The taste stayed somewhere in my memory. Or perhaps just the idea of what it was supposed to taste like. A sweetness unlike any other fruit. That first bite, when the juice fills your mouth. The tiny grains in its flesh, crunching. By the end, only the stem and the seeds remain, barely enough to prove the fruit was ever there.

I took a bite.

It tasted exactly as I remembered. Maybe even better, because it was real. Sweet juice ran down my chin. Each bite made me want another. Bigger. Juicier.

The post Pears appeared first on Creative Lemon.

Every evening at half past seven, the gulls leave the Danube for the night. Before settling down, they circle above the city, waiting for each other so they can fly there together. They gather in the same places every day, as if guided by an invisible map and compass.

I stand at a street corner and look up at the sky. Then I glance down at the people around me. No one notices what’s happening above them. Everyone is looking down at their phones. No one seems to know that the birds don’t like going to sleep alone.

The flock circles high above the city until everyone has arrived. Slowly, the circle unravels, stretches into an inverted V, and disappears into the evening sky. Soon another flock gathers, and the whole ritual starts again. After the third flock leaves, the sky is empty.

The post Half Past Seven appeared first on Creative Lemon.

As the sky pales and everything slowly loses its color, the bustle of the street dissolves into a quiet hum.

Children’s voices drift from the distance. A car drives down the street.

The jingling of keys. Slippers on the steps. A door slams shut, and then a small island of silence follows.

A motorcycle speeds by. A baby cries in the building across the street.

The hum of the power lines fades, and once again there’s a brief silence.

In the distance, a large dog barks.

Wings flap in the treetops.

Down on the street, someone calls out to Suza.

The television murmurs from the living room.

It will soon be dark, and the street will come alive again.

The neighborhood children will play guitar, then everyone will start talking at once.

Two elderly women will say goodbye and head off in opposite directions. One of them walks with a slight limp.

Behind me, the beads hanging in the balcony doorway will rattle, followed by the soft rustle of bedsheets.

No sound of sparrows.

The post A Small Island of Silence appeared first on Creative Lemon.