Flash Fiction

The heat of summer brings about the ripest of fruits—kept in an orchard, protected and secure. As the nights grow longer and with each passing day, the orchard blooms. Excited, she awaits the first day of summer. Her sweetness intoxicating, and her beauty overwhelming. Born of sunshine and passion, love and fire, summer is who she is. Summer is the blossom of her sweetest self. Her skin is peach-soft and her beauty like no other living thing on this earth. Fuzz, soft and tender. Enchanting anyone fortunate enough to steal a touch. However such tempting skin, skin that bruises to a forceful touch and fast to decay. 

And a smile whenever someone gets to see her. Growing in beauty with the warmth of the sun, she graces the spring and guides the summer. She holds a sweet naivety, like a vulnerability of innocence. Such delicacy makes one desirable. She blooms in the season made just for her. The time is nearing for the orchard harvest. 

In the orchard, a bright sanctuary that keeps all the best fruits. 

The ripest fruits that seem to be falling into baskets of gathering farmers. This most beautiful orchard and its most fruitful harvest. Watching the farmer’s routine, she wonders if she will experience the harvest too. Gently as they are plucked and neatly tucked away in baskets, her excitement fills. A basket of safety with a soft gingham blanket welcoming each one that is placed. She yearns for a gentle touch, the admiration of her beauty and sweetness. As the sun falls, she has not yet picked. For the sweetest fruits take the longest time. 

In the orchard, a disruption. 

A figure like a monster, unwelcomed, makes his presence known. He breaks into this sacred orchard, hunting for the ripest fruit. One by one, broken, ripped, snatched. 

The trees now bitter to his touch, she cannot stop him. Pluck, seize, take. The sweetest fruit is now the most sour. Thud, thud, thud. Rotten to the core, they lay in shreds among the wretched earth. He reaps the orchard, defiled and obscene. She is frozen. Helpless and unable to do anything. Her once cherished haven of beauty is now a decaying state of revulsion and loathing. Summer now stands still. No longer a season for beauty and warmth, rather one filled only with vitriol. A season once so anticipated for the blossom it bears, she is forever tainted. 

What is now left of the beautiful summer she once was, she lays in fragments of herself. Sunshine and passion have become darkness and severance. Love and fire, now rancor and wrath. Emptiness is who she is. She, like summer, depicts the fleetingness of life. For true beauty is ephemeral. She lays down. 

The summer once hers, now forever stripped and left her bare.