My brother Pasqualli always gave them to his favorite, Aunt Alda. She was the roundest of Mama’s sisters. Always feeding him and pinching his cheeks... They had been gathered from the garden and stored in a room next to the wine made by Papa. He enjoyed making—and tasting—the family’s wine. He especially enjoyed watching his children step on the grapes after the harvest, all covered in purple juice, it usually found its way into our hair and clothes. Mama always complained, and he would just. But, recently, I've experienced a renewedinterest in writing, and this little drabble of a story is the firstto see the light of day. I hope you all enjoy it.I dedicate this story to all the Usual Suspects -- Wendy-J, P.J.Wright, Janice Dreamer, Carrie Gore, among others -- all authorswhose work always astounds me and causes me to aspire to be bettermyself.This story may ONLY be posted at FictionMania unless the individualwishing to post it elsewhere contacts me (at chilli_tng at yahoo dotcom). More

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