Sitting here, at my table, reading from the text of my literature book, a shaft of sunlight peircing the shade and spotlighting the motes lazily drifting around me, I reach for the package of strawberries my mother has purchased. Opening it with care, I lift one of the sun-blessed bulbs from the plastic casing and raise it in front of my eyes. Looking more closely at the speckled surface, I realize I have found the perfect strawberry. Crimson, with just the slightest lightening to the most purest of reds near the top to greet the vibrant, living green foilage. Each seed placed so perfectly, I am forced to imagine some giant hand placing every single one personally, making it symetrical in every possible way. I don't want to destroy this creation, but I have to taste it...

Taking a tentative bite, I can feel the juice dribbling down my chin as the tendons of the fruit give way to my teeth. An explosion of subtle flavor emits from my mouth, and reverberates to my brain. Pure ecstacy is all that my mind can register as I finish the bite. Looking back down at the wounded peice of art, I can't help but make the parralell between the fruit and me. Bleeding quietly the sticky red liquid from the bite mark, the flesh so tender and exposed. The crimson skin was never thick to begin with, the seeds trying to form a weak defense. It's smell so sweet and entoxicating, I know that I have truly found, in this world of war and hatred, a small bit of peace in what I will forever call...

The Strawberry of Summer...