If you’ll recall from my last couple of posts, I have a short piece I’m working on revising. I got feedback from my class last week, and this week I’m posting the revised piece.

The main thing I changed was the Dorian Grey reference. I freewrote about it, but it seemed to take a bit of a left turn, so I removed it entirely. Also, I decided that in order to better explain the speaker’s relationship to winter, I could add bits in about the landscape she lives in. So, no huge changes, just some tightening:


The Long, Slow Death of Zombie Fruit


I filled the one-quart Mason jar with barely ripe halves of plums on an August afternoon. Covered them with simple syrup. Sealed the jar. Put it on a shelf. Imagined winter, eating it in the depths of late November when I was desperate to remember the summer sun. The gray of Pacific Northwest winter will kill you faster than a blizzard. I thought the plums might help combat endless steely drizzle.

I think I never felt my desperation was adequate enough to unseal a jar—as if the pop of the lid would signal defeat: White flag! I’ve been brought low by you, winter. This eternal squash soup is not enough to see me through. But I never surrendered, and the plums stayed in their jar, sealed, on the pantry shelf.

Five years and eleven roommates later, the jar stayed in its place, in the cupboard next to the jar of pickled beets someone once gave me, taking up space. The syrup slowly turning from bright red to a darker stain, like old blood. The half-plums taking on the cast of organs pickled in formaldehyde—the appendix in a jar proudly brought to elementary school.

The plums were no longer food, not fruit any more, but a symbol of never quite being desperate enough. Inedible except when huddled in a bomb shelter or a bunker during the zombie apocalypse. “Desperate enough” became this increasingly hyperbolic creature. It began by occasionally envisioning having a day with just a few more shouts or tears than today, popping the jar to spoon sweet plums over ice cream. The stakes increased: maybe a power outage, maybe the plums would be shared with neighbors at some kind of desperation potluck. Eventually, I would have elaborate, visceral fantasies of being unable to go to work due to massive earthquakes or flooding, and then hunkering in my yard, cooking old dried beans on my camp stove, and finally eating the plums.

Looking at how the skin of the plums is beginning to peel back from the softening flesh, I can only think of how utterly without hope I would need to be in order to put a piece of that decaying, spongy flesh in my mouth and bite down. If I swallowed, what would I become?

I have to kill the zombie fruit. I, mad doctor who made them, who took natural things and preserved them with artifice and boiling water, am the only one who can do it. I will pop that lid at long last. I will pour the syrup down the drain. I will put their dead flesh in the compost. I will wash the jar. And I will fill it with something else, something better. Fill it with what’s been done already, perhaps, rather than hope for the future that may never come to pass. I know what sustains me through the winter now, and it is not the promise of desperation. It is practice. I can live off of squash soup and writing. It will be enough to see me through to spring.

For the record, I actually did at least deal with the zombie plums. They weren’t too nasty, just old. I composted them. This is what I did with the jar instead:

IMG_0280Every time I do something like blog or draft or revise or make weird collage postcards, I put a little slip of paper that says what and when. I expect it will be full by spring.