This will be a place for me to blog about storytelling, writing, pulp stories, and like everyone else in the blog world, anything I feel like.
Just to start things off, here's a little essay I wrote a while ago. It's based on a conversation I had with a friend, after which she asked me, "We weren't really talking about strawberries, where we?"
Not a story, but at least I still find it amusing.
On Eating Strawberries
by Bryce Beattie
In order to have a truly enjoyable experience, clearly the selection of the strawberry is of paramount importance. Now, there are few un-rotted strawberries that could still be considered bad. However, there is a special certain class of strawberry that can define the goal experience. The ideal strawberry must be plucked fresh from the plant by the eater. It is firm. It is the perfect shade of red. It is plump and juicy to the point that it appears to be ready to burst its skin.
Upon choosing an ideal strawberry, it is torn or cut from the plant, leaving all less than exemplar fruit behind, for imperfect strawberries may become perfect over time. The strawberry is raised casually to the lips. It is brought to rest gently between the teeth. In the instant before the first bite is preformed, the tip of the tongue is placed on the tip of the strawberry, preparing itself for the inevitable rush ahead. The slightly rough texture is swiftly fondled and the flavorless skin is savored for a brief moment of increasingly sweet anticipation.
This anticipation lasts only half an instant, but is still quite unbearable. And so it happens.
The initial bite issues a fine burst, a tiny wave of flavor, striking first the sensitive, waiting point of the tongue. The gentle sweetness awakens the dormant taste buds. If this glimpse of a taste was all this little fruit had to offer, it would be enough. Fortunately, and to our great pleasure, it does not stop there.
As this bitten piece is moved to the side of the mouth a trail of nectar is left on the tongue, exciting every instant more taste buds. The full sweetness is finally at hand. As mastication commences, all firmness and form of the strawberry are sacrificed to envelop the tongue in a blanket of juicy ecstasy. The delicious taste is at last accessible to the entire mouth.
Each successive bite hails a new wave of enjoyment, building upon the power of the last, pleasure and excitement expanding, until the mouth is encased in rapture.
Then altogether too quickly, the strawberry is gone, and the leafy green top is cast aside. After all, it is only a strawberry. That perfect taste lingers momentarily, however, with no sticky film, no unwanted residue, soon fading to the tenderest whisper of taste.
Although the strawberry is now gone, the lips can almost still feel its weight and texture. The tongue can almost still taste it. The ultra-sensory experience hangs on the very verge of reality, pleading to be encountered, to be indulged in, again, and again. Every time another strawberry is seen or even thought about, this memory comes close to actuality, and the event is craved afresh. Having once been known, how can the fruit be resisted?
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs2.5 License.