January 19, 2025 0

The supermarket fruit fairy (“I haunt” Series)

in Viviana Ioan Books

I still wonder whether I imagined a fruit fairy for relief or met her for real. If she was not … etched from far stranger entities.

Oh, fairies. They appear to us to distract, entertain, or appease. And sometimes, who knows, our minds create them. To ease answers to questions.

Well, one evening, I eased the day’s stress in a place of plenty. As usual, shopping. To satisfy needs and whims. I never guessed, though, what I headed for. Oh, a story from dreams.

The fruit box

In dusk vibes of November, I approach my favorite mall. A mute mammoth, though, because nighttime lurks. But tall glass panels slide wide to receive me inside. Into a land of diversities.

I spurn, though, vain attractions. Because my stomach, empty, guides me to the supermarket.

As I enter it, I pass by the sushi circle. Hm, fancy. But I throw it no glance. No wonder. Because the berry section draws my steps, in a bee line, to it. I hunger for fruit, so why not start with the healthiest?

There, three boxes lie desolate under the label blueberries—understandable, that late in the evening. I approach the stall and touch one tub. The transparent casing shows its content. Deep purple. Cool. Then, I read the price displayed: 6.99. Excellent. One of the shop’s late offers.

A kid, her blond tresses lucent in the neon light, appears … from nowhere. Avoiding my chosen box, she sweeps delicate fingertips over the other two. She lingers, caresses them. Why? My lust for wild fruit imagines a spell.

Then, a voice. Candied. Hers, because it comes from below. Oh, she is so tiny. “Blueberries, lady,” she chants. Hm. As though I didn’t know.

In the next instant, the infant gambols away. And within seconds, returns. Ooh. As though she protected that stall. And marketed its content.

“Blueberries,” she says while staring down. In fact, we now stare together. At the dark blue drops covered in plastic. Somehow, the girl turns them into some precious matter. Ha. With no wand.

Charmed berries

I take the box and place it in my cart. Then progress toward kiwi, passion, and other exotic fruit. The next thing I know, the blond infant supervises these. From so close to me. But muted this time.

I switch my head and catch her eyes. A sweet, yet eerie, smile transpires alluring vibes. Contentment, too, but … supercilious.

As I continue my perusal, my eyes keep searching for the fruit princess. Now, she dances … in rounds. In the large space before the fruit queendom.

Wow, with her invisible wand, she has made it her dance ring. Ignoring me. Or anyone else. Where are the customers, though?

With a wish for more mundane company, I leave the area. But not before biding the impromptu ballerina adieu.

On my way, a mix of curiosity and suspicion piques my insight. What blueberries are those? So, I raise the tub to inspect the stuck label. But the mystery stays. Because my scanning finds no familiar language.

Anyway, what mysterious content could have deluded me? Other than fruit. Unless, among them, hid a charmed blueberry.

With this preposterous hunch in my mind, I tour green stands. Pick some legumes, welcoming a fresh company of buyers.

The excitement of choosing stuff and filling the cart takes over. And it conquers any puzzling issues. Cleared of nonsense, I pursue my shopper’s intent.

When I bump into a price-checking machine, though, I scan the barcode: 150. Double, but still a convenient buy. Well, berries are pricy. God, and so healthy.

Soon, I conclude my shopping session. And, loaded with goodies, leave the mall.

A fruit fairy

The chill outside invigorates my senses while the trip home settles them. Streets glimmer with car lights and young nighttime mist. Shop signs sparkle. Oh, this city embraces me. I love its vibe. But more, I adore my nest.

Home awaits me with eager eyes of windows. And the front door … with a kiss. Now, as I enter it, warmth greets me—hi. Its vibes cozier than upon the morning departure. Oh, a shopping pit stop does wonders on my way back from work.

I unload the bags before curious gazes. Pictures on walls watch. Bowls and mugs, too. The shades with lids raised. And cabinets open to receive fresh stuff.

Then I crown the table with vegetables and fruit. Last, the jewel of the shopping. My berries. Well now, purposive inspection will unveil the mystery. Their origin.

When I raise the lid, surprise! No berries. Two plump bunches of grapes lie shy in the tub. Almost black. What origin grapes, for God’s sake? Greek, Cypriot? Aw, ancient Egyptian?

I fetch a magnifying glass, then. To read the exotic provenience. The strange characters, though, do not satisfy my impatience. Cyrillic. Oh.

Never mind, I’ll taste one grape. Too saccharine, but still healthy.

Once the pellicle snaps between teeth, mmm. I taste an ambrosial flavor. It caresses my palate, invades my mouth.

Incense fumes inundate my hindsight, foregrounding a visual. Foggy, but so pregnant. A ballerina kid twirls in its spotlight. Oh, the supermarket fruit fairy.

Blueberries, lady

I take grape upon grape into my mouth, indulging my recent memory. And also my warmed spirits toward the lonely brat. Charmed, I scan my tongue buds. For sensations. While my mind, for revealing connections.

How come only me and the blond princess shared the blueberry episode? The girl had no parents? While stroking the fruit tubs, whoa! She endeared herself … to me.

“Blueberries, lady.” Whether aware the containers held grapes, the fruit fairy guided me to take one. She sure guessed I craved for blueberries and feared I would spurn lookalikes. Why?

The infant’s image won’t leave me. Her words and her frolicking. No matter how unaffected she sounded, she cast a persuasive net over me. Who was she?

With a handful of black grapes, I leave the kitchen. Then sit on a couch, munching and meditating. The child’s chanted words turn aromatic. Her stare solar. Her blueberries … paradisal.

“Lady,” I recall. Such tenderness conquers my senses. Her innocence. So, I focus on deciphering the shopping sprite. My fruit fairy.

Her outfit stays immaterial. As though she was from a fairies’ realm. Only her fair locks, gaze, and voice etch and re-etch in my memory.

Eyes of the fruit fairy

I start with guilt. What if the kid craved blueberries? And her parents didn’t afford them. But what if she had got lost? Or fled. From a problematic household. Or austere neighbors. Poor thing, she yearned to make friends with a compassionate adult.

Oh sweetie, forgive me! I should have bought you the damn blueberries, as black and grapes as they may be. Oh baby, you longed for my friendship.

But I, cruel hag, never minded you. Well, I did, but in a self-centered way. I cared for my shopping business. And questioned your disrupting apparition.

At these ruminations, the wistful child takes shape in my vision. Kneels before me. And her blond tresses wait. Dare I touch them?

Over my lap, the golden curls wait. But I play forbidding again. Dare not caress their sheen. Silken and wavy. Remorse bites at my heart’s core, yet I stay still. And mute, murmuring in an audio vision, “Blueberries, lady”.

As though hearing my deep voice, the kid raises her head. Large irises fix my stunned gaze. From a vaporous spiral, her irises stare. Then retreat. Caught in a twirling haze, whose train diffuses a faint aroma. Of smoldering myrrh.

A Ukrainian girl

I wake from my dozing. After a while … how long? Or how foggy? The grape–berries still flavor my palate. “Lady,” I mutter. “Let go of the mystery girl. Fruit fairy, ha!” Oh argh, I need some distraction, so turn on the TV.

“Young Ukrainian girl—” I hear. “—and her parents … injured on the zebra crossing, by a…”

Dear God. This afternoon. In the capital city. But in what hectic spot?

Sirens resound in my brain. Ambulances. Yes, I heard their wailing while heading for the mall. Such sounds, though, traverse any quarter in town every five minutes. Then, the injured family sure lay in a hospital when I met the fruit fairy.

Yet, a shrilling fear creeps through my spine—what if? Ugh, no. I encountered … a ghost? My focus moves on the Ukrainian child, so I search for fresh news on my phone. Nothing. Not yet.

The next hour’s news tells the same story—injured. Till midnight, no development of the incident transpires. No word to dispel my disquietude. So, I go to bed. Tense. With a cringing chest.

In the morning news, no clue again. Of course. Recent stories fade away, leaving space for present mishaps.

I walk out of my home in a frigid cloud. Of frustration. Eager to reach office and count minutes till leaving it. Determined to revisit the shop in the evening.

Reception investigation

Evening arrived, thank God, so I roll back to the mall. While driving, wailings of sirens accompany my distress. They magnify it to stark desperation.

I picture homes ablaze in forlorn ends of town. Or car crashes. Woe! A city under assault. God, and hapless citizens taken to hospitals. Among them, child victims of irresponsible adults.

With my mind disheveled by zappy assumptions, I park. Then run. When I reach the supermarket’s access gates, the wings flap open. They invite me in. I stop at reception, though. Stick my chest to its tall parapet.

A young blonde is reciting a marketing pitch in the microphone. What else but the last-minute discounts? At the back, a faded brunette. In a clerk’s stance. Because, oh. She is perusing a pile of documents.

When the starlet concludes her announcements, I cock my head. Then open my mouth. Waiting for the right second to intrude myself into her professional apathy.

“Evening,” I say. “I was here last night. Please, did any unfortunate incident occur? In the area?”

“Sorry? Our firm policy prevents customers’ disappointment, misunderstandings, or reprobate conduct. If we failed, we apologize. Madam, so… If you have a complaint, go ahead. I stand here for that. We’ll help you with due reverence.”

“Dear lady. This matter is not about me. Or your company’s policy. It regards a terrible accident. In case you heard anything.”

The hostess’ locks stir. “Madam, I guarantee, no one suffered an injury—not on the premises, not in this mall.”

“I mean nearby. In this quarter in town—heard any sirens? The police, ambulances?”

She straightens her neck longer. “While on duty, I only mind whatever occurs in this bustling indoors. There was no uncommon commotion.”

Stranded urchin

Still at the counter, I insist. By craning my neck as high as I can. Then I shoot an invasive question. “Did you watch last night’s news?”

She throws a smile at me. Wry, condescending. Then says, “Sorry. The only news I ever consider regards this operational hub. And, of course, my sacrosanct household.”

At this, I point my chin toward the other receptionist. Less stylish. In manner and looks. So better grounded in off-premises mishaps, I guess. “Maybe your colleague heard something.”

The blonde swivels in place. “Did you?” she asks her coworker.

The elderly clerk sure has listened in. Because she answers. Well, she … shrugs her hunched shoulders, smiling.

The coquette turns to me. Swift. “You see?”

“OK, but did you make any announcement? Last night. About a little girl. Estranged from her parents—on the … sacrosanct premises.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Because I did the morning shift. Yesterday.”

“I suppose you keep records. Of such incidents. So will you check, please?”

“Madam. Is it your daughter?”

“No, but—”

“We only offer such information to close relatives. So, what’s your relationship? With this … presumed … stranded urchin.”

Her curiosity piqued, the other clerk approaches the counter. Her plain bob unshaken, but pupils catching a bold vibe. “No such incident. I grant. As I was on vigilant duty last night.”

A marketing fairy

Next, I resort to … documenting the sight. So, I point to … the site where I met the mystery girl.

“Ladies,” I say. “This child roamed the exotic fruit section. Now ballet dancing, forlorn, next playing guardian of the stall. Look—right there! I swear. She interacted with me.”

The plain clerk shakes her bob. Not in negation, though. Huh. To admonish me. “Why didn’t you refer the lost child to reception?”

Her sternness disconcerts my explanatory volition. Yet, I fight inhibition. “I only minded her loneliness later. Had no clue, and still don’t, why she lingered among fruits. I reckon she craved companionship. Oh, I now regret not talking to her.”

The junior clerk puts on a serious mien. “How did you interact, then?”

Hm. Damn straits. I strive, though, to translate my encounter with the fruit fairy. Into solid, believable words.

“She acted as a fair, yet compelling, assistant,” I say. “You know, as though … in a promotional trance. So, figure. She enticed me to pick a box of fruit in the exotic department. Expensive stuff.”

The blonde shakes her strands. “Exotic comes at a price, lady. You chose in full consciousness. Don’t invent now misleading, culpable shop fairies. Huh.”

She has finished, thank God. Not, though. At once, her blue irises catch fire, foregrounding pinpoint pupils. In a definitive tone, she says, “So you have no grounds to complain.”

Berry, not fruit fairy

Meanwhile, a guard has joined the investigative party. Stout build, stern brows, but a glimmer of gold in his irises. His pupils question the two receptionists. “Any problem?” he asks them.

I answer, “No, sir. We discuss a lonely girl’s … apparition. In the fruit department. Let’s call her … a fruit fairy.”

“Ah. It must be the daughter of the young fellow who runs the sushi business. She often comes here after school. The kid loiters about, unsupervised. Loves fruit.”

My peepers search the sushi counter for the man. The guy last night, rolling and cutting sushi packets in muteness. Arranging them on gaudy plates behind glass partitions. No buyers, though. Only passers-by. Ha. As usual.

“I’m most grateful, sir. What’s the girl’s name?”

“Anne, I guess. But her father calls her … Berry–Anne,” the guard says. Then departs. For his routine rounds.

Hm. I start with recognition. Then, in a haste, I address to the reception desk hostesses. “Thank you, ladies. Now, excuse me.”

They shrug and resume their business. While my physique’s halo, ta-da! Opens the entrance flaps wide.

Lucky to grab a tub of blueberries on my route, I rush to a cash desk. Pay, re-enter the store, twist left, and stop still. To face the sushi entrepreneur.

I place the tub on the plexiglass counter. “Evening, sir.”

Oh, I startle the guy like hell. He straightens his spine. Then shows me pupils that shine.

A gift for Berry

I open my mouth to speak, but the sushi guy sparks a quick pitch. Oh my.

“Welcome, madam. To our Japan-style boutique! What filling? What marine flavor your gourmet palate would like to savor?”

“Sir. I admired your delicatessen many times. But never stopped to buy some.”

“Thank you, appreciate, and you’re welcome. I give you right, yes. The choice is so rich it confounds passing visitors. So, they dare not trespass, ha ha. Shall I narrow the pick down for you?”

“No, thank you, though confound, I am. But my visit regards your young daughter.”

“You know Anne? My … Berry?”

“Not quite. But I understand she adores berries. Blue. These are for her. A late gift.”

“Oh, unbelievable. How come? I can’t accept, no.”

“Please, I insist. Bought them minutes ago. One of the last boxes. Well, is the puckish princess here?”

A mascot, not fruit fairy

At hearing my question, the man’s pupils dull. Then his shoulders hunker. Over the glass counter.

“Did she do something wrong?” he says. “She capers about, yeah, but never interferes with the store’s customers. Lest she’ll jeopardize our lease contract. We struggled a lot for this selling spot.”

“Of course. Such a sweet child’s capers can’t pester the management. Or disturb any shopper.”

“She’s a sweet darling. So playful. Oh, Daddy’s girl. A doll.”

“I admired your daughter’s waltzing among fruits and praised her discreet bearing. Last night. Oh, so protective, I noticed, with the merchandise displayed. You know, as though … a fruit fairy.”

“My Berry?” The man’s eyes grow bulgy in his scraggy face and fix me. “Last night? What hour last night?”

“What happened to Berry? Dear God, you scare me, sir.”

“Her mom dropped by and took her home. By … six.”

“So early? Is she OK?”

“Dear lady, what is your precise business in front of my counter? I appreciate your gift, but don’t see your drift.”

“Daddy, Daddy! Look what I found. In Dairy.”

Behind the glass counter, the sushi-monger leans forward. To embrace a little girl and inspect her findings. But what? No fair tresses sparkle under the neon shine. Instead, glossy chestnut strands glow. Oh, to dismay my mind’s flow. That kid is not the fruit fairy.

The sushi chef’s daughter is just an endearing brat who plays marketing gambits on site. Ha. The supermarket’s adopted live mascot. Thank God she adores berries. It means she will enjoy my stray token.

Elusive Ukrainian sun

With my shoulders flopped, I depart the scene. Then exit the shopping venue. I carry within the elfin kid’s mystery.

Outdoors, the urban droning hits my senses. Interspersed with deafening horning. Ambulance wailings. They echo shrills of pain in my head. In my memory of the fruit fairy.

My nostrils draw in frigid drafts. Of late November. They struggle to detect berry fragrance. Or the ambrosial scent of black grapes. Ripen under an elusive Ukrainian sun.

As I cross the boulevard, I envision the blond girl lying across the wide white stripes on the asphalt. Her fair tresses haloing an anguished stare.

“Sweetie. I relished your Ukrainian grapes,” I murmur. In my mind’s vision, her rosy lips etch a smile. Swift, my tenderness runs the ether between us to wherever in town she is.

“Where are you, princess?” I whisper as I pace the pedestrian crossing back. But God, this city’s bounty of crosswalks baffles me.

Shall I play a detective? Phone hospitals and police stations? Huh. To make a lunatic of myself? No. Receptionists there will sieve my sanity through quirky interrogations. Far more cynical than the supermarket clerks’. Aw. We live in a strange community. Of robots.

A search on the Internet, therefore, stays my last resort. Since TV stations never re-cover yesterday’s news. With this conviction, I reach the parking lot and get in my car. But what the heck? The air freshener diffuses a scent unfamiliar.

A fairy phantom

Blood coagulates in my veins. I picture myself in a horror movie. Ugh. Worse than a psychological thriller—my preferred genre.

My imagination concocts a shadow behind, stalking me. A pallid shadow in the worst range of horror. Ha, the movies I ridicule. “Please, girl. I no longer wish to connect with you.” I don’t know whether I say so. Or it’s my guardian angels’ voices praying for me.

I learned something from those films, though. Well, I won’t play the stupid role of swiveling my stiff neck. Despite awareness of future remorse, I choose to fail the Ukrainian girl again. So that the phantom, ignored, will fade away. Off my back. Argh.

I dump the girl’s specter. Then the gas pedal, and drive off.

Throughout my race home, the spectral burden co-pilots me from the rear seat. My nape hurts. Hand bones grip the wheel and my eyes sting. With concentration and care for random pedestrians. I’d rather pull at any wrong curb and risk a fat fine than run living flesh down.

Chilly sweat droplets clump on my forehead. Once I park the car near home, I wipe them. But chilliness proves to pool in my head. Shall I apply a low-rated horror recipe and face my stalker?

Ah. I’ll never get out of this cubicle unless I check my posterior whereabouts. Freeze in the car with my visions and fears? God, no. So I switch my torso.

A dark space meets my glance. Empty. It still effuses smoldering myrrh, but I snap the doorhandle hither and flip. Out of my trance.

Fairy grapes

My home feels the utmost shelter. Its warmth melts joint and psychological stiffness. Oh, it welcomes me with … sacrosanct mirth.

But of course, first move—I switch on the TV. As I hunger for fresh news on stale events. And the miracle happens. The channel my remote chooses shows a relevant news title. It reads Ukrainian … something. Wow, it’s my girl.

They reveal the incident’s setting. A junction near Mammoth Mall. Hm. In the farthest northern district in town. Deluded by recent visions and misbeliefs, I almost think I live there. Hell no, I’m a southerner, who shops in nearby southern malls.

This misplacing of the event deflates my mystical side. Quick though, paranormal readings rekindle it. Wow! The spirit had traversed the city to reach me.

“Still hospitalized,” I hear. “The injured family’s condition is beyond fatal,” the news story ends. Hallelujah! No ghost has been stalking me.

But with my appetite for fantasy whetted, I go find my grapes. To roller coast anew. Find my fairy.

I, the fruit fairy

With each black grape I eat, I slide deep into the fairy thread. I lie between silken bedsheets, somehow indulging in my imponderable condition. Sheets wave. They wing me. Toward … light.

Whispers stroke my eardrums. Whiffs titillate my nostrils. I hear … perfumes. Blown from blossoming vineyards. I am tiny petals and diffuse fragrances. In dusky woods, I was berries. Mmm. But I … vaporized.

I inspire breaths. And then fly. To … a city. Here, a window opens. And … I see.

I watch a live tableau. A child, a girl, dances along fruit stalls. At a remote marketplace.

The girl stops before a stall. “Are you alone, sweetie?” the greengrocer asks. “I sell forest fruit, dear one. Blackberries, raspberries…” The child keeps mum. The berry-monger then says, “I’ll gift you some. Which do you choose?”

“Blueberries, lady.”

I wake at once. With these words sounding in my head. I strive to understand. Oh, yes. The fruit fairy is me, in this thread.

Because … I recall. A story my mom told. A real one, starring … me.

As a child, I once quit home. To reach the marketplace alone. They found me at dusk, among empty stalls.

A miscellaneous fruit fairy

Now. Who, in God’s name, was the fruit fairy? My kid self … visited me?

Or … the Ukrainian girl. She has a valid pass to stay in this weird picture. Did she leave her body on the hospital bed? To go on an extra-corporeal wandering?

Then what if my stifled self … broke out? Into an illusion. What if my … mirth is a sham?

Or … no illusion at all. Providence introduced an actual girl in the picture. Either to bring back earliest episodes—for a reason. Or to sharpen my consciousness. Girl, you need this or that. Ha ha.

If so, though, why did I see an imp in that kid? Why call her a fairy? Aha. Dear providence, you gave me a spur. To write.

Well, a conglomerate of threads. Braided into a phantasm. I will keep wondering. Because to wonder … is fun.

Still. What if I met … a fruit fairy? She left mystery land for a quick raid here. Because we need fantasy.

. . .

Featured image by Márta Valentínyi from Pixabay

• #apparition
• #blueberries
• #child
• #customers
• #fairy
• #magical realism
• #mystery stories
• #mystery story
• #shopping
• #supermarket