Their fingers were stained a reddish purple. Not quite the colour of blood, but close enough that they would wiggle their fingers in each other’s faces, saying ‘woo’ like all of their imaginary monsters did.
Their tongues tingled with the sweetness of the blackberries, so heavy with ripeness that it left them giddy.
Their mothers looked on with unbalanced faces that smiled and frowned at the same time. The berries were coming earlier every year, a hint of the world they would be leaving behind for their innocent children with sun dappled shoulders not yet ready to bear the weight.
Leave a Reply