The drone from the craft overhead subsides; I endeavour to keep my withering self from toppling onto the blue grass. My mutilated skull fights inescapable transformations. My dry throat has developed an unbearable craving for the contents of my favourite mug. The spectators are silenced and I receive the signal to begin. Nodding my appreciation for being allowed, while I am still able, to share my version of events, I face my bemused audience. They have heard too many stories such as mine. For them reminiscences fall like dead leaves that rot on the forest floor. However, it is commanded that, for the record, our memories must be shared. Wasting no time, I begin to speak:
“As I recall, it began soon after daybreak. Trying to shake off the residue of a hangover, I forced my short, plump torso, through my café door and onto the city pavement. Ignoring the chill, I placed coffee, newspaper and book onto the solitary table and ran my fingers through my receding hairline. The sun was casting streaks of redness through wispy grey clouds. I stood for a few seconds and welcomed the uncommon silence. Gone were the frantic rushing crowds of workers, doing their headless chicken impressions. Gone too, were the noisy, polluting queues of traffic. Only occasional, distant vehicle noise disturbed the unusual tranquillity. I dropped into one of my plastic chairs and unfolded the previous day’s broadsheet. This ritual was the highlight of my year. There were no customers, no distractions. Just me, my favourite beverage, plenty to read and blissful peace and quiet. I raised my mug and wished myself a happy Christmas.”
The word triggers an emotive response among the listeners. I pause, allowing them to settle. Prods in my back compel me to continue:
"As I perused the Yuletide headlines, a sudden rumble attacked my ears. I peered, over the newsprint, at a loaded sack barrow moving up the narrow road towards me. The man doing the pushing struggled, as the trolley’s metal wheels fought through the cobbles. His stocky boiler-suited frame moved past me. Long white curls draped his sallow face. He appeared focussed, resolute, totally oblivious to my presence. His load consisted of four enormous fruit boxes.
“Season’s greetings,” I called.
“The words struck the surrounding walls, but drew no visible reaction from the interloper. I watched as he continued along the empty street and disappeared into a side turning. I shrugged and stepped back into the café to replenish my empty mug. As I returned to the door, the telephone rang. I waited, for the briefest of moments, as the answerphone clicked in. One word was uttered; the unfamiliar voice had a strange, guttural, foreign tone.
“Help.”
“I stared at the device and, determined not to let anything else spoil the moment, shook my head as I stepped back into the stillness of the morning.
“After around fifteen minutes. I refolded the paper, emptied the mug and skimmed through the blurb on the book’s back cover.
“The sound began as a mere whisper, before becoming so loud that it echoed around the surrounding office buildings.
“Help.”
“Then I saw it rolling and spinning down the road. One lone fruit, its green, spikey crown, fought to slow its momentum. The cry resounded once more. I rushed towards the side turning.
“The ground was littered with yellow fruit. The man was on his knees, frantically trying to retrieve his load. As I approached, I saw his tears. Like two parallel waterfalls, they dripped from his cheeks onto the cold, dusty cobbles. Cradled in his arms was one large pineapple.
“I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. Please, please stop staring at me.”
“I offered him my hand, but be looked right through it. I told myself to walk away and leave him to struggle unaided, but that would have been both uncharitable and unchristian. After all it was, ‘That time of year.’
“Bending forward I recovered the two pineapples closest to me and placed them into one of the empty containers. The man gave no reaction to my act of kindness and continued to wail his pleas. It was apparent that his entreaties were directed, not to me but to the yellow fruit he was holding close to his chest. I continued with the task of running back and forth collecting the spilled produce. It was not until I had returned the final box onto the barrow that I returned my attention to the penitent man. He sniffed back the remorse and, with his head low, offered his precious pineapple up to me.
“I took it but as I stared into the fruit’s many eyes, it began to pulsate. Panicking, as its vibrations travelled through my outstretched limbs, I stepped back to the trolley and dropped it, in the top box, alongside its companions. The man, again ignoring my offer of help, struggled to his feet. Without thanks or acknowledgement, he grasped the barrow and continued on his way.
“And a very merry Christmas to you too,” I shouted after him, as he staggered off into another side street.
“Pushing aside my aggravation, I ventured back down to my café. I went back inside and shook my still tingling fingers, I stepped behind the counter and pondered. Decision made, I pushed aside my hankering for solid nourishment, lifted a bottle and glass from a cupboard and returned to my table.
“As I sat and perused the amber liquid, I tried to comprehend what had just occurred.
“Perhaps he was deaf, he was certainly neither dumb nor blind. I allowed the warming flavours to work their magic and contemplated further. Then I asked myself the obvious question: Where on God’s earth had he come from? There was neither van or lorry in sight, also where the hell was he going? Nowhere was open for business. Nowhere. Save from myself and the office buildings’ entrenched skeleton crews, the city was empty. It was Christmas Day, for Christ’s sake.
“What if he was Santa? I chuckled. Or maybe a tall elf? With hindsight, maybe I should have kept hold of that pineapple, I’d have been able to make the world’s first self-shaking cocktail. Just imagine the office types queuing for it and bopping along to work like the cast of a West End musical.’ I’d have to name it after myself, of course, ‘The Bopping Bob’ or something similar.
“I emptied the glass, smiled myself back to reality and, submitting to my passion for science fiction, returned to the dog-eared paperback.
“It had been a while since I’d first been introduced to its pages. I thought I remembered its opening, something about a day not feeling quite right.
“I read the first two chapters and laughed at the thought of the city being overrun, by hordes of meandering pineapples. I dropped the book onto the table: I really must stop reading that kind of stuff.
“The rumbling sound returned; he was coming back. The man emerged from the side road and hobbled towards me. With his load delivered, to who knows where, he was progressing much faster than before. The barrow carried just one large fruit. As he drew level he slowed and turned towards my door. I closed my eyes in despair: Jesus, would I ever be rid of this intruder?
“Merry Christmas, Sir. I don’t suppose you’re open.” Startled, I looked up at a young constable. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.”
“No problem, Officer. A very Merry Christmas to you too. I must have been dozing. Had a bit of a heavy night. No, I’m not open, but take a seat anyway. What can I get you?”
“That’s very kind of you, Sir. An Americano would be good and, if can you do me a freshly squeezed juice…? Pineapple would be great.”
“Orange or grapefruit, is all I have.”
“He pointed to the gift which guarded the doorway.
“I rubbed my eyes, “So I wasn’t dreaming.”
“I’m sorry, Sir?”
“Not for sale I’m afraid. Not until I can verify its source.”
“With trepidation, I grasped its spikey leaves, strode into the café and deposited it on the counter.
“Suddenly a crescendo of breaking glass and shouting resounded along the street.
"I watched through the window as the policeman shouted into his radio and, truncheon in hand, charged away.
“A loud banging drew my attention back to the bar. The fruit juddered violently on the wooden surface, lasers from its many eyes cast a multitude of coloured spots onto walls and ceiling. It was like a seventies disco without the music, just a horrible ear-piercing whine. I watched in amazement as its spikey head broke loose from its base and hovered above me. The last thing I remember was the smiling delivery man standing beside me.”
I look at my entranced audience. They have been hanging on to my every word. Perhaps, my account has rekindled distant memories, of their own fateful day. Even the few outwardly skeptical amongst them, now appear to believe. Their leaves twitch as they whisper their thoughts.
The multi-eyed being behind me detects the changing atmosphere and chuckles, “And if you believe that, my young friends, you’ll believe almost anything.” Tears of laughter, flood from its yellow head onto the fertilized soil.
Rows of plantlets basking under the orange sky, join in the creature’s merriment. My disfigured head shakes with despair, as the delivery man steps forward and manhandles my sprouting body onto his barrow. My craving for hot, bitter coffee passes into oblivion. The man’s white locks shroud his deadpan expression, as he wheels me to the edge of a cultivated field. With calloused hands, my helpless head is dropped into a freshly dug hole. A solitary police truncheon identifies the plant beside me. My leaves detect another transporter of victims approaching through gaseous clouds. More catalytic pods to help populate this dying world.
The delivery man wipes damp pink earth from my spikey crown. In a soft reassuring voice, he whispers. “If you can still hear me, a word of advice. No, you’re not dreaming, but if you hold on to that belief, your sanity will be preserved for a little longer and your offspring will be far healthier.”
Laughing, he trudges away.
I choke, as wet, sweet soil fills my screaming throat.
About the author
Dave has spent many years writing short stories. He had decided that 2025 would be the year to dip his toe in the water and start to put some out there. This is the second time that he has submitted one to Cafe Lit
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