Friday, March 4, 2011

FICTION: Strawberry Vale By Shane Ward

Strawberry Vale, thirty-five acres of fertile land. Rich strawberries lined in rows of tranquility. The smell of their crisp essence lure pickers from miles away. Sporty cars and spacious vans clamor to gain entry into the paradise of fruity land. Hordes of pickers march up and down the alleyways of green and red, taking free samples with brisk movements from their hands, samples taken directly from the branches of the strawberry bush. Happy faces and satisfied stomachs encourage more picking for their families at home.

When nighttime falls, the gates close to allow the farm to regain its strength. In the middle of the night, rabbits and badgers appear, to roam free and venture the land for leftovers like sandwiches and cakes. The mighty field remains untouched as butterflies and birds roost in the nearby trees.

Rain fell down in sprinkles of crystals; gently massaging the big green leaves, encouraging excitement from the swelling red strawberries. Impurities are washed into the dirty soil, leaving the plants with a shimmering glow.

Puddles of water slowly formed, allowing the wetland to soften and loosen, permitting the life force of water to be soaked into the roots of the fine bushes.

When the moon arises, a blue light creeps throughout the field, offering the plants the chance to bask in the world that was their own. The local river swelled to bursting point, but the rows of strawberries stand firm and strong, holding the soil in place. This is their paradise, something the ripe red plant would not see destroyed.

In the wash of morning light, the iron gates are heaved open by burly men in overalls and boots, their grinning faces indicated profits or something more sinister.


The first car, a black BMW, rolled into the first dirt-parking bay with eager children and tired parents. Their presence opened the way for hundreds of vehicles that had waited hours to gain entry, causing a queue along the main road, leaving travelers to work enraged with fury.

Strange people arrived from all walks of life. The farm awoke to bustle of pickers. Tall, blond men from the north, laughing black men from the south, little brown men from the nearer countries, all arrive for the freshness of fruit.

Next was a Chinese group. Their oriental delight and cute faces gaze around the farm with delight, all with hopes for a fresh pick for the day. Their foreign chatter sent waves of suspicion and curious glances, but nothing as sinister as a few lads with a desire for oriental young women.

But cute idle glances and fresh poses make the Chinese a desire as well as the products that drew their attention to the farm in the first place. With time moving on, the crowds of pickers take to the fields in the search for the fresh red fruit.

Small children with runaway toys drift away and scatter in all directions, leaving mothers and fathers to shout out their names and loose track of their little seedlings. "But the farm is safe." They say to themselves. "They’ll be okay." So they embark on their picking adventures with no fear in the world.

As the day continued to burn ahead, the farm watched and listened for its first opportunity. A lone dog wonders into an isolated spot only to be heard squealing in the distance as the crowd carries on with their frantic harvest like a druggies on dope.

One young child calls "Bobby, Bobby, where are you?" but sad to say he didn’t find his puppy. When they finished, mum and dad looked intensely for the pup, but gave up after hours of pain and sweat. Children left with tears and snivels. Where was their pet? Where had it gone?


Next were the oriental beauties, giggling and picking. Their short skirts and frilly tops were worn under jackets as thick as quilts, protecting them from the cold. When the sun beamed hot rays on their bright shiny hair, beads of perspiration slithered down their oriental breasts. In reaction they removed the heavy clothing, allowing the featherlike tops to flap like butterflies in the cool breeze, cooling their little hot bodies.

Young men hid in the strawberries, ogling at the fine Asian girls. With hot mouths and excited manhood’s, they fidgeted and watched for the golden ticket.

When one of the stars bent over, the lads grabbed their mouths as frilly underwear and sweaty legs tentatively teased their minds. One overenthusiastic young man lost control and caused the oriental flowers to turn in shock. Angry glances and giggling smiles brought the hotrods into the open, and the oriental girls teasingly chatted with the lads with more things on their mind than picking strawberries.


Far, far away, in the other field, scientists analyzed, scrutinized and prodded the secrets if the fruity plants. White boxes and sharp needles lay unused on the murky ground with eager hands ready to use them.

Pulsating strawberries lay in wait, ready for the chance to turn on their charm. With idle glances and positive action, the men in white suits jabbed needles into the stem of the main bush.

A cry for help was heard, spook creepy and down right unnatural. Scientists searched for the reason while red sap leaked from the plants wounded stem.

Just when the breeze returned to the quiet day, the scientists vanished from where they stood. Only open boxes and white jackets were left, spewed on the ground, stained in blood.


Night fell, and a group met under the bushes. Strong manly hands caressed tender warm oriental breasts and ruby lips suck on hot lollypops, adventurous hands and clenched butts leaked juices of life from one person to another as moans of pleasure unite the two countries together to form new life from the heat of passion. The only witnesses were the bright red strawberries bobbing up and down as the orgy took place in the moonlit night.

The wind rolled in, carrying thorny branches and weeds of stems from one plant to another interconnecting like a chain-linked fence. As each girl climaxed the branches moved with ferocious force, using the noises of pleasure to mask their movements.

Silky pink and blue underwear fell off the vines as one of the lads spotted the eerie movement. Before he sounded the alarm, the young man finished his climax before getting up and staring at the tomb they've been surrounded in. Men groan, young oriental delights filled, they stared at their surroundings, which looked red with ink. Unable to escape, they huddled together as the plants remained motionless, waiting for something, but what?

Then with movements as fast as lightning, the noose tightened, slicing up the group with razor sharp vines. Roots crawled up from the soaked soil and devoured the flesh to feed the rich ripe strawberries with the blood of its victims.

When the night was over, the two burly men opened the gates of the farm with large grins and dreams of money. They knew the score; they engineered the strawberries at Strawberry Vale.

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