world started to drain of its tints till my heart bled its last red drop, and turned to cold grey stone.

Sunday, 27 September 2009

The bait you can't buy...

Although the wheels were turning, there was something quite out of tune... The pace had not been resumed, but has been modified with an offset of rhythms. Like the calm before the storm, everything went silent. One might assume that time had actually stopped, but a keen eye would tell you otherwise.

The scene around you has slowed down for some reason. The minute details around you are more visible to you now. The cracks in the bark, the the shimmer in the leaves, the abyss of the forest... In your curiosity and down-right confusion, you explore the world around you by randomly following schizophrenic lines and patterns with you eyes. You're overwhelmed with what surrounds you. Nearby, however, you notice an odd darkness emanating from where Happiness lay.

The blood still leaks from the wound. It starts to puddle around the corpse and starts to flow through the earth. Everything it touches was instantly losing its color. It spills and continues to flow into streams and rivers. All that came into contact with that blackening sludge surrendered its color to it. The insects flee first, then the birds. Animals of all kinds from all directions evacuate the area as fast as they could. Nothing left around, save yourself, and all of what's left of nature - black.

The world it still frozen and you're walking through it aimlessly. Leaving the corpse behind you and venturing out deeper into the black belly of nature. Just beyond the hill, you reach a clearing and squint your eyes to see further. Your eyes catch the glare of something not far from you - it moves frantically. You're not sure, but you assume it must be panicking much like you are on the inside. You are curious, though, what is it, in this colorless world that could be so bright? You walk on, driven to find out. It's closer now, you can hear its tone. It sounds sort of like a bee, but not as intrusive. It's a lot mellower - like a harmonica. It's humming! It gets quite loud, you know you're so close. And as your heart trips over itself in this rush of adrenaline, it goes silent.

Distraught, you fall and lie watching the sun shine through black trees. In the branches, right above you, in plain sight, a hummingbird. It stood still on a branch for a split second before resuming its panicked flight in search of something. You notice it's moving between flowers. One branch to the next, it finds the flowers to inspect them, and turns to the next. It never touches them, just examines them from a distance, and moves on. It starts to move slower. It hits a branch in mid-flight. The hummingbird is weak. It attempts to recover back into flight, but falls to the ground, landing just over an arm's reach away.


Sunday, 24 May 2009

A fish you can't catch...

He spotted it, there in the undergrowth.
Beads of sweat were forming slowly on his skin, his hair bunching up in thick strands, the weight of the moment holding him still as his eyes tracked it, flinching from side to side slightly with anxiety.

Its skin caught the sun that seeped through the branches delicately, and the colours it reflected brought a greedy warmth to his heart. This was the hunt of a lifetime, he had a glimspe of what many had spoken about, what many had yearned for, fought for, killed for. And now he was but a few metres away from this creature.
The pressure was on, he shook with anticipation and slight euphoria at the thought of what he had within view.

It moved slowly, and carefully, and all its muscles beautifully defined a landscape of grace and strength like no other he had seen. He could only do so much to stop his lips from smacking at the thought of it finally in his clutches, the hunt.. the hunt!

And then it came, the perfect moment, the ultimate chance, the point from which there can be no return, only an ending.

He aimed, his eye still and focused, posture perfectly aligned, rifle propped against his shoulder and finger sweating yet ready and waiting to pull the trigger.

It reared its head mane flickered slightly, and for a split second hunter and hunted locked eyes and time would have been stood still were it not for the bead of sweat that rolled down across his eyebrow at that moment.

It slumped to the floor, and he sped out from his hideout, and knelt by its side, his eyes glowing with what he thought he had finally caught. He lifted its head, trying to get it to do its magic, trying to figure out how, now that he caught it, he could finally get it. Nothing happened.

As Happiness bled out at his feet, its tongue hung out to the side, eyes rolled at an odd angle, neck bent back, the flies began to swarm and the forest began to resume its pace.

Friday, 24 April 2009

Seminar : Parallel Universe

"It is a regular day. One of 365, 24-hour days during the year. We examine a very particular species on this forgotten planet, this week; a continuing study in a series of weekly projects documenting the differences and particularities in the process of hunting in different Earth species.

Homo sapiens, or humans, have developed a most intricate way of hunting. So much so, that they have redefined it. As most do not regard themselves as animals, due to their belief that having conscience and intuition separates them from the 'animal' world, their hunt has transcended past obtaining a source of food and surviving. The key difference between the human species and the rest of living organisms on this strange planet, is that humans do not hunt to survive. As other organisms hunt to fight the forces of nature, predators, and each other, humans stand their ground. They no longer hunt for their food, but have developed a system similar to trading over their centuries of existance, where money, a somewhat standardized, printed material equates to the value of their food.

When at first, humans hunted much like other species, they have redefined their hunting techniques and their definition of food. Food to them now, is not only a source of energy which they ingest - food has become everything else around them:
their wishes, their envy, the material objects, even each other. They have become so twisted in their game of hunting that their luxuries have been intertwined with their necesseties. The simplest way of comparison would be to look back at last month's penguin special. The male of the species carry the egg for months on end until summer comes without food or rest while the females gather food for the young. Humans have made sleep and their equivalents of food a desperate necessity

Their techniques are broad and vary. They strategize, they play games, they are able to get others involved whether directly or indirectly, to get what they want. Their system is quite efficient but has had an immense toll on their surroundings and on the species itself. The Human Species of Earth will be a 40-part series starting tomorrow. Be sure to join us for the next episode where we examine homo sapien history to explain where the line between necessity and luxury was erased."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this concludes the seminar for today. Be sure to report to Sector 5 before leaving the facility - sun flares have been calculated to have surpassed the protective capability of our thermal visual films. You must have them updated, otherwise blindness will be the consequence. Thank you very much... your essays are due on my desk in 3 days. Goodbye."

Monday, 30 March 2009

Third time's a charm

"Hey, yea, Bill? It's Mack Johnson here. Been trying to get a hold of you. Just pulled out some cash out of the bank, gotta buy me that suit I've been telling you about. A bit pricey but all worth the 4 big ones. No no, I know, meetings and all that, I've been uber busy myself. We just closed on the Triangle case. Yea yea, Macy didn't tell you? That bitch is going to get her ass fired. If she didn't have such a nice ass I'd have gotten rid of her ages ago if you know what I mean hehe.. Anyway, so I've been thinking, you know how those sharks up at mana- HEY! BUDDY WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING YOU JERK OFF! God! Sorry Bill, some lunatic taxi driver nearly ran me over. Fucking pakis. What happened to good ol' American workforce huh? Anyway? Where was I? Oh yea.. So them sharks up in management, I'm thinking its about time we try and get their goose you know? Where it really hurts. Wha? Loyalty schmoyalty, it's a dog eat dog world Billy boy. So what if we catch them asleep? There's big bu- Jesuschristallmighty in heaven, fuck that was close. Huh? yea, sorry, sorry, woah, I'm sort of out of breathe after that one, I just slipped on some stupid kid's ice cream, nearly went down a manhole.. Jesus... Yea.. ok, what? No no I'm fine. So where was I? Yeah yeah, so Nick could be the first to go. It's really simple.. Pull some strings, get some dirt on him an- huh? So what if he's clean as a whistle, nothing is impossible. With him out the way- hang on hang on some hobo's bothering me... I don't have ti-... *sigh* I can't shake him off. I'm going to have to call you back - "

" Yea, Bill? Sorry, some jerk ass good for nothing bum was insisting he wanted to show me something.. Huh? Yea, three coins lined up on their edge. How the fuck should I know why that's important. It was sort of odd how they were lined up like that though, they looked like they were magnetised. Must be one of those street hoaxes, yea yea exactly like that joker you told me about. Damn parasites. Yea, so we bring down Nick, Martins follows, then there are two nice fat juicy positions for us to fill. It's simple as A, B, C. HAH yea yea you know it. The cash will just come flowing in, easiest cash cow I've ever been smart enough to milk. Yea with udders like that she could be couldn't she HAHAHAH- WOAH WOAH HOLD IT THERE BUDDY, easy now! EASY!... There's no reason to point that thing this way, now now, let's not be hasty! Money?? Err yeah here here hold on man, that's 20$ that's all I got, huh? No No!! You can't tak- *BANG. BANG.... BANG*

* * *

"Yea, Nick. It's Bill. You heard huh? Yea, yea... I was on the line when it happened.. He must've argued over the rest of his money... Stupid Mack.. Poor stupid bastard... It was terrifying you know, after the shots, I heard him thud and a few clicks. Yea, three bullets. Odd thing though, I heard people screaming and all that, and then I heard this voice, it sounded like this guy Mack had bumped into on the street only a few minutes earlier, some bum or something... Yea yea, I'm pretty sure it was him. He was shouting. He was saying "Third time's a charm". Creepy huh? Man, I should call Carol, she must be devastated. How's Macy? Upset too huh... *sigh* yea. So, er, Nick, you considered what I talked to you about? Yea.. Getting to the top? Cool, so here's my idea..."

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Jerry: The Victim of Society

Grumpy ol' fella', he was. The easiest way to describe him is Dave Chappelle's "The Grouch" from his skit about Sesame Street. He was a very angry man. He sat among his pile of stuff, all day and night, watching the city go by. Every once in a while he would yell out at people and annoy them, they would throw some change into his coffee cup to get him off their case and they'd rush off. His belongings formed a perfect bell curve along the wall and the floor when viewed from my balcony overhead. He sat right in the middle, as if to emphasize the fact that he's just another average hobo.

I had been living in the apartment on this semi-ghetto Brooklyn street for a few years now. Every day, I would come back home and have to traverse the cross-fire between his glares and stares at the public to reach the door of the building. I used to smile at him every once in a while and he responded with a blank look, rather than the profanities he would catapult at others. When I first moved in, it was winter. New York has an unforgiving wind that whips through the streets. I had an old coat I had used just a couple of times, so I gave it to him. During the colder times of the year, I would grab him a cup of coffee; in the summer, an ice-cold lemonade. Still, conversation was less than minimal.

On my way back home one day, I walked right past him and was fumbling for my keys when I realized something was different. I had a double-take and looked back at where he normally sat. It was organized. He sat in the same spot, but there was a shopping cart full of his things, arranged by frequency of usage from the bottom to the top. His clothes were nicely stacked in a cardboard box near him which he used as a sort of table for his cup. He was smiling. I had never seen that before.

Just then, a passer-by crossed his path. "Hey! Hey you, walking with your mobile phone," he said while swinging his arms around trying to get his attention.
"Hang on, some hobo's bothering me... I don't have ti-," the man replied, still walking.
"I don't want anything from you," the hobo said, "just a moment of your time."
"I'm going to have to call you back," the businessman said and hung up the phone.
The hobo then pointed up at the windowsill above his head and smiled, "Isn't that beautiful?" Three quarters were standing on their edges, side by side. The man shook his head and walked away murmuring, "Crazy fuckin' people in this city," under his breath.

I went up to the hobo, he was still smiling, pointing up at the coins, "What has gotten into you?"
"What do you mean? There's just beauty in that, don't you think?"
"Well, yea... but what happened to the grumpy guy on the street?" I asked.
What he told me next made me question whether he had gone insane or not, "See that garbage can over there across the street? Well, last night, some chick came down from your building and had this awesome looking thing in her hands. It was all colorful and shit."
I was kind of lost as to where this story was going, "So? What about it?"
He continued, "It was a goat head, all funky colored... kinda like reminded me of all them psychadelic shits I used to do back in the 60's. I was shocked, 'cuz she just put it down on the floor next to the garbage and talked to it, and walked away. Made me wonder if she was a little cuckoo."
At this point I was seriously questioning his sanity and replied, "Alright man..." trying to end the conversation as I shifted me feet to turn away.
"Wait, wait... hear me out now. That's not all. Not even half an hour after she left, some dude was walking around, probably going somewhere, I don't know," he was close to coming to his point, "the dude was curious, picked it up, checked it out, dusted it, and walked away with it with a smile on his face."
His voice was rising in tone, the climax was coming, "As he was leaving, the damn thing smiled at ME and winked. I'm telling you I was shocked at first, but this morning I woke up and didn't mind where I was. I was always pissed at how and where I ended up, but there is beauty in this world and we usually take it for granted until it's forgotten."
I was really speechless. All I could really blurt out was, "Wow!" I realized he was truly being sincere, "You know what, I have been here a few years now and still don't know your name"
His smile held its position and he happily answered, "Jerry. I'm Jerry. Now you go on up and get some rest after work, you look like shit."
We both laughed a little and as I waved and turned away, he said, "Have a good night, Mr. Gerebtzoff." I stopped in my tracks for a split second, wondering how in the world he would know my name. It's not even written on the buzzer at the door. "Goodnight, Jerry," I responded, still in awe, and went up to my appartment.

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Playing the goat

It happened after a long night of drinking.
I actually thought it happened because of the long night of drinking.
I thought i was drunk, but I've been drunk before, and this was completely different.
You're not going to believe me, but it spoke. The goddamn goat head hanging above my TV spoke.
I was sat on my lounge chair that was stained with tomato sauce from the nights I'd spent eating spaghetti on it watching crime night, and had more than a few burn holes from my cigarettes when it happened.

"Brush your teeth before you go to bed"
(great, a voice with a sense of hygiene)

First I ignored it, thinking it was just the voice in my own head. I turned out my cigarette in the ashtray balanced on the lounge chair's arm and began to walk towards my room (not in a straight line, mind you), when it happened again.

"Hey, that's still lit. Are you trying to burn down your house?"

This time, I stopped in my tracks. I slowly realised that my head voice did not sound like Anthony Hopkins crossed with that guy from Snatch.

"Whose there??" I said, frozen in a half step, head hunched and still while my eyes darted from one side of the room to the other looking for the voice.

"Up here, on the wall."

It was the fluorescent painted goat head hanging above my TV. I know you don't believe it. I didn't believe it either. But it was.
My friend had bought me that goat head as a gift from a shack shop on the beach a few months ago. He had heard about it through a friend of his who had bought this awesome retro 8 ball from there, so he decided to check it out, and ended up buying the goat head. It was meant as a tongue-in-cheek joke about how I always was playing the goat. I ended up hanging the head on my wall above the TV, where it witnessed my day to day life.

"Oh my ..." I began to stutter, as you would too, trust me.

"Didn't mean to startle you there. But it's time we talked," it said, and began to unravel the longest ball of story yarn I'd heard in a while.

His name was Shaman Billy apparently, and he had been bestowed with powers by Zeus (yeah, I know), and could speak with the tongue of man. His fellow goats had deemed him divine, not surprisingly, but the villagers soon took wind of his powers, and decided to eat him in attempt to claim some of it.
They ate his flesh and danced ritual dances, and then at the end of it, all that was left was his head. It was mounted and eventually was found, shipped and went from one end of the planet to the other until Shaman Billy ended up here. On my wall. He had heard all my phone conversations, seen me cry, seen me smoke and read, enjoyed listening to Seinfeld when I was watching it on TV, and was amused by my antics playing Guitar Hero. A lot.

And now I was conversing with a goat head.

"But now I have to go," he ended.

"Why? Are you bored? Did I do something wrong?"

"No. Not at all. But I've learned all I have to learn. I have to move on. Learning is never over." he replied.

"Ok.. Ok. I can understand that. What do I do? Is there some sort of ritual or something....?" I replied, stuttering slightly?

"Well, unless leaving me outside near the trashcans is a ritual, no," he said, smiling (You think it's hard to imagine a talking goat? Imagine one with a sense of humour who smiles...) "someone will pick me up sooner or later. Especially in this neighbourhood."

"Yea, ha. Yea, ok." I muttered smiling while I scratched the back of my head looking out the window at the semi-ghetto I call my home.
I got up on a chair and started to dismantle Shaman Billy. Funny how one becomes oh so much more careful handling furniture when it talks to you, you know?

As I stood outside in the dark, with the neighbour's dog humping the lawnmower only a few feet away, I looked at Shaman Billy in all his psychedelic colourfulness.

"This is it huh? I just leave you here?". Yeah, I was asking a goat.

"Yes. Simple really. I'll find my way." he said softly.

"Funny. For a legless thing, you've been around quite a bit," I remarked.

"Haha. True, true." he laughed. (I made a goat laugh. That's one for the grand kids)
"Listen," he said after composing himself. "You should know..."


"... You're doing ok. Don't worry. Keep going where you think you should be going, and it'll all be alright. I know it" he uttered. And you might find it strange, but I'd never been at such peace as I was after hearing those words coming out of Shaman Billy's mouth. Or muzzle or whatever.
Straight from the goat's mouth.

I smiled at Billy, reluctantly leaned him at the foot of the rubbish bin outside, and stood there, looking down at his gleaming eyes.

"I'm honoured to have had you around, even though I thought you were just a stuffed goat head..." the words seemed to choke me on the way out.

"Glad to have been on your wall. You should go now. It's late. " Billy replied.

I got the message. Goats don't like goodbyes. So I turned by back, and walked into my house, glancing briefly at the shape of the mount stenciled out of dust above my TV, walked into my room, and had beautiful dreams I couldn't remember the next morning.

Like a kid on Christmas morning, I rushed to the window the next day as soon as I woke up, to see if Shaman Billy was still there.
Yeah. You guessed it. He was gone. But you know what? It was ok.

In case you ever come across a brightly coloured goat head, word of advice. Don't scratch your crotch in front of it. And when it talks, listen.

Friday, 27 February 2009

Shaman Billy

He looked over the world since the time of Zeus. He came from a herd of goats. The other goats in the herd always stayed clear of him, fearing his insights and thoughts on life. There was an aura around him which emanated strength and wisdom far beyond his years.

Billy lived on the foothills of Olympus. He grew tired of the tribe's movements and rituals and decided to explore his surroundings one day, and disappeared from the herd. Nobody really noticed that he was gone, seeing as most of the others let him be. Naturally, the goat looked up to the mountain...its peak was hidden by a ring of clouds. Wondering what lies in the abyss, he started his climb.

It was many months before he reached the top. Food was scarce and there was not much water, except on the days it rained. Billy was exhausted but what kept him going was his determination. He knew that once he would reach his destination, he would be able to look across the land and learn about where he would go next. What was waiting for him on the peak, he would have never expected.

A grand palace was before him. He was welcomed by green pastures and gardens. There were people there - not just any, but the Gods; myths that the villagers and cities worshiped. Zeus himself was sitting in the grass throwing bolts of lightning at a far away target to satisfy his boredom when Billy arrived, curious, and sat by his side. Surprised, Zeus asked his name. Billy replied in his native tongue at first, but with a snap of Zeus' fingers, the goat replied, "I am Billy. I live on the foothills below, and wanted to learn more, so I traveled here."
Amazed, Zeus decided to talk to him about the world below, telling him about the way the Earth around him worked and how the toil of man has taken nature as its prisoner.
It was a few years Billy had been gone from the herd, but when he had all his questions answered by Zeus, it was time for him to return. Before leaving, however, Zeus had colored him with beautiful fluorescent light, and had allowed Billy to keep his ability to speak in the God's language.

Billy returned down the mountain, this time, with ease. To his amazement, the land around him turned itself to a lush paradise wherever he tread. His herd had not recognized him upon his return, but they welcomed his gift and called him Shaman.

One night, as Shaman Billy looked to the stars, hunters captured him. There was no fight in him, he was outnumbered. The hunters had witnessed the power of Shaman from their village - where the foothills were barren, they were now thriving with nature. Their greed made them come to the source and they all wanted a piece of that power.

Sadly, Shaman Billy was reduced to nothing more than a meal for the villagers. His power was never transferred. His head, still brightly colored hangs on a plaque.

Generations and civilizations had come and gone. The plaque was sold and bought and handed down for centuries. All the while, Shaman's silent eyes studied the world around him. Shaman knows now that Zeus was right. He has seen the past and knows the future. Legend tells that on certain nights, when the light is right, his aura glows more powerfully than it did on Olympus, and that the most beautiful truth escapes his lips in the form of a rainbow-colored waterfall.

Sunday, 22 February 2009

8 balls and doubts

He bites into the mandarin wedge, piercing its silken membrane, and releasing its succulent core, breaking vessels upon vessels of juice into his thirsty mouth.

While he enjoys its tang, he holds a black sphere in his hand. The light from the bulb dangling loosely on a weathered wire reflects distorted off its smooth surface of ebony.

He spins it slowly in his hand, hearing the light glubbing of the liquid it holds in its core, and the distant rattling of the key to all the answers of the universe that the liquid itself holds within its watery folds.
His eyes trail from the walls of the room, to the remaining wedges of mandarin on the table, to a bold "8" that is silk screened onto its curvature. He remembers the day he bought it, from a shabby little shop off the beach. A shop full of curiosities, voodoo dolls, snakes in bottles (some that he was convinced he saw blink at him), sceptres made with tree sap and amber, goat heads painted in bright colours, and even dried beetle wings that were crushed into a fine powder and was apparently a cure for hangovers.
He had only 13 dollars in his pocket, and when he inquired what he could buy with it, the teller signalled to a box in the darkest further dustiest corner labeled "cheap ass junk".
He jumbled through the box, sifting through suspenders, rabbit foot key chains, and clocks with their minute hand missing, until his eyes fell upon and caressed a black curve peeping from behind a framed butterfly. As he picked it up, and inspected it, he wondered if he should buy it, when from the dark waters that it held, a washed up message rolled over to look at him through the scratched circular window: "Without a Doubt."
Within minutes he was back out on the beach, with his oracle tucked into his side bag, while the shop keeper watched on, as though he had just transferred a great burden.

"Black ball, black ball, tell me what you see, give me the answer I should know. Tell me what to do." He whispered to himself, as he gave the 8 ball a shake, thinking long and hard of his crucial question.
Since that day at the beach, he had become a changed man. He had asked the 8 ball about every decision he should make, and although many of them seemed odd to him, and caused him to become more and more alone, he believed it was what had to be done.

As he sits in that empty room, with nothing but the peel of the mandarin on a bare naked table, and a light bulb that flickered ever so slightly, he feels the answer roll in the water within its shell, he waits patiently as it starts to peek through the murky water into its window, appearing one letter at a time... "Without.. a ... Doubt".

This time, the appearance of those words make his eyes bulge, his skin sweat.
His eyes turns red, and his face blue, and only a few moments later, the ball rolls out of his hand, creeps across the room, stopping as it hits the wall.

In the flickering light, his body lies motionless, in his throat a piece of succulent mandarin.

imagery of a fruit

an orange.

The first thought probably brings to mind a nice plump and rounded fruit sitting comfortably on a tabletop. Perhaps due to preference, I don't visualize an orange, but a tangerine. I never really liked the citrus nature of orange but love the sweetness of a tangerine.

The brightness of the light shines over the top of this wonderful fruit. Like a blanket, it covers the dimpled skin of the orange with a warm glow. The remains of the stem protrude ever so slightly over the top, as if wanting to branch out into the light. The smooth craters in the skin hold small puddles of light, brightening the color around them. Its shadow, with a subtle shade of blue frames the border between the table and the space of the orange. That's what i would think one would imagine when confronted with "an orange".

There's more, however...

A thumbnail gently breaks the skin near the stem, lifting it up, making a sound much like ripping a piece of paper. The sound, however, is not one of a violent nature, but is soft and tender, allowing someone to look forward to what's coming next. With the initial tear of the skin, the smell of a fresh orange disperses into the air, welcoming all those who are near to feast on this one, little fruit. The fibers hugging the edible divisions stretch until they can't stretch anymore - they let go. They feel like soft cushions, clues to how much the fruit it worth protecting from harm.

When the skin has been peeled, a fuzzy ball remains. It is hard to imagine that what lays in front of you is actually edible and tasty. A closer look shows that there are slight divisions over the surface. Where the stem once was, a hole, passing right through the center. The whole surface shows remains of those white fibers, but as those divisions are split... that's where the change happens.

Each tiny crescent shape is split from the next, exposing the bright, soft, and juiciness of this little tangerine. The orange is back now, almost emanating flavor as they lay on the table. The little veins on the inside show clearly now; between them, minuscule pouches retaining the juice and liquid which gives the tangerine all its power over the senses. All that's left to do now is to pop one in - to feel the fibers tickle your tongue, bite down and let the slice burst its goodness.

an orange

it's much more than a still life
it's much less than a poem