Bleeding Hearts of August
The farmer handed his son a bucket and told him to come along with him today to
the orchard. "Pick as many as you like", he told his son.
The young man wandered away from his father and to the trees
by the lake where the wind blew strong.
With that strong wind, not much fruit would stay on the trees. The
strong ones would hold and await to be plucked from the branches. They looked good, so ruby red like beating
hearts growing on a limb. Yet, there was something sad about them. Almost as if
they could feel, they would weep. All they had to look forward to is someone
coming along to see them as a worthy enough crop to take them away from the
only home they've ever known to be
consumed. That was their life, these ripe and tasty virgins.
He reached out, but to take something so sweet seemed almost
somewhat sinful. How could he take their perfection away? Even if he wanted it,
he couldn't be the one.
His eyes turned to the fallen apples on the ground. Rotted
and filthy. Common whores, feasted on by so many. The deer, the bugs, the
vermin all had their turns with the sweet fruit and turned it into an undesirable
rot. These damaged goods were not his taste.
His father came along and grabbed a ripe apple off the
branch. "There is nothing wrong with taking one for yourself", he
said as he took a bite.
"I'm not hungry", the son replied. He gave the
bucket back to his father. Another would come along to take the virgins and the
whores, but he would not be the one to touch either of them.
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