Wheeling Gull Isle drink and shout

turmoil in the greenhills. ava's long ear turned towards it as she paused from pulling sprigs of lavender for psalm.

she followed the sounds. first, mama's voice -- but distorted and at a hideous timbre. the very emotion behind it caused ava's stomach to twist.

somewhat muffled in the din was daddy's parsed speech. off kilter. slow.

two new sounds for ava then to add to her repertoire, both equally ugly in measure. 

but then came a more familiar voice, cast over them all like an evil spell. FUCK YOU, it screamed over the disturbed peace of the veld. ava's ears pricked in surprise. dinah?

by the time ava amara made her way to the very spot where her family fissured into a million pieces, none of the cataclysm remained. the reeds bobbed indifferently. overhead a chorus of terns sounded their afternoon calls.

ava peered at the sky above, alone. a single cloud moved easterly, unhurried as it scampered across an escarpment of pearl blue. the fringes of it repeated in visual echoes: ava squinted as the mirage faded away.

she nosed the ground where a patch of bile mixed with something sweet remained. its aroma captivated her; it was faintly sweet but tinged with bitterness. but rather than follow after her father, ava's nose led her towards his retraced steps -- down to the larder where fruit festered in hissing gasps.

while her family lost their faith in an ambivalent god, ava found her own. she supped from its deep belly, blissful to the utter irony that their summery eden came to a bitter end, all on account of a single, rotten fruit.