By: Rachel Brittain

December 2025

In the gooey inner-flesh of an unripe fig, still green, a fairy mother burrows deep and lays to rest beside her brood in the inflorescence. The younglings, soon to hatch, will cut through their eggs with razor-fine teeth. They’ll devour their shells, the flesh of their mother, and the fruit-flowers of her shroud, keep going bite by bite until the gnawing hunger is sated. They’ll gorge until their mouths drip and their bellies ache, eat themselves into a stupor under the sleepy summer sun, nestled in the sticky bed of their syconium. They’ll doze until the days cool and the nights start to lengthen, then rouse again to burrow through the fig’s purple skin. The fruit appears untouched. 

Soon, the fig falls from its tree. You’ll pass by, pick it up, and bite into the flesh, savoring the earthy sweetness on your tongue, not knowing bones remain, hiding in the crunch of small seeds. She’s part of you now, the fairy mother, just as she’s part of her brood, flitting off to find new figs to ripen on their first and final flight.