Young Writers Society

She studies the soft, round object in her hand, questioning it with probing eyes.

Then, she looks up to the evening sky above her, marvelling at the spectacular sight of deep crimsons and caustic oranges throwing themselves violently at the silent indigo of space. They seemed frozen, like a picture of the thrashing flames of a fire. And yet they burned, with an intense, glowing light, like the light that seems to ooze from cracks in the grey ash of dying coals.

How can she think of such things? What is a coal? Or a picture?

She hastily looks down again, at the spotless, immaculately clean strawberry lying on her palm. The stem is arched and pale green, the cut still fresh. It bends down to an appealing frill of papery leaves, which top a fleshy, bright berry, its skin reflecting the dangerous sky above her. Golden yellow seeds pit the surface at regular intervals, strung by the mysterious, twisting lines of DNA.

What could that possibly be? She shouldn’t know!.. She shouldn’t think..

She bites quickly, and the fruit bursts in her mouth. In her rush, the juice squirts onto her chin and drips thickly down her wrist. It dribbles a pale, creamy pink, and coats her tongue. Sweet, a beguiling, milky flavor, barely flavored with the taste of artificial strawberry.

Wait! This is not fake! This is how it has been and how it will be. This is how it’s been and how it will be... This is.. how it is. This is how.. This is now…

She wakes up, and steps outside, passing a cold fireplace littered with the remains of burnt coal. Bending over a damp, lifted patch of soil, she severs the stem of a strawberry with the blunt edge of her thumbnail. It is round and red and ripe. She bites into it under a blindingly blue sky, dotted at the corners with light cumulus clouds traversing the edges on strong winds. The sweet, tangy juice rushes into her mouth, and she crunches on the pale yellow seeds and sand that got caught in the pits. She smiles up at the sky and wonders at the clarity and coolness of the early summer morning. She takes a picture of herself and calls it a selfie.

She thinks. Is it possible to grow a strawberry milk flavored strawberry? DNA is so very wonderful!

She wakes, and steps out cautiously. The air is damp and yet, still cool. Early morning fog covers the sky, leaving it blank and grey, like old, stained canvas. Hurriedly, she steps out with a worn basket, and begins to forage. It is summer, and so the sun will soon sit heavily upon the shoulders. The fog wraps around her and the trees, as she shifts quietly through the forest. The strawberries should be ripe now, and she picks one up and places it into her mouth. It is sour and bitter, but it is still sweeter than other foods, so she swallows.

She picks another and studies it carefully. Why are there no stones inside? are the small, round green things on the outside the stones? She wonders, and wishes that the fruit was sweeter. She had tasted better strawberries, but she knows that the flavor seems to get better randomly, that haunting flavor darting from her outreached fingertips like the capricious winds and temperamental rains.

This is how it is and how it has been.

How could it ever change?