Berry Fields Forever by Tracy Miskin Rows and rows of strawberries. The sign says U-Pick and we can eat as many as we want, bring them home and Mom will make shortcake. Our friend Ora gives us some strawberry plants and now we have a little patch next to our house. Every year they come back. At camp we sing “I'll taste your strawberries, I'll drink your sweet wine.” And when I have my own house, I buy a flat of strawberry plants. They bear the sweet fruit every summer, and there are so many packed in the raised bed that we can gorge on them, give them away, and still they rot on the vine. My softball game is over, so I climb the mulberry tree behind the bleachers, picking and eating, stuffing them in my mouth while my brother plays baseball. Aaa batter aaa batter aaa buzzing like cicadas below me. The mulberries stain my fingers and I track the juice into the house on my shoes. Mom wants to make pie, so we pull fruit from stems for hours, and the pie is d
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.