Picking Fruit

Picking Fruit

The place embodies or brings to life the definition of boredom. He spots a small statue. Reaching up, he gently palms the tiny genitalia as the entire piece, testis and all, crack and gently land in his hand. “What in all hell?” some southern lady in an over-sized hat exclaims with as much dignity as possible. “I …” he stammers as he whispers barely-audible expletives. He excuses himself as he slowly backs away from the statue. A group gathers out on the veranda, but he would rather not be out in the hot sun. Hearing the low mumble of conversation, he meanders through the lower floors of the mansion in search of the conversing people. “Where is everyone?” he asks the lonely waiter standing next to the fireplace. The waiter shrugs. “Eh, I’ll have another then,” he requests as he holds up his empty glass. “Sorry, Sir. We’re out of champagne,” the waiter responds. Disappointed, he picks up a dirty glass off the waiter’s tray. Walking into the room, everyone looks at him as he stands there, an empty champagne glass in each hand. He turns on his heels and walks toward the kitchen. When he goes away, he isn’t so sure how he feels about the whole situation. And then, he compares the sensation to that of picking fruit.

 


Exercise Explanation: From the prompt “Picking Fruit,” I wrote the last sentence at the bottom of the page and then, worked up the page, writing each sentence that came before the one previously written in an attempt to construct the story from the end, toward the beginning, sentence by sentence.