Bitter Fruit by Abigail George

The steak knives were missing. Is there any value in that truth?

abi01_400_06Give me a little earth. A place in the sun. A bowl of shelled, salted and roasted peanuts. Let me have a piece of the supernatural universal in my hands. Give me something to grow in the chilled earth that was once made of volcanic rock. I do not really care what you give me to grow just not hidden sadness, or egoism. Too many people let egoism grow on them and then they call it arrogance. Once arrogance is in the picture then your whole wide world is turned asunder. At some point in your life, you are going to stand alone. Sometimes it feels like an hour. Can be longer. Wait for it. It is coming. Like winter in the air. Clouds that look like people. The human being does not know how organic conversation is. It is just as organic as depression, or any other mental illness is. It is just as organic as paperwork. It really means nothing at the end of the day, that sexual impulse. Like a river, it has a song. A marginalised beginning and an end. Marilyn Monroe sweetheart with her ballad of plum flesh naked under moonlight, the Kafkaesque novel between her ears. Her feast of autumn flesh. Her winter flesh.

Her most basic mood a summer or a spring in the photo album is ripe for the taking.

It was her wedding. Day framed by shell people (and those most fragile relations and relationships, delicate, and sensitive), and memoir. A white glove. A cab driver. Grape juice instead of wine. She was still childlike. Innocent of family life as a newlywed. The archipelago of rainbow children with their ghetto planet. Sometimes she cried. I could not feel empathy for her because I was not yet born. This image of the autumn chill is always on my mind. The butterfly. Coconut milk. A woman must always keep a diary. A thinking woman must keep all things Orlando to herself, that she will write a triumphant book from beginning to end with unchanging hope, instil her characters with extraordinary innocence. There is always this struggle for creativity. The tapestry of a wonderful dream. I love men. I love women. You cannot ask me to give up either because always my search is for love, for acceptance, for attention, for affection, for approval. Joy fills my lungs. The release of forgiveness. Fresh and new as rain and the wheels of James Byron Dean’s Little Bastard.

Read the whole article in Ovi Magazine, HERE!


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