Those damned animals burnt me out of the estate. In the hours preceding, the wood became a cage, the glass warping into black, half-merged with the ebbing dream that sought to drag me into hellish ash. By the time I rushed out, keening and confused as to the whereabouts of my wife and son, the night was ripe with smoke, and all you could see were the devilish eyes of a thieving people. Mine was the biggest plantation, emerald acres wide and long, and I had no nearby neighbors to supplicate for aid, much less through Georgian grit and pulsing heat.

The mayflies surely swirled around singed blades of grass, decorated with the soot-stained carcasses of my wife and my progeny. Alice and Abraham, with their twin dimpled chins and bow-knees, were both deep sleepers. I'd been getting around to letting Big Ike teach Abe how to ride a horse. My boy had palms that soaked through fine gloves, and still he'd wipe them off to trace along the broken stripe of my prized stallion. He'd have been a sight to see with a chuffing beast underneath him. 

Alice was the more sentimental of my attachments, though her weakness in the birthing chamber kept her immobile. Oh, but her smile was a symphony only my grandmother could play. That grin made our living expensive, and foreign colors enriched the many walls of our estate. Silver spoons, mirrors, doilies, and embroidered tablecloths on demand. Thanks to her, I tasted fruits from the ocean over, still splendid even when deliciously wilted. 

Now, hunger scrapes along the edge of my stomach as the memories crisp in the saliva accumulating at the corner of my mouth. They'll disappear if I don't drink something.

Every crop I pass by is a twofold sting against mind and gut. No food. No money. A hopeless dawn peeks over the horizon, but I lack the strength to embrace it. Stumbling, I slope towards a lone tree I hadn't bothered with since sapling age. The shadows shield me from the stretching light, revealing gnats dizzy from summer sleep. At the foot of the tree lay a persimmon. It's rotund and smack-fat with nectar and mushy enough that the ants fight atop its splitting epicarp. 

All at once, the bile lashing in my stomach settles. My tongue plunges into the vermillion wound at its side, teeth closely chasing after sweetness. 

I don't bother to check the seed and

hurt HURT spine spine pushed like oars of Noah's ilk spine cursed with TEARING strings of flesh fall to grate SENSITIVE against nudging chin viscera shoved slipping slow out all nectar spillage SUCKED empty air consuming writhing weakness pit now SLASHING cool white wall PUSH PUSH slide against yeast dig pluck vellus tendrils OUT splaying slosh gut pooled at bumpy hills red beige, LIP but—lip?

I hold myself, a wound. I hold a wound leaking lifeblood; drop it. Drop myself and spread the liquid on the dirt. Fall face-to-rock, bleed nectar out the stem. No sight, then sight all in front, hurt going from red to dull burgundy. My roots spasm. My leaves tremble. My seed stills to stone, pounding out my chest in a clamoring signal to ravenous fauna. The nectar trickles. Horseflies swarm with winged yellow bunches trailing behind. Behind those, the leaves rustle so vigorously they buzz. The buzzing clarifies my purpose: it is an angel's flap to the rotting wound. I am melting sugars, a pheromone for the desperate. The dried nectar crumbles like ash. My whole body falls asleep everywhere but the rough right temple, where skin is shorn to bits at the edge of my curls.

The curling scent of sharpened ferment shakes me into alertness. Alice and Abe's ashes exit me desperately, leaving minuscule burns along a throat filled with grit. I stick out my tongue, and empty gray grit darkened by the creeping shadowy evening falls into my hand. My calf, when stretched, stiffens and excites itself. Quickly, I curl back into place along the roots of the persimmon tree. From this angle, I glimpse a broken branch, stuck haphazardly among the leaves. I turn to see a sharp twig covered in brown, red, and orange, though the latter is barely visible. The flattened fruit stares back at me from where my weight crushed it. No swarm. Atop the cavity where its leaf was, a loop of straw in the shape of a cross wards off further investigation. 

As I gain mobility, I skim a finger over the site where red sap clings to my forehead. A wasp draws closer, and our heads bob carelessly towards each other. I dip to bring the residue to my lips. 

I dig in with a fingernail, recoiling and then leaning into the warmth that buzzes like bees along my bones. Another taste. I gag myself with my fingers now, reaching the knuckle, searching for more of that tang. Out of my mouth and then back in, I go about swiping until the sap is gone. 

The splinters of the branch dangle along long and waxy lengths like parchment. Their exposed edges, with sharpness rivaling glinting metal, peek through.

I hear the growl of a stomach. The twig at my side snaps, discarded in favor of the branch. The gift horse stares back, its leafy mane rustling. I wipe my palms off to stroke the broken length. When I strengthen my grip, the growls rise into a cresting wave of laughter. I plunge my tongue into the mess. Floating specks of black land across my cheeks, yet swatting them away seems the ultimate distraction. 

Cloudy saliva drips onto brown toes ahead like a faucet into a bucket. I dare not lift my head from the fountain of ambrosia sprouting from my abdomen. Even inches away from looping into a coil, I can't get enough.

I taste like...

"...Heh. Strange Fruit."