General

She watched from the lush green, crouched low to the earth, gripping thick, harsh vines that pricked and splintered her fingers. Big violet eyes followed, as if they were the swelled, ripe fruit that hung beside her, tracking every step of those big boots, every clank of his rifle. But he was hunting for crows, lemmings, fox squirrels, rats. Her red-stained lips quivered as he neared, having sipped from the crop’s forbidden wine. She was no rat. The bushel in her hands said otherwise. Down her arms they bled, tainting her dress with their violet tears. Mama would be mad. The Farmer would kill. The Grapes would cry.

By kikkopirate, October 1, 2014.
General

Italy would fill his mind as soon as he rested his aging eyes. Rolling landscapes, deciduous trees, olive groves and vineyards would appear as if painted in the verdant hues of his youth. But here on the decking of his Canadian home, where the grapevines wound so thickly up the supporting posts and across the wooden trellis that they made a living roof, he could feel at home with his eyes open. The immature grapes hung down, each one a perfect miniature globe of green. It was here he felt closest to his roots, to his his precious homeland and to his Mama long gone. It was in these quiet moments he could feel the breath of God in the vine's leaves, each one as large as his farmer's hands. Fall was on it's way now, he would mark the days by the swelling of the grapes.

By james, September 28, 2014.