fiction

The restrained warmth of May has passed and we are in the wild, reckless blackberry nights when the moon is huge and lazy and the clouds fly slowly like wisps of ghosts over the Southern humidity.  There are cherries and strawberries and watermelons and, most importantly, cups and cups of blackberries and I eat all of them in one sitting and they feel like little juicy grenades as black as the shimmering heat. Sometimes, in the mornings the sun comes ...