Pips – Short Story



By J. A. Weymouth

Plump, red and juicy with a hint of green at the ends.  The tastiest tomato in the world, he thought, at least in that moment.  The bite was cool on his teeth that sent a chill down his spine but the moment the juicy pips hit his tongue, the freshness of the taste soothed him, awakening his hunger for more tomato.

Sucking the pips, savoring the flavor before he took another bite, he plunged into the tight skin.  He then swallowed, clicking his tongue against his teeth.  A rogue pip stuck itself in between his two front teeth, frustrating him as his tongue was neither flexible nor thin enough to slide through the gap to catch the pip.  Instead he tried his thumb nail perhaps that would catch the bastard.  Success! The thumb nail was a miracle worker for annoying pips stuck in narrows gaps between two front teeth.

The pip appeared as innocent as a pray patiently waiting for its attacker to eat him as he pulled it out, gazing at him, wet on his fore-finger.  However, he could not resent the pip as it was obvious the only thing it wanted was company, and therefore this must be the reason behind it attaching itself to his two front teeth.

‘Maybe, I’ll burry you so I can grow more tomatoes.’  He said to the little pip, placing the seed on the black and gray replicate granite of the kitchen bench.  The seed, a miniscule mass in comparison to the gigantic expanse of the bench, so tiny it appears to sink into its dark background, almost drowning.

The skin of the plump tomato was cool and tight as he pressed the tomato once again against his lips, preparing himself for another bite.  Plrrrrp.  Sweet fluid along with solid pips was released into his mouth hitting against his teeth.  He smiled, more juice had seeped into his mouth from the tomato, waiting, teasing the pips to be caught once again.  Another and another.  He pulled them all out individually with the use of his miracle thumb nail.  He lined the pips against the first so it would no longer be lonely, then pondered over the sweet little gathering of rogues.

‘I will grow you all,’ he told the pips as he finished the tomato.

A voice called from far away, distracting him from his fantasies of flourishing tomato plants.  He slid the lining of seeds in his palm then hiding them in his checkered shirt pocket.  The voice was faintly irritating, with its distracting reality check, however it was useful, because it reminded him to be somewhere.  He communicated briefly with the irritating voice for a few minutes so he could satisfy it long enough to leave him be.  So the voice left and so did he.



Blood Red – Poetry

Blood Red

By J. A. Weymouth


The murmur is red.

Drowning red.

The deep crimson of sour instinct –

Pursing those lips.

Pulsating blood in the current of life.


Your life is drowning.

You look at two faces and see one paler than the other.



What is it you see?

Nothing but the basic, all naturel.


You pick up the cloth

it is red

made of silk

but you do not use it

because you are scared of the dirtied eye

scared to hide it behind the silk cloth.


Tolerant hands tremble

reaching out.


The blood is red.

All bodied blood.


There is nothing frightening behind skin.