Down on Blossom Lane lived the cherries and the peaches. On one side of the pit-covered lane lived the peaches in grand cream houses with whipped cream tops and ice-cream lawns and doors made out of pie and windows made of caramelised sugar. On the other lived the cherries in houses the colour of night and tangled stems coating their devil-kissed doors and haunting torment engulfing their lawns.
Each year the world got better; the peaches’ lawns expanded by a pit, the blossom trees with lilies at their feet moved closer to the cherries, to the night, and the road became evenly disproportionate as the world got better. And each year the cherries got caught in a smaller night, crowded round the edges of the tangled stems of torment, as the night engulfed more space, more dreams, more lawn. It was a law on Blossom Lane that all fruit were born equal – so if one peach was a god, so were the rest. If one cherry was born an empty nut, the rest were too.
Down on Blossom Lane lived the cherries and the peaches on a pit-covered lane with a moving row of Blossom trees bathed in lilies; and all was equal and all was fair.
Down on Blossom Lane there was a war not too long ago. The cherries moved into the houses of the peaches, and the peaches took pride in splatting cherries against their walls (some had the pride to do it on the lawn too) and the cherries were bruised and their stems got knotted and one day a cherry was found hanging from the lily soaked blossom tree, it’s stem tangled and tormented, caught in the blossom and the cherry juice on the lilies, staining them red, staining them dark. And the skin of a cherry, bruised and haunted, hung like a bad smell in a crowded room. The peaches moved their blossom trees 3 pits closer to the cherries and the cherries used tangled stems and haunted doors to untangle the hanging skin and they laid him with the lilies and they let him hang over the lilies like a bad memory on a golden street. And the peaches went home to sugar and cream, and they wiped the cherry stains off their walls and they hated the smell that rose on the dark spots and they hated their ice-cream lawns and the thawing gardens and the lilies kept turning red at night and some swore that when they glanced out at night, the houses of the cherries turned into giant blossom trees and lilies the size of their windows, bathed in night and in blood, sat at the feet of the trees and the skin of a cherry hung from each tree, from the stem of torment, a stem made of bruised and rotten peaches, welded together by thickened, bloodied cream. Down on Blossom Lane, there was a war not long ago and the peaches woke up with a hateful dusting of powdered sugar on their lawns and on the days that they did, they waited for it to merge into their thawing ice-cream lawns before stepping on it. Down on Blossom Lane, there was a battle. The peaches woke up with the powdered hate on their windowsills and they marched out into the lane and pushed the trees and the lilies and the bad smell and in a tumble, in a crash, the houses with night for walls and tormented, stemmed doors fell down, hidden by fallen blossom and crystal white lilies with a red smell. The cherries all squashed against their back wall, all skin and all blood.
The peaches dragged the bottom of their lawns taunt, shook off their powdered hate, shoved it so far up into the air it formed candy cotton clouds and the peaches stretched their lawns like new skin over old scars, taunt over the pit-covered lawn, right to the edge of the cherry soaked, blossom lilied mess and the peaches went back inside and gave their walls a fresh coat of grand cream and plumped their whipped cream tops and puffed out the bruises and their rotten spots and they closed their eyes and went to bed and woke with a knotted, haunted stem at their throats and a cherry skin duvet and a lily-blood covered wall and the stem squeezed their little throats shut and the peach row houses all fell forward, as if the lawns gave in like elastic bands and their whipped tops scraped against the blood soaked lilies and all the peaches hung from a cherry stem, haunted and tormented, their blood still inside, their tiny cores still beating, eyes wide awake, fixed on a cherry stained wall, splattered and bruised.

Down on Blossom Lane, there’s no house standing, there’s a row of lilies with a blossom tree and a cherry house. There’s peach houses face-down and powdered lawns, still taunt. Down on Blossom Lane, lived the cherries and the peaches above a pit-covered lane beneath a cotton candy clouded sky.


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