raspberries newme razzzzzburrrries 040718 ... monee summer taste 041229 ... megan tasty little pieces of fruit incarnate, growing, juicy wrinkles galore, and yet i still eat more sour savory and sweet dancing on my tongue teasing my cheeks breath hot heavy on the leather seats of a buick 041230 ... raze i remember picking them from her garden, in the vast expanse of field beyond her backyard. there were mint leaves, and there was rhubarb, and there were raspberries and gooseberries and probably other things i can't remember anymore. and there was the ditch filled with the green sludgy water that mystified me. i would throw rocks and sticks in there expecting them to start bubbling and burning. we would fill wooden bowls with the raspberries, and wash them in the sink, and eat them at the dining room table with vanilla ice cream, and no raspberries i've had in the years since have ever tasted as good as the ones i picked and washed myself. 150812 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Mint and raspberries - that sounds like something for a salad, or a cocktail, or a fancy soda. Also evoking memories of places. 150813 ... raze my ideas were never so well-thought-out back then. i used to just pluck the mint leaves from the ground and chew on them. ha! 150813 ... Jus In the summer of ’97, we went for a walk in the woods at midnight. The moon was cloaked with lumbering maples and windswept white pines. The only light was the ember of Pete's home-rolled cigarette. The measured drag of his feet never veered from the path, though it seemed to change direction every few paces. I followed at his hip. When his third consecutive cigarette burned to the edge of the filter, he stomped it hard into the dirt. We stood in place, it was silent for a moment, then, as if instructed by an orchestral conductor, the music of the forest swelled and framed us. I shifted my weight, hoping we would start moving again; the dark closed in on me like a tomb laid brick by brick. My heart thudded against my ribs, cool air crept across my bare feet, and unexpected rustlings forced my head to snap in all directions. I wanted to grab Pete’s hand and nestle into his side, but I knew better. A moment later, a weathered hand came down hard around the base of my neck. In an exhale of breath, I was thrown noiselessly through the air, deep into the dense detritus of the bush. My sun dress wound tightly around my torso like a wrung-out rag, exposing the skin on my thighs. When I finally stopped and was held in place by a cocoon of vines and branches, I yelled, “what in the fuck?!” to no one. Pete’s whiskey-leaded footsteps plodded away in the distance. I thrashed viciously, yielding my arms like dull machetes with all the potency I could summon. Freshly snapped twigs stuck into the bottom of my calloused feet, my dress caught and ripped at the hip, and my hair became matted with waxy leaves and burrs. My final battle was with a row of wild raspberry bushes. Ensnared by barbed tendrils, I rolled and clawed my way forward until I was delivered onto the soft dirt path. On my haunches, I panted like a cat out of water, adjusting to the fresh sting of thorns blanketing my body. I stood slowly and wiped my face with a forearm. The moon was no guide and the forest symphony was replaced by blood rushing in my ears. I took a tentative step, then another, until the bush finally thinned into a freshly plowed field. The lights of his farmhouse shone like a beacon. I huffed through the field until I reached the screen door, throwing it open with as much force as I could muster. Only cracking it halfway, the door catch caught and slammed hard against my back, pushing me into the dimly lit living room. I heard the familiar sound of ice clinking together as warm whiskey poured over it. I marched into the kitchen, stating again, “What. In. The. FUCK?” Pete peered discerningly over the rim of his drink, took a long draw of liquor, and returned the glass to the table. Then, exploded into a spasm of laughter, his bulbous gut bobbing rhythmically. Unimpressed, I took the seat adjacent to him and crossed my arms over my chest. Still chuckling, he slid a half-shot of Jack Daniels towards me and rustled my hair, dislodging sticks and dirt to the linoleum floor. “Asshole,” I said and drank the whiskey. 250106 what's it to you? who go blather from