They called me Kurious because I asked questions. “Why must the peel be our tomb?” I asked the tangerine to my left. It told me to shut up and photosynthesize.
The silence after the Harvest was the first true music I ever heard. The wind sounded different. It sounded like a cello being played with a hacksaw. I Am Kurious Oranj Rar
My mother was a tree in a concrete yard. My father was the smog from a nearby rubber factory. I was conceived in a cough. The other fruits on my branch grew round and fat, dreaming of the juice bar, dreaming of the breakfast plate. They whispered of sweetness, of the simple, solar joy of being squeezed. They called me Kurious because I asked questions
“You are Kurious Oranj Rar,” she said, giving the misprint a crown. “Keeper of the rot. King of the compost.” The silence after the Harvest was the first