Olives All the While

Flash fiction

Little Zain thought there was no place unhappier than the olive orchard his family owned. Harvesting began in mid-October; and so like the year before he tagged along, dragging tarps across the stone-dotted soil and spreading them out underneath heavily laden branches. He fixed the tarps to the ground by dropping two or three rocks on each corner, stretched his short arms over his head—then looked about.

Grey upon grey.

It seemed to bother no one else that the orchard was without color. The olives were a green so dull they were almost grey, as though the trees bore pebbles for fruit. The westering sun, struggling behind thickening clouds, cast only a mellow shine. It failed to bring out the brown of the wood, of the soil.

“Why can’t we swap this for a cherry orchard?” he said, climbing the nearest trunk. One hand he used to steady himself, the other to reach for a branch and pick out its olives. They dropped to the tarp with a soft thud.

From another tree came Layla’s sigh. “We had this conversation last year.”

Zain hopped down and scanned the tree-rows for Baba. “Where’s the joy in this? We can’t eat these olives raw, and pickling them takes months. Sometimes they don’t taste good even after pickling.”

He shuddered at the memory of last year’s bitter olives.

Baba approached, clipping off what Zain hadn’t reached. “The oil makes money,” he said, then gestured to his daughter. “It’s also why your sister’s hair looks soft and shiny.”

Layla flicked her curls over her shoulder.

“I don’t care about hair,” Zain countered. “When others go harvesting, they eat the fruit right away. It tastes sweet, and they make jam with it—not oil. We got a bad deal buying this land.”

Baba’s voice, when it came next, was solemn. “My mother bought it. If you have complaints, complain to her.”

Settu Ayshi lived within walking distance. Long before Zain was born, she had come into a small inheritance and resolved to buy a piece of land. An orchard. There had been options—many of them, in fact—but her eye had settled on the one closer by, on this drab little hill.

As the light further thinned and the call for maghrib prayer sounded from the village, Zain abandoned his post and strolled down the familiar path to her house. He found her on the balcony, as she usually was at sunset, watering the flowerpots. Her face brightened at the realization that he had come from the harvest.

Within seconds, Zain was ushered inside and seated by the flickering fireplace. A plate of biscuits materialized before him.

His restlessness did not go amiss.

“Why don’t we sell it for another?” he asked. “A cherry one.”

Ayshi bit into a biscuit, her gaze drifting. “It’s funny this should come from you, Zain, when olives have been there for you all the while.”

She took his soft hands in her rough ones.

“You were only a baby, wailing from that darned diaper rash,” she began, her eyes gleaming the way they did when she spoke of the past, “and olive oil healed you. Then at three you were insomniac, because the creaking of the doors scared you—olive oil fixed them. The next year, freshly picked olives became your favorite toy. You used them as marbles and played for hours.”

She smiled.

“Since then, the money we make from the oil buys you the cherries you so love.”

He stayed there a little longer, partly because she refused to let him go before emptying the plate. But when he walked back to the orchard, it strangely felt less bleak.

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This story was written as a response to a simple prompt: write a short piece set in or about an orchard. The olive orchard was an immediate choice for me, seeing I grew up in a house surrounded by olive trees. Every October, I joined my parents (and the hired help) for the harvesting. It was always my favorite time of the year.

I’d love to read what this prompt brings up for you. Feel free to reply with a piece of flash fiction of your own. If posting it as a Note, go ahead and tag me!

Until next time,

Heba