Peach Pit Quotes

One day I would have all the books in the world, shelves and shelves of them. I would live my life in a tower of books. I would read all day long and eat peaches. And if any young knights in armor dared to come calling on their white chargers and plead with me to let down my hair, I would pelt them with peach pits until they went home.

Sunk in the grass of an empty lot on a spring Saturday, I split the stems of milkweed and thought about ants and peach pits and death and where the world went when I closed my eyes.

The bitch is very nice. She is as sweet as a Georgia peach. But inside every sweet peach is a strong pit. And this means she won't explain the obvious when a man is disrespectful.

Peach pits are poisonous. This is not a mistake. Girlhood is growing fruit around cyanide. It will never be your for swallowing.

But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes. The heart of a hurt child can shrink so that forever afterward it is hard and pitted as the seed of a peach. Or again, the heart of such a child may fester and swell until it is a misery to carry within the body, easily chafed and hurt by the most ordinary things.

Like" as a friend. "Like" as respect. There are so many different kinds of "likes." So when does "like" turn into "love"? Where's the boundary?

Oh...I remember you...You're that weird cat-eared cosplay-kid! You called me a cospl... How'd you get all the way up to the third-floor window... Because I'm a cat.

I'll tell you a secret about storytelling. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty... were not perfect in the beginning. It's only a happy ending on the last page, right? If the princess had everything from the beginning, there wouldn't be a story. Anyone who is imperfect or incomplete can become the main character in the story.

I want to challenge myself and do new things. I don't know what it's like to be my true self. But it's more interesting that way. Even if you don't know yourself? If you don't know it means you can become anything you want to be, right?

You know, drinking milk doesn't make your boobs get any bigger.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And though her daddy would scream and shout, She simply would not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceilings: Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas, rotten peas, Chunks of sour cottage cheese. It filled the can, it covered the floor, It cracked the window and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Drippy ends of ice cream cones, Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled on down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from green baloney, Rubbery blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk and crusts of pie, Moldy melons, dried-up mustard, Eggshells mixed with lemon custard, Cold french fried and rancid meat, Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat. At last the garbage reached so high That it finally touched the sky. And all the neighbors moved away, And none of her friends would come to play. And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, "OK, I'll take the garbage out!" But then, of course, it was too late. . . The garbage reached across the state, From New York to the Golden Gate. And there, in the garbage she did hate, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, That I cannot now relate Because the hour is much too late. But children, remember Sarah Stout And always take the garbage out!

The moonlight will guide me to the world of freedom.

security guard to Ikuto: Man... how much metal do you have on you?!

Just so you know... Even if I don't break it... alot of people break their own Egg. All those adults walking around with tired faces... they've thrown away the "person they want to be.

Ow. Ow. That hurt. Ack.. I'm dead.

This isn't a shortcut for humans!! It's a route for cats!!

Whoa! Hey, what are you doing? I'm attaching myself to you. Because I'm a kid. Spoil me.

I’m always saying a mother never loses her peach pit instinct. Even with a grown son, you have to stop yourself from sticking out your hand when your child finishes a piece of fruit.

Hey, little kiddie king.. You're having a parade with your servants?

Ikuto! Are you ditching again? I'm bored, meow.

Stupid weirdo! Liar! You filthy cat-boy-!!

I'll definitely make you fall in love with me. So prepare yourself.

Don't touch me without my permission. Mr. Little Boy

You're that weird cat-eared cosplay-kid!

You're like a rebellious child! Huh? You always treat me like a kid, but you're a kid yourself!

Gya!! Stay away from me, weirdo! I'll press the burglar alarm!

Are you Stupid?" "Huh?" "Hotoba-san, Even if you are far away the sky i always connected. Friends are friend no matter where you are. Change isn't so bad...I was scared of change too. We're both scared. Lets be friend...okay?

Summer vacation is about watermelons, shaved ice, Popsicles, summer festivals with fireworks, and the ocean!!! That's what summer has been about for elementary school kids since the dawn of time! But no, you're worried about UV rays!" "Oh my." -I don't think they had elementary school at the dawn of time-

I've already given in because I love you.

I would read all day long and eat peaches. And if any young knights in armor dared to come calling on their white chargers and plead with me to let down my hair, I would pelt them with peach pits until they went home.

See what I mean? You fell off. You're such a damsel in distress.

Even if a lot of things change, his hand will surely always be this warm.

But inside every sweet peach is a strong pit. And this means she won’t explain the obvious when a man is disrespectful. There is no way to hold your own in a relationship and simultaneously accept rude behavior. A

I swallowed love whole like a peach, juice dripping down my face. the pit is rotting in my stomach and here I am.

Adeline has always loved to watch him work, to see the figures take shape, as if they were there all along, but hidden, like pits in the center of a peach.

I still carry you on the insides of me: cave paintings on rib-caging. If I were a peach, you would be the pit that holds me all together. When I met you, I was something small and whole; I do not know how to get back there. You have the warmest heart I have ever set up camp in. I still carry you on the insides of me: the contents of my suitcase heart. I will lug you around until it breaks my back and then some. I feel sometimes like I have scattered my pieces everywhere, but you are the piece I do not know how to leave at the foot of a stranger’s bed or between the lines of a free-verse poem. I want you to know that loving you is freeing; that loving you is like holding my head under water and coming up new again and again. I still carry you on the insides of me. This will not always make sense to you

Quoyle remembered purple-brown seckle pears the size and shape of figs, his father taking the meat off with pecking bites, the smell of fruit in their house, litter of cores and peels in the ashtrays, the grape cluster skeletons, peach stones like hens' brains on the windowsill, the glove of banana peel on the car dashboard. In the sawdust on the basement workbench galaxies of seeds and pits, cherry stones, long white date pits like spaceships. . . . The hollowed grapefruit skullcaps, cracked globes of tangerine peel.

In these days of physical fitness, hair dye, and plastic surgery, you can live much of your life without feeling or even looking old. But then one day, your knee goes, or your shoulder, or your back, or your hip. Your hot flashes come to an end; things droop. Spots appear. Your cleavage looks like a peach pit. If your elbows faced forward, you would kill yourself. You’re two inches shorter than you used to be. You’re ten pounds fatter and you cannot lose a pound of it to save your soul. Your hands don’t work as well as they once did and you can’t open bottles, jars, wrappers, and especially those gadgets that are encased tightly in what seems to be molded Mylar. If you were stranded on a desert island and your food were sealed in plastic packaging, you would starve to death. You take so many pills in the morning you don’t have room for breakfast. You lose close friends and discover one of the worst truths of old age: they’re irreplaceable. People who run four miles a day and eat only nuts and berries drop dead. People who drink a quart of whiskey and smoke two packs of cigarettes a day drop dead. You are suddenly in a lottery, the ultimate game of chance, and someday your luck will run out. Everybody dies. There’s nothing you can do about it. Whether or not you eat six almonds a day. Whether or not you believe in God.

I feel as though I should say something profound, or enact some rite, or trade something to make it official. I want to transfer some trinket which would allow me to say that she's my girl, some kind of currency that proves to people that she likes me back. Something that would permit me to think about her all the time without feeling guilty or helpless or hopelessly far away. I guess I'm just so excited, I want to cage this thing like a tiny red bird so if can't fly away, so it stays the same, so it's still there the next time. For keeps, like a coin in your pocket. Like a peach pit from Mad Jack Lionel's tree. Like scribbled words in a locked suitcase. A bright balloon to tie to your bedpost. And you want to hug it close, hold it, but not so tight it bursts.

His neck is thin, and his Adam’s apple prominent, as though he has swallowed a peach pit at some point in his life and it has been lodged there ever since.

I’m certain the opinions of strangers weigh less than the joy you would be robbing yourself of if you let yourself fear them.

The mountain road brick-red of dust laced with lizard tracks, coming up through the peach orchard, hot, windless, cloistral in a silence of no birds save one vulture hung in the smokeblue void of the sunless mountainside, rocking on the high updrafts, and the road turning and gated with bullbriers waxed and green, and the green cadaver grin sealed in the murky waters of the peach pit, slimegreen skull with newts coiled in the eyesockets and a wig of moss.

Seriously, Dad…a peach pit?” “This subject is closed, Erika.

He gave them descriptive names that wouldn’t scare people. It wouldn’t do to call them Nemesis or Thor or Grond. So instead it was Potatohead, Mr. Spinny, Acorn, Peach Pit, Scoop, Big Boy, and Kidney Bean.

Your feet know more about the forest than that government lawyer. Your toes know more about the forest than all of Civilization.” She nodded, unmoved by the thought, kept her eyes trained on the courtroom. She knew that already. When she was a young girl, on the trek with my father to the missionary village, she was bitten by a pit viper. The venom had coursed through her toes, up her ankles, her legs. Her feet had stepped on uncountable roots, seeds, leaves, mushrooms, thorns and been bitten by bullet ants and mosquitos, stung by wasps and scorpions and stingrays, dusted by tarantulas, burned by caterpillar hairs. Her feet could press into a garden’s soil and tell her when it was time to plant and when it was time to burn. Her toes could distinguish between the bark of cedar and mahogany, of peach palm and cinnamon, of kapok and guava.

Elegy on Toy Piano" For Kenneth Koch You don't need a pony to connect you to the unseeable or an airplane to connect you to the sky. Necessary it is to love to live and there are many manuals but in all important ways one is on one's own. You need not cut off your hand. No need to eat a bouquet. Your head becomes a peach pit. Your tongue a honeycomb. Necessary it is to live to love, to charge into the burning tower then charge back out and necessary it is to die. Even for the trees, even for the pony connecting you to what can't be grasped. The injured gazelle falls behind the herd. One last wild enjambment. Because of the sores in his mouth, the great poet struggles with a dumpling. His work has enlarged the world but the world is about to stop including him. He is the tower the world runs out of. When something becomes ash, there's nothing you can do to turn it back. About this, even diamonds do not lie.

If I were a peach, You would be the pit that holds me all together.

Shame is a powerful motivator for change.

In the days that followed, the Baudelaire orphans had pits in their stomachs. In Sunny's case it was understandable, because when Klaus had divided the peach, she had gotten the part with the pit.

The moon had broken up into seven large pieces, which inevitably became known as the Seven Sisters, and an uncountable number of smaller ones. Gradually the big ones acquired names. Doc Dubois was responsible for many of these. He gave them descriptive names that wouldn’t scare people. It wouldn’t do to call them Nemesis or Thor or Grond. So instead it was Potatohead, Mr. Spinny, Acorn, Peach Pit, Scoop, Big Boy, and Kidney Bean.

I don’t mean got up on the wrong side of the bed sad; I mean can’t get out of the bed sad. I mean waking up with a pit in my stomach that didn’t come from a cherry. It’s nothing like a peach. If you plant it in the ground, nothing will grow from it.

How could the people around me not see that I’d been spending my day in nineteenth-century Kansas, or in the pit of a giant peach? It was like I was the only one living in the real world, and they were skating blindly over an opaque surface above me.

Your hair would be so very, very under these exhibition lights! Oh, T-Rex, if you see her, won’t you hook your incisor into the eyelet of her corset and tug skeleton tight? Dita, we’ll eat peaches on hoodoos, pink under the Alberta sky, and roll the pits and pebbles on our tongues

A girl and a boy, sitting lazily cross-legged under a pale green willow, picking at the grass. She is lying with her head in his lap, long red hair fanned against his knee. Her skin is not my unnatural red but like honeyed cream. She grins up at him, his eyes the color of an evergreen forest, of dragonfly wings, his corn-gold, too-long hair falling over his forehead. And she laughs. When she does her back, her throat arches slightly, and he blushes. He smells of wheat fields and fallen autumn apples soft against the earth, and it is a smell she knows like her own. Under the filmy reed-curtain of the old willow tree, they hold hands and talk quietly, shoes discarded like peach pits. The sun is low in the sky, warm and orange-gold on their young faces, their strong white smiles and freshly washed hair. The light spills onto their shoulders like water from a well. There are sharp-smelling rosemary branches braided into her hair, with their little blue blossoms, and the oil is on their brown fingers. The boy whispers something in the girl’s ear, and she closes her eyes, lashes smoking cheekbones like bundles of sage.

I've never made a piecrust, actually. Maybe I should learn? Probably too late now. Shocking how soon the "too late now" part of your life arrives. When you're young, there's nothing but possibility, just an endless line of tomorrows, and then you wake up one day and realize that no, you cannot move to Paris on a whim because so many of those old buildings don't have elevators and stairs are hell on your knees now. And besides, you never learned to speak French, and now your brain, once so fresh and spongy and ready to soak up knowledge, feels about as pliable as a peach pit.

Prunus persica: peach. While the fruit of this plant is juicy and sweet, the seed-like the seeds of cherries, apples, plums and apricots-is full of poison. Yes, that pit you throw out is a little woody ball packed with cyanide. The Seed Moral of this story? Be careful of what's at the center-yours or anyone else's.

We navigate the produce stands, plucking palms full of cherries from every pile we pass, chewing them and spitting the seeds on the ground. We eat tiny tomatoes with taut skins that snap under gentle pressure, releasing the rabid energy of the Sardinian sun trapped inside. We crack asparagus like twigs and watch the stalks weep chlorophyll tears. We attack anything and everything that grows on trees- oranges, plums, apricots, peaches- leaving pits and peels, seeds and skins in our wake. Downstairs in the seafood section, the heart of the market, the pace quickens. Roberto turns the market into a roving raw seafood bar, passing me pieces of marine life at every stand: brawny, tight-lipped mussels; juicy clams on the half shell with a shocking burst of sweetness; tiny raw shrimp with beads of blue coral clinging to their bodies like gaudy jewelry. We place dominoes of ruby tuna flesh on our tongues like communion wafers, the final act in this sacred procession.

Grief is a strange thing. Some moments it’s a weight on her chest, a pressure behind her eyes and glass in her throat. Then, when the tears slow and her breath no longer feels like it’s being torn from her lungs, everything starts to feel less. Numb. It’s the difference between fighting against the current and letting the river sweep her away. Struggle and surrender. Anna thinks it feels a little bit like drowning. Limbs weightless and cold. Suspended in time while the world continues to turn.

Remember how you played in these orchards as young girls?" Willo asked Deana and Sam. Deana turned to look at Sam, and the two smiled. "We do," they said at the same time. These orchards had been their playground as girls. Sam slowed even more and studied the orchards carefully. I ran, played hide-and-seek, caught fireflies, scaled trees, picked apples and peaches straight off the tree, launched pits from slingshots, and danced in the sprinkles here. Sam thought. Moreover, I learned about plants and science: I understood the seasons, when to plant trees and seeds, how to nurture them and protect them from insects, what to feed the deer in winter and the hummingbirds in summer. Sam again thought of her grandpa. If we're good to Mother Nature, she will be good to us, he always used to tell her. Same goes for people.

Her mother cleaved him, cracking open like a peach pit split the tender centre mewling, a monster turned a baby. They snatched up the infant, innocent, beastly, from Half World they fled, they fled to the Realm of Flesh. Gee could not stop the words in the terrible book from popping up in his mind. The images that formed filled him with fear and fascination. Confusion. A creeping sense of recognition. The déjà vu of dreams…. Half World. The words whispered, echoed inside him. Like something almost familiar. Something he’d forgotten— How could Popo do this to him? Gee pounded the heels of his fists on the thick table. He pounded and pounded until he could feel the physical pain. Maybe Popo had written this book herself…. Maybe it was an elaborate psychological experiment? Maybe she was a psychotic, abusive person. Those irregularities in his adoption…. There were no papers. He had no birth certificate. His grandmother had found someone to forge documents. It had cost a lot of money. Popo had kidnapped him from somewhere and his real parents were still looking for him, far far away. That made more sense than the gibberish book. He wasn’t a murderous monster from a different Realm! Ridiculous! Mad. Popo! he raged. You did this to me! It’s all your fault! That’s why he didn’t have a real name. Baby G. Like a foundling in a basket. Baby X. John Doe. Why hadn’t she given him a proper name? The school had written his name as “Gee” when they saw Ms. Wei, saw that his papers identified him only as “G.” They must have thought she was illiterate. Did the teachers think it would make him more Asian? Because it hadn’t! When he’d finally asked his popo about his real name, she had been silent for a long time. You must seek your own name, she finally said. When the time comes.

The soil, where family seeds are laid in this city, is rotten. Boys and men still believe in the illusion that their crowning achievements are sleeping with as many women as they can. The more women, the more they are revered as a man. They are left in the dark, completely oblivious to the truth that a part of them is given away or dies with every meaningless sexual exploit. The ignorant remain content until one day, and that day may come when they are on their deathbed, where the veil is removed and the harsh reality slaps them with a sobering truth. And that truth, wrapped with regret, sucks the nectar out of all the names, the faces, the bodies, the women who they thought they conquered. They are left free-falling in a never-ending pit. It could be in a flash, and time and space no longer hold ground. That split second will feel like their entire lifetime. That never-ending pit is their hell. As for the girls and women, they too are lost souls. They dive into a virtual world of selfies, likes, hearts and fire emojis. They get chased by men, their sense of self-worth builds to a crescendo, filling them with a sense of desire. A sense of being wanted. The dopamine, the deceitful dopamine, gives them a false sense of value. They lose sight of the difficult “real world” questions: What am I worth? What is my purpose? What are my principles? They lose themselves in pixels and scrolls. It starts with a selfie and pouchy lips. Then a collarbone. Then the breasts. Then the ass. This never-ending loop of reward tricks them into baring themselves naked, physically and emotionally, for men behind a screen to admire. They buy into the idea that every man desires them. They entertain them. And they do. Only for a brief period of time. Then time starts plotting. They get old. The same breasts that got likes and drooling emoji faces from men start to sag. Her ass no longer the peach standard emoji. Her womb, no longer able to bear children. She is left empty. Hollow. All of those likes, comments and meaningless nights with men who do not even remember her name leave her shattered. They gave in their youth for cheap thrills unaware that Father Time comes after every living soul. They then too plunge into that never-ending pit with the men they lived a lie in. That also becomes their hell.

One day Pablito dropped and broke one of his seashells. Sad and angry, he threw a terrible temper tantrum. 'You have other shells that are exactly the same,' his mother said, trying to comfort him. But Pablito would not be comforted. He had discovered that things that seem the same really have tiny differences. One seashell is always different from every other seashell. One leaf is always different from every other leaf. One peach pit is never exactly the same as any other peach pit. Young Pablito had discovered that nature never repeats itself.

— Ca te plaît de ne pas te connaître vraiment ? (Amu) — Oui, parce que ne pas savoir… C'est avoir la liberté d'essayer tout ce dont on a envie. (Kûkai)

Aimer quelqu'un ne veut pas forcément dire l'aimer d'amour. Tu aimes tes amis comme des amis… mais aimer d'amour, c'est autre chose. Tu sais, il y a beaucoup de manières d'aimer. Parfois, l'amitié peut évoluer en amour parce que la frontière entre les deux est très floue.

Les victoires et les défaites font grandir et rayonner les gens. — Utau

Leeda moved down the row slowly, picking expertly, doing a touch test on the fruits whose ripeness she doubted. If she picked them too soon, they wouldn't taste sweet enough because they wouldn't have time to draw in enough sugar. If she picked them too late, she knew, they would have already started producing ethylene, a chemical that ripened them, and they'd be overripe by the time they were sold. Their first summer on the orchard, Birdie had revealed to them that the world of peaches was more intricate and varied than they ever imagined. Clingstones, the ones that clung to their pits, ripened earliest, then semi-frees, and then freestones. Each variety was like a different dog breed with vastly different characteristics---the texture of the meat, the fuzziness of the skin, the strength and sweetness of the flavor.

All running and playing beneath the heavy heat of the sun, children filled the park while their mothers—women cradling purring babies with pinched cheeks and sore bellies—sat on knitted picnic blankets along the sides, sipping on bubbling white wine and eating salted crackers with softened slices of warm cheese, watching their daughters prance and swirl with light dresses billowing around their boyish hips, plastic dolls tucked to their sides as squealing giggles ripped from glossed lips, reminiscing of a time when they were so ignorantly blissful, stupidly innocent, unaware that one day, such a thing would be turned sour, like the sticky juice of peaches whose pits were filled with squirming maggots. So unaware of the void that had been left in the center of the Town, gaping and cold.

You always know what to say.” “Only because I know your heart as well as my own,” he murmurs, a promise and a prayer. “I see your scars. I know where you hurt.

It’s hard wearing our differences with pride when the world looks at them with contempt. It took me a long time to realize that it’s not my skin that’s the problem, but people.

You are brighter than this world deserves. Than I deserve.

I don’t regret it,” she whispers, the words an aching confession. “I thought I would.” “Why should you? The only thing you’re guilty of is surviving.

Holding you is still worth every bit of pain.

Are you still fixed on the notion of staying here?” he asked, deftly carving a peach and divesting it of the pit. He handed her a neat golden half. “Oh yes.” Evie accepted the peach and took a bite, its tart juice trickling over her tongue. “I was afraid you might say that,” he replied dryly. “It’s a mistake, you know. You have no idea of what you’ll be exposed to… the obscenities and lewd comments, the lecherous gazes, the groping and pinching… and that’s just at my house. Imagine what it would be like here.” Uncertain whether to frown or smile, Evie regarded him curiously. “I will manage,” she said. “I’m sure you will, pet.

Red Elephant" When am I supposed to say so long? When am I supposed to say so long? When I fall in love 'fore dusk is dawn When you take my hand across the lawn With the eyes so sweet they're like a fawn Red elephant is wet & long... How am I supposed to wash you off? Rungs of bad poems I've hacked & coughed But I have to spare a breath for you Which I'll take, before we make anew Our hearts will take a stroll for two Our feet will take the avenue & Walk in unison, so cute Red elephant is turning blue Why am I here when you're over there? Let's meet at the fountains In Dundas Square Who am I supposed to be with you? I'll wait 'til you say & pretend I knew Because if it's true that walls can talk How mine would brag of tears I've sobbed When thinking of the way we walked Along the paths of sideway chalk Forever under ticking clock Where you & I are free to flock What can I write when I know it's wrong? Slapping my knee to my own damn song Where can we go when the sinking stops? To the pit of my chest As it drops and drops... Put your head upon my chest, it breathes & My fingers through your hair they weave & Your shoulders are the perfect sea In which I get lost invariably Oh the elephant is up to sea If it meets the peach fish underneath & When I am you and you are me We are stirred as spoons in lover's tea

Like pissing a peach pit.

Cyanogenic Glycosides. Hydrogen cyanide, which is highly toxic, is released from cyanogenic glycosides when plants that contain them are chewed and digested (through an enzyme that is also present in the plant). Cassava (also called manioc, yucca, and tapioca and a major ingredient in fufu flour), sorghum, lima beans, almonds, bamboo, corn, yams (but not sweet potatoes), chickpeas, cashews, stone fruits (like peaches and apricots), and fruits from the apple family are all food sources of cyanogenic glycosides. In most cases, the amount of these compounds can be greatly reduced using traditional preparation methods, which involves soaking (often grinding and then soaking) or fermenting followed by thorough cooking. Excess cyanide residue from improper preparation is known to cause acute cyanide intoxication and goiters (because cyanide binds to iodine and depletes iodine from the body—hence its status as an antinutrient) and has been linked to ataxia (a neurological disorder affecting the ability to walk). It has also been linked to tropical calcific pancreatitis, leading to chronic pancreatitis. You can minimize your exposure to cyanogenic glycosides by not eating the pits or seeds of stone fruits and fruits from the apple family, by eating only canned bamboo if you’re eating bamboo, and by avoiding fresh cassava (unless you know how to prepare it traditionally, which involves soaking it for at least twenty-four hours before thoroughly cooking it).

Ralph Ripoff’s favorite thing was cheating folks out of their hard-earned money; his least favorite thing was getting caught at it (and he’d been getting caught at it quite a lot lately). Gramps’s favorite thing was carving monkeys out of peach pits; his least favorite things were Weasel McGreed and his underground gang of henchweasels. Though McGreed and his underground gang had been quiet lately, Gramps wasn’t so sure they’d been wiped out by the earthquake

Sometimes one has to start somewhere new to grow.

The centuries have given her the confidence that comes with knowing the fragility of a moment—taught her to recognize the insignificance of some and the importance of others. She senses, instinctively, that she has more to lose with the boy beside her by pushing questions than she does by embracing his silence.

It’s hard wearing our differences with pride when the world looks at them with contempt.

There are different kinds of death,” he murmurs, his palm cradling her jaw. His thumb traces the line of her cheek, his eyes dark with nightmares that carry her name.

When your world is small, it’s easy to find strangeness in differences. To put your likeness on a pedestal. When you’re young, though, those differences don’t carry the same weight.

Wearing her skin shouldn’t be an act of bravery—shouldn’t be an obstacle to overcome—but it is. It still is.

“I saved his life. It was all very heroic.” “She thought she was saving me,” Khiran amends. Strange how the conversation suddenly interested him enough to contribute to it. “Obviously, I was fine.” “He made a very convincing damsel in distress.”

The sun descends as I make my way into the forest, sapphire hues painting the night like a jewel. Lanterns flicker in the distance, guiding me forward. The spread Amelia has set up is illuminated by tall magenta candles bathing the table with a rosy glow. In the center, there's a tiered cake with vanilla frosting, decorated with pink pansies, marigolds, and violets. Beside it is a summer salad with juicy peaches, soft cheese, and pitted cherries--- a perfect pairing to the bruschetta topped with diced tomatoes. Different fruits are scattered across the table, sliced open to show off their vibrant innards--- blood oranges, figs, and plums. Everyone is dressed in white with bright flowers crowning their heads. Carmella pours sangria into crystal cups while Yvette helps Amelia string more lights in the trees. Roisin is seated beside Serena, adding tiny braids into her hair and placing daisies between the plaits.

Sometimes it’s not enough to rise from the ashes. Sometimes one has to start somewhere new to grow.

I imagined I had a pit like a peach, but instead of a healthy core, my pit was toxic, it was burning me up, and getting all over everyone I loved, and everyone could smell it.

As soon as he left I felt an aching hollowness inside my days, a peach with its pit missing, its strongest part, while I became the soft mush around it. I’d forgotten how it felt to have someone looking out for

A vacuous abyss opens up inside me; I am pitted like a peach, scraped out and hollow. My body is not used to being an empty house.

Betsy lost her peach.” I can’t resist. “That’s the pits.” She blinks at me. For a moment, she doesn’t say a word, and I picture a plane crashing and burning… Until I see the twinkle in her eye. Her lips press together, and she holds out her hand. “She’s a little fuzzy on the details.” My lips tighten, and I hold out the tennis ball. “She seemed speachless.” “She needs to practice what I peach.

We began with two buttery sweet edamame and one sugar syrup-soaked shrimp in a crunchy soft shell. A lightly simmered baby octopus practically melted in our mouths, while a tiny cup of clear, lemony soup provided cooling refreshment. The soup held three slices of okra and several slippery cool strands of junsai (water shield), a luxury food that grows in ponds and marshes throughout Asia, Australia, West Africa, and North America. In the late spring the tiny plant develops leafy shoots surrounded by a gelatinous sheath that floats on the water's surface, enabling the Japanese to scoop it up by hand from small boats. The edamame, okra, and water shield represented items from the mountains, while the shrimp and octopus exemplified the ocean. I could tell John was intrigued and amused by this artistic (perhaps puny?) array of exotica. Two pearly pieces of sea bream, several fat triangles of tuna, and sweet shelled raw baby shrimp composed the sashimi course, which arrived on a pale turquoise dish about the size of a bread plate. It was the raw fish portion of the meal, similar to the mukozuke in a tea kaiseki. To counter the beefy richness of the tuna, we wrapped the triangles in pungent shiso leaves , then dunked them in soy. After the sashimi, the waitress brought out the mushimono (steamed dish). In a coal-black ceramic bowl sat an ivory potato dumpling suspended in a clear wiggly broth of dashi thickened with kudzu starch, freckled with glistening orange salmon roe. The steamed dumplings, reminiscent of a white peach, was all at once velvety, sweet, starchy, and feathery and had a center "pit" of ground chicken. The whole dish, served warm and with a little wooden spoon, embodied the young, tender softness of spring.

On the table beside the bowl, a peach is cut in half, revealing its pit. This use of light may support speculation among art historians that Vermeer used a mechanical optical device, such as a double concave lens mounted in a camera obscura, to help him achieve realistic light patterns in his paintings.

Pits?” I speculated. “I think farmers in Ethiopia used pits against the tauri.” “Like peach pits?” Meg asked.

Bread will win the war. Work will win, sugar will win, peach pits will win the war. Nonsense. Not nonsense, I tell you, there's some kind of valuable high explosive to be got out of peach pits. So all the happy housewives hurry during the canning season to lay their baskets of peach pits on the altar of their country. It keeps them busy and makes them feel useful, and all these women running wild with the men away are dangerous, if they aren't given something to keep their little minds out of mischief. So rows of young girls, the intact cradles of the future, with their pure serious faces framed becomingly in Red Cross wimples, roll cock-eyed bandages that will never reach a base hospital, and knit sweaters that will never warm a manly chest, their minds dwelling lovingly on all the blood and mud and the next dance at the Acanthus Club for the officers of the flying corps. Keeping still and quiet will win the war.

4 cups water 2 cups rolled oats 1 tablespoon light olive oil 1 large peach, peeled, pitted, and diced ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup toasted pecans 2 tablespoons maple syrup 1 Place water, oats, oil, peach, and salt in the Instant Pot®. Stir well. Close lid, set steam release to Sealing, press the Manual button, and set time to 4 minutes. 2 When the timer beeps, quick-release the pressure until the float valve drops. Press the Cancel button, open lid, and stir well. Serve oatmeal topped with pecans and maple syrup.

The earth from orbit is a delight—alive, inviting, enchanting—offering visual variety and an emotional feeling of belonging “down there.” Not so with this withered, sun-seared peach pit out my window. There is no comfort to it; it is too stark and barren; its invitation is monotonous and meant for geologists only. Look at this crater, look at that one, are they the result of impacts, or volcanism, or a mixture of both?

Eventually I said, "Do you remember Baba Haji?" And she said, "Of course." "No," I said. "Do you remember the time I was a kid. I walked around into his courtyard, and there was a bull they wanted to kill for a feast for me. All the mean were struggling with it. Is that real? Did that happen?" I was terrified of what she'd say, because all this time, I had held on to that one memory like a peach pit in my pocket. It was mine and it was the only I had of my Baba Haji. Is it was untrue, I don't think I could take it. "No," she said. "It wasn't like that." I closed my eyes, because I had lost my Baba Haji. "That wasn't for a feast for you. The bull had gone mad," she said. "It was going to kick someone or kill one of the farmers. So they went to your Baba Haji. He was so strong, they all went to him for this kind of thing. He took care of everyone who worked of him. And it was a mercy to kill the bull, because it would thrash and break its own neck if they didn't." "Really?" I said. "And did he come out and hold my face?" "I suppose so." "And were his hands red with blood?" "Oh no. He would never have done that. You must have imagined that." "But he smiled at me." "Of course. You were his. He would have also made a feast," she added. "But it would have been a sheep. He would have spilled the blood. You have to understand that means a blessing. It's ancient. To step over the river of blood, to accept the sacrifice and be thankful. Then we could eat, only after we understand the cost of joy. And he would have washed his hands.

We don’t talk about that night or that weekend. We don’t bring up the accident, even though my bruising is changing colors by the day and our co-workers ask questions about it. Jesse tells me to take time off. I refuse, even though my gut is in knots most mornings. The ache doesn’t go away whenever I bump into her in the fluorescent-lit kitchen, but now it’s different. Instead of constantly convincing myself of lingering glances or smiles that mean something, I take it for what it is. Maeve is friendly and is treating me like a colleague, like a co-worker, like a friend. It doesn’t matter that I know her favorite Chinese food, or what her hair looks like in the morning, or that she hates the self-checkout lane at Target. Where does all of this information go? With Lacie, I don’t have access to these databases anymore. I know she got her hair done every six weeks. I remember her liking the color pink. Is that it? She had a brother, but fuck. I can’t even remember his name now. Shane? Is this what will happen with Maeve? For the first time in my life, I want to start journaling. The thought comes as quickly as it goes.

In Absentia by Stewart Stafford Marbled mirror's stubbled face, Hollow grimace back at me, Each line a verdict crease, From a rigged jury decree. Denial's chant, the siren's call, Dared me to climb meeker backs, Those perps and their victims, The fading dust upon the tracks. Deep scars from a traitor's blade, Like from some coroner's skit, Staggering down memory lane, Déjà vu choking on a peach pit. Then karma's trapdoor gives, The past is not a partner sparred, Hubris's caw now a trembling chick, Wet rope creaks in hangman's yard. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

It’s strange to realize such a crucial event in my life stopped being important enough to carry.