THE LAST FRUIT
- Feb 13
- 1 min read
By W. E. Ticas
They said the earth forgets.
But it doesn’t.
It keeps every scream beneath its roots.
Daniel was twelve,
walking barefoot through the hills of San Jorge,
a sack on his shoulder,
the sun burning the names from his memory.
He only wanted fruit—
a sweetness to trade for rice,
a small proof that hunger could be fooled.
Then the ground opened in sound,
a blast swallowing the morning,
and silence came dressed in dust.
He saw the child on the ground,
the blood mixing with the soil,
a red bracelet hanging loose from a small wrist—
the last color left in a world of ash.
Years passed.
The war moved on,
but the scream stayed.
Now, when the wind descends from the hills,
Daniel still hears it—
a mother calling a name no one answers.
And there, above the cracked earth,
a single fruit hangs,
untouched,
as if waiting for the child
who never made it home.