Just wanted to share some work that I've been doing for my short story course. This is a short, short story (somewhere around 200 words) and it borders between story and prose poem. I hope you enjoy it.
‘Infection’
A blueberry deflates in the humidity. Infecting the others. Forced into the bushel. A woman squats in the dirt. She wipes her hands on her printed apron. Her arms are purple too. But not from berries. When did it all begin? A Tuesday maybe. But does it matter? Perhaps it will end today, or tomorrow. And the stains will fade like the summer. Jack will take them away. He has firm hands. Good for scrubbing. Good for protecting. But not good for blueberries. They bleed between his fingers. Thick with callus. Purple blood seeping.
She wonders about Father’s mood. She has picked nearly fourteen bushels. A blueberry has burst under her eye. Thin skin. Purple juice swells beneath. He was angry last night. Scotch and soda. Cold, jagged ice. Humidity eddied over the glass. As hot breath on a cold day. The frost is bad for blueberries. Strange, pale and blotchy when she wakes. They will melt, but never be the same. They sour. A brown spot dimples the side. Jack doesn’t like the mole on her arm. Sometimes a hair grows out. Sometimes there are two. She plucks them out. Her wedding gown has long white sleeves. It was the only one with sleeves. They will stick to her, if it’s hot like today. Sweat slides down her forehead. Then her temple. Then her cheek. Salty. A tear.
She presses another blueberry into the basket. Her hands move on to the next one. The edge of the basket slices her finger. She sucks the purple out. The black skins dislodge from under her nails. Somewhere in a bushel behind her, a blueberry bursts with fluffy white mold.
