You were a fantastic white Raspberry. Born and fleshy, colouring to a loyal fruit. But the rain
heavied you, and you sunk beneath the ground to rot. Soon decayed, no watery sapor to taste.
I tried to dig for you, recover your smell, remind you of the sun. Your friends are the beetles
and the spare legs of the earth. Warm in the oranges and browns of the dark, your blanket of
dirt, you hid from my fingers. Oiled exterior, cold zinc stuffing, you are spoiled. I don’t look
for you anymore.

About the Author:
Jasmine Isa Pugh is twenty-five years old, living in London. She enjoy the careful consideration of shape, tone and line coupled with unobstructed imagination and spontaneity. Writing free-structured and visceral prose Jasmine applies themes of surrealism and escapism. Jasmine's imaginative fiction is guided by a neurotic monologue and inspired by colour, emotion and the subconscious.