Irene Biju

Not even the Louvre had as much security as their cupboard. Twenty locks lined the mahogany doors, complete with a retinal scan that was only compatible to select individuals. For the most part, it was indeed a normal cupboard. The shelves were filled with everything from saltine crackers for stomach bugs to boxes of macaroni for lazy dinners. Yet there was one thing that warranted the intense precautions to fend off intruders. It sat in the tallest shelf hidden behind miscellaneous jars of cashews, plantain chips, and pistachios. It was a jar no bigger than a throw pillow, wrapped cautiously with a layer of tin foil wrapping to hide its contents. 

At a quick glance, it just looked like a rather large jar of raspberry jelly. However, that was until one inspected the slight shimmer encasing it when put in the correct direction of the light. That was until one inhaled the sweet aroma of baked honey rolls when the lid screwed off. That was until one noticed the spread slowly altering colors as it was applied onto a slice of bread. 

The whole town knew there was something remarkable about that jar. Everybody knew that the moment even a speck of the concoction danced on somebody tongue, any illness to disease that plagued them would at once depart their body. Yet, nobody knew what exactly it was. Nobody except Miss. Magnolia, the oldest lady in the town. From the myths and legends that circulated, she was said to be the one who had acquired the jar many years ago. 

When asked arbitrarily about the jar, Miss. Magnolia gave a short, but rather perplexing answer:

“It is the preserves of the stars, the tears of the heavens. It is the sweat of the clouds and the hair of the sun. It is the foggy mist of dreams and the beautiful song of angels.”

Many believe that, in other words, she did not even know what the contents were. Still, anyone who persisted in their questions, regardless of any jumble of words their senior gave, would receive the true tale. The tale that was saved for the most curious of townspeople. 

She would tell them of the forest that once resided only a few stones throws away from the town, before the bustling city had crept up and slaughtered it. She would tell them about the cedar trees that were as poise as ballerinas. She would recall their branches that looked as if they had been precisely drawn on and admired their heads of leaves so green they could bring emeralds to jealousy. She drawled on about the fruit that blossomed from the bushes and trees, and exclaimed that they were so sweet that they could even substitute sugar in recipes. 

Then, she would babble about a tree that sat on the southern tip of the forest, so far out that it would take hours just to reach it. She described the fruit of the tree in so much detail, it seemed as if she had just seen one an hour ago. 

“Not shade the color of strawberries, but not the tint of raspberries either. It was a good mix of the two. The shape was as if a child had drawn a circle during an earthquake, with little juts of the fruit sticking out in bumps. It seemed as if it had painted on with a glimmering substance. Instead of being dispersed all around, the seeds all sank to the bottom of the fruit, as if they were placed there for convenience. Oh, and the taste. It tasted as if the most remarkable quality of every dessert was meshed into one. Not too sweet, nor too rich, or sour, or tart… It was perfect. I myself was struggling against a disgusting hoarse in my throat. In fact, I would cough so loud I was giving the dogs a run for their money. Yet one bite of that fruit had nipped it right in the bud. I felt as if I could fly. No, not fly, I felt as if I could soar.”

She claimed that she tried to collect as many as she could to bring home. She stuffed it in her pockets, her shoes, even tried to fit as many as she could into her mouth. She ran as fast as lightning to her parents to share the delicacy she had discovered. The whole town had marveled at her discovery and begged her to go back and bring more. 

And so she did. Every day for three weeks, she went back into the forest and collected as much fruit as she could. The townspeople even donated everything from straw baskets to burlap sacks to help expand their inventory. 

She became the talk of the town. Everybody has labeled them “Magnolia’s Magic Marvels”. They could remedy any affliction and cleanse any blemish. 

Her mother had started to cook the fruit in order to transform it into a jelly consistency. She claimed it would help prolong its use. The fruit became a consistent part of her diet, an addition to everything she consumed. No sandwich would be complete without a spread of jelly, no salad would dare be eaten without the cider of the fruit affixed to create a dressing on top, not even a simple snack of hearty cheese and crackers could be finished without the addition of dried pieces of the fruit. 

Until one day, when she had trudged into the forest to collect more of her findings, the tree was nowhere in sight. She searched near and far, into gopher burrows, and even under sticky lily pads that had sunk into the mud. Still, not a single fruit was left to be found. The fruit had vanished, the tree had ceased to exist, and it’s only remnants could only be found in a locked cupboard. 

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Irene Biju is a high school student from Pennsylvania, U.S.A. From a young age, Irene has expressed a fond interest in writing. She has won/been selected to compete in several local/school writing competitions, When she is not making her next story, Irene enjoys musical theatre and reading.