Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast Episode 329 – Ma’am, This is a Fruit Stand by Maya Dworsky-Rocha

Saturday, November 29, 2025 - 13:36

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Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 329 – Ma’am, This is a Fruit Stand by Maya Dworsky-Rocha - transcript

(Originally aired 2025/11/29)

When story submissions are coming in, in January, my principle is not to start reading, beyond the information that goes into the log-in spreadsheet, until submissions have closed. I was strongly tempted to break that rule for Maya Dworsky-Rocha’s story “Ma’am, This is a Fruit Stand” based on the title alone. Despite the humorous allusion to the Wendy’s meme, this is not a funny story. Rather, it echoes the meme’s critique of how to respond to inappropriate customer behavior from a position of power imbalance. The story envisions a different side to the interactions in Christina Rosetti’s poem “The Goblin Market.” (I hope you refreshed your familiarity with the poem by listening to the previous podcast episode.) While “The Goblin Market” is of obvious sapphic interest due to the sensual framing of the relationship between the two female protagonists, it has been criticized for imagery and language that can reasonably be viewed as anti-Semitic. There is a long European tradition of equating goblins and Jews, as well as using Jewish characters as a stand-in for queerness. These motifs inspired Maya to take the point of view of the goblins, still retaining the focus on an intimate friendship, to suggest that Lizzie and Laura might have been very unreliable narrators. We’ll have the author on the podcast in the next episode to talk more about this topic.

Dr. Maya Dworsky-Rocha is a cultural anthropologist, which means she thinks people are kind of neat. She writes about real things, less real things, and outright lies, and lives in Oregon with her wife, who is a lumberjack. She is also one half of the writing duo known as "Sylvia Barry", who can be investigated at their website sylviabarrybooks.com.

The narration and the music composition and performance are by me, Heather Rose Jones. Content warning for implied sexual assault, orientalism, and graphic descriptions of eating fruit

This recording is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License. You may share it in the full original form but you may not sell it, you may not transcribe it, and you may not adapt it.

Ma’am, This is a Fruit Stand

by Maya Dworsky-Rocha

Applegold was flirting with their reflection again, and I’d just about had it.

“Would you put that thing away?” I snapped. “What if you accidentally open an orchard door out here?”

Applegold rolled their eyes and didn’t move from their sprawl atop the melon crates, rocking with the cart’s judder, still admiring themself in the shiny golden plate. “Did you hear that, Pinesweet? Little Figrose thinks I might accidentally make a door.”

Pinesweet’s mouth twitched into a smile under the brim of his broad hat, and I hunched next to him, feeling foolish.

“It’s very hard to make an orchard door, even on a sunny day like this,” Pinesweet said patiently, clucking to the carthog. He kept one hand wrapped in the reins, and used the other to gently pat my knee. “Don’t be nervous, little one, the market won’t be as frightening as you think.”

I almost wished Applegold would open an orchard door, just so I could fall through it and disappear. I’d hoped to survive my first time at market without embarrassing myself, but we hadn’t even made it to the outskirts of town.

Sure enough, Applegold took the opportunity to tease me as much as possible. “Don’t listen to him, the place is terrifying. Humans are big, and loud, and they look at you like you’re lunch.” Applegold flipped blue-black curls out of their dark, long-lashed eyes, cheeks shining round and copper on either side of a smile.

Applegold had only been to market once more than I had—that is, at all—but they had a way of seeming like an expert on anything and everything.

I looked at Pinesweet, hoping for some indication that Applegold was making things up, but he just looked thoughtful, eyes narrowed and distant, staring out at the dusty road. Applegold was grinning and licking their lips like a hungry human.

I swallowed hard. “They eat meat, don’t they?”

Applegold nodded. “They’d eat Peachpeach if we let them.”

The carthog snuffled at the mention of her name, and Pinesweet shushed both her and Applegold. “All the more reason to sell them fruit. We need their gold, but we need their goodwill more.” He batted at Applegold without looking. “Don’t bruise the melons, silly child.”

Applegold shifted their weight and perched on the edge of the cart, finally stowing the plate. Their tassel hung dangerously close to the wheel, swaying with Peachpeach’s gait. I automatically reached behind me to make sure my own tassel was not in danger of tangling in anything. I’d only begun wearing mine a few months ago when I’d come of age, and I was still occasionally struck with sudden panic that it had come undone and slipped off without my noticing. I ran my fingers along the knots and braids, timing my breath to the spaces between them. I wasn’t quite ready to loop it in my belt like Pinesweet and other adults did. Like Applegold, I wanted my newfound maturity to be seen and admired.

Not to the point of dangling it over the edge of the cart, like Applegold, but then, no one was like Applegold. They caught me looking again and winked, reaching for their lyre harp. “You better not look at humans like that, Figrose, especially the women.” They strummed a chord, and sang out in a laughing, husky voice:

“We must not look at human girls
Don’t sell them more than fruits.
Who knows what dreams they’ll hang on us
As hungry, thirsty brutes.”

“Applegold, that’s enough,” Pinesweet barked. He took a deep breath, narrow shoulders shuddering. “I lost my Meadowblue that way. Human desire can kill.” He glanced at me, almost apologetic, wide mouth pulling the rest of his face downward like heavy fruit on a thin branch. “Your young friend is silly and vain, but they’re right, Figrose. Be careful who you smile at. The men don’t like us near their women, and the women don’t like us near their children. The city laws can only keep us so safe.”

I gripped my tassel tighter. Applegold plucked at their harp a while, sulking, blending their music with the surrounding birdsong and the rhythm of the cart’s creaky wheel.

Pinesweet squinted out at the horizon of rolling hills, and clicked his teeth. “We’d better get off the road before the sun gets too low.”

We both sat up a little stiffer, scanning the road ahead and behind for travelers. We were invisible to them during the day and night, but sunrise and sunset made us vulnerable. The market was one of the few places we were allowed, even if we weren’t exactly welcome. Out here on the road there were no laws protecting us.

“I hear a brook.” Applegold stood, gracefully swaying with the cart’s movement, and pointed towards the ribbon of trees unfurling at the bottom of the hill. I could hear it too, if I concentrated, the sound of water trickling over stones, and I could see flashes of sunlight tossed back and forth between the water and the silvery willow leaves. It almost seemed like home.

The hill was too steep for Peachpeach, so we unloaded most of the fruit and carried it down ourselves. Pinesweet let Peachpeach out of her harness, and asked her to be back before midnight.

As I watched the hog frolic away into the underbrush, her little tail swishing, I couldn’t help wondering, “Pinesweet, why don’t we open orchard doors closer to the market?”

“Again with the orchard doors,” Applegold groaned, stacking crates of yellow pears.

“Questions are the shoots of wisdom,” Pinesweet reminded them, then smiled at me. “It’s dangerous to open doors too close to human towns. They might sense them, or come looking, and they won’t give us gold for what they can take for free. Best to bring our produce through in a remote place, then travel to where the humans are in their own world.”

I nodded. It made sense. Still, the time spent out in the open—even if we were mostly hidden—had left me jumpy and exhausted. It was tempting to imagine using the gold-shine we had to open an orchard door here, in this grove, bringing our wares through and sleeping safely under the fruit trees. Like we did during the harvest.

Home was a sliver of light away, but also a full day’s ride.

I helped Pinesweet and Applegold finish unloading and had just begun preparing the evening meal, when a scuffling sounded from the brush across the brook.

We froze.

Pinesweet made the little clucking noise that served as Peachpeach’s nickname, but she didn’t appear, snuffling and wet-nosed from between the reeds. Instead, a voice rose, loud and ringing like a brass bell. Like no voice I’d ever heard.

It said: “Oh, Lizzie, look, look at the little men!”

“Laura, shut up! They’ll hear us.”

My throat slammed closed and fear turned every muscle to ice. Pinesweet had gone pale and frozen, but Applegold’s eyes were sharp and glinting. Before either I or Pinesweet could stop them, they called out:

“Come buy, come buy!”

More rustling, and two enormous figures emerged from the rushes. They unfolded on the far bank like pillars of cloud and fire. It took me a moment to realize the cloud was cloth—white flower-patterned dresses, and the fire was hair, bright gold and flashing yellow. They were so much larger than I’d expected, their skin pink and white and blue in places, their eyes round and light like a lemur’s, their mouths red and full of flat wide teeth.

The one closest to us had warm golden hair and red cheeks and strong arms, and was staring at Applegold like they were a particularly ripe plum. “Hello,” she giggled. “Oh, Lizzie, he looks like a cat!”

Lizzie, the one with ashy yellow hair and sharper, freckled features, eyed me like the worm in the plum. “Ugh, yes, and this one looks like a rat.”

“Oh, Lizzie, the raspberries.”

Applegold moved like they’d come unstuck and gathered a handful of berries, holding them out to the two humans like they were tempting Peachpeach back to her pen. “Come buy our orchard fruits,” Applegold crooned, their eyes sliding towards me playfully.

Pinesweet was still frozen, now curled in on himself like a snail, hidden almost entirely beneath his broad-brimmed hat. I didn’t understand how Applegold could be so carefree and reckless with our elder all but rolled up in fear, turned to stone.

“Wait, sibling,” I knew enough not to say any of our names where the humans could hear, “you said not to—”

“Come buy, come buy!” Applegold drowned me out, still waving the handful of raspberries at the human girls, and pulling a big bright orange from their vest pocket. “Taste and try, sweet to tongue, sound to eye, come buy come buy.” They twirled on the spot, their tassel whipping round their legs and their curls fluttering and everything beautiful about them painfully on display.

Across the brook, golden Laura’s eyes had grown wide as peaches, her mouth open and wet. She hiked her skirt above her knees, and set one big pink foot in the cold water of the stream.

“Laura, no, no, no!” Lizzie shrieked, and jumped in after her. The water barely licked at the maidens’ calves, but they slipped and slid across slick stones until they’d reached us. Laura crouched, her wet legs and dress smelling strongly of mud and moss, her golden hair spilled over one bare shoulder, and her limpid eyes staring up at Applegold.

Lizzie stood behind her, freckled hands on her shoulders rubbing and gently pulling her away. “Laura, please, dear, come away. We shouldn’t speak to goblin men.”

They thought we were men.

“But I am a pretty goblin,” Applegold laughed, and held the raspberries under Laura’s slender nose. With a thrust of their hips they kept the tassel dancing, the knots and braids catching in the light and almost giving the impression of a speckled tail.

“Remember what happened to poor Jeanie,” Lizzie hissed, kneeling and placing her mouth close to Laura’s big pink cheek and pinker ear. Her lips quivered over the downy skin, her terrifyingly light and shallow eyes roaming across Laura’s face, her shoulders, her dimpled knees peeking forth beneath the muddy dress.

The look on Lizzie’s face was horribly familiar. I’d tasted the bitterness pulling her mouth, I could feel her heart and throat tug as if they were mine. The ache deep in her palms which only Laura’s skin could warm, the itch at the bottom of her mind where Laura’s smile and mockery kept her helplessly scratching.

I couldn’t look at her, and I definitely couldn’t look at Applegold.

I watched Laura lick her lips, nostrils quivering, breath catching. She wasn’t looking at the fruit; her eyes followed Applegold’s tassel, the lengths of russet wrist and throat, their sharp smile, their long dark eyes and soft black curls.

“I don’t have any money,” she whispered, brassy but almost gentle.

Applegold’s eyes narrowed, and I wondered if they might back away. Somehow, rejecting these maidens felt like the most dangerous course of action, and Applegold seemed to agree. They brought the raspberries even closer to Laura’s nose and mouth. The long, burnished fingers cupped like a jewel-setting around the gemstone fruit.

“Laura, please,” Lizzie moaned.

“I’ll take the gold on your head,” Applegold purred, “one lock, one berry.”

Laura’s tongue shot from her mouth, pink and sharp, spearing one of the raspberries quick as a blink. She shut her eyes as she chewed, lashes fluttering, her features smoothed like a sheet pulled tight.

Lizzie gasped as Laura sat back on her rump, her formerly white dress now gray and brown and pooled between her legs; her head rolled on her neck. Eyes flashed open, their blue all but swallowed, and in a swift motion she pulled a knife from her belt.

“Laura!”

“Sibling!” I very nearly screamed Applegold’s name.

Laura grabbed a bushel of her golden locks and sawed them off like sheaves of wheat. She tossed the hair at Applegold’s feet and with one big hand gripped their slender wrist, bringing their fruit-filled palm to her hungry mouth.

Applegold’s smile slipped, their eyes widened, and met mine for the first time since the humans had appeared. It was as if they’d suddenly realized how high they’d climbed, and felt the ground yawning below.

I didn’t know what to do. I looked over at Pinesweet, still balled up in frozen, stony horror. No help to be had there, but perhaps in the stacks of fruit behind him—I ran, filling my arms with plums and peaches and pears, anything that might distract the ravenous maiden.

“Here, try these.” I tried to move between Applegold and Laura, shoving the plums towards her, and she ate them from my hand, snuffling like Peachpeach. Juices dribbled down her chin and neck to stain the collar of her dress. They beaded in the jagged edges of her hair.

Lizzie stood back, face twisted in disgust and longing. “Laura…”

“Oh, Lizzie,” Laura squelched, “I can’t help myself!”

Applegold and I stared at each other, trapped in the maiden’s sticky embrace, her mouth and hands pulling at us even as her body shuddered. She moaned and sucked at our fingers. “Give me more, more, I beg you.”

“Leave her alone!” Lizzie screamed, and we flinched. Loath to touch us, she grabbed hold of Laura’s arm and yanked, ripping her sleeve, pulling at her hair, leaving long red scratches on her arms and shoulders. “You devils, you goblins, let my Laura go!”

I heard Applegold whimpering in fear, saw the bruising force with which Laura held them, and felt their free hand reaching for mine. Frantic, syrupy with juice and pulp.

“Let go! You can’t have her! Take this—” Lizzie threw a silver coin onto the ground, glinting in the mud. Then with a mighty shove she broke Laura’s grip on us, the two maidens tumbling over into the brook.

Applegold and I remained huddled together on the bank.

“Laura, Laura, oh, Laura!” Lizzie pulled her friend up and out of the water, dark gold streaming down her hair, red stains spreading pink. “Come back to me, my sweet!”

Laura’s eyes fluttered open, her stained mouth gasping. “Oh, Lizzie, I couldn’t stop.” She glanced over at us, eyes wide and unseeing. “Where did they go, my little goblin men?”

Lizzie looked up as well, scanning the bank as if she couldn’t see us. “They’re gone, Laura, it’s over. You’re safe.”

Applegold and I looked at each other, and realized the answer in the cold light. The sun had set, the moon had risen. We were safe.

Laura began to cry, and in one hand she held up the last, crushed, half-eaten plum, martyred fruit-flesh barely clinging to the pit. “I’ve eaten the forbidden fruit, it’ll never be over. I can’t ever untaste, unsee, unlearn—” she stared up at Lizzie, tears flowing, lips quivering. “I’ll never be clean again.”

I watched Lizzie pry the plum mash from Laura’s hand. She rubbed it on her own lips, her chin, her throat, then knelt in the moonlit water, presenting herself to Laura. “Then neither shall I. Kiss me, Laura, eat me, drink me, make much of me, I’ll be your forbidden fruit. We can be nasty, filthy goblins together.”

And they kissed as darkness fell and night flowers bloomed, and Applegold and I shivered, trying to calm our breathing.

“Can they hear us?” I whispered.

Applegold shook their head, teeth chattering. They got to their feet, dragging me along. Their eyes never strayed from Lizzie and Laura, and I watched as fear was slowly replaced by shame. And anger.

They turned to me abruptly. “You don’t look like a rat, Figrose.”

Even in the shaky coldness which was all that remained of me, I felt a burst of warmth. “Thank you, Applegold. You don’t look like a cat.”

We both turned back to Pinesweet, who had finally begun to unpetrify in the moonlight. He moved slowly, stiffly, uncurling like a fragile chrysalis. His big sad eyes blinked beneath his hat, and he reached for us with gnarled fingers. “Children. I’m so sorry, children—”

We limped towards him, turning our backs on the maidens. Applegold helped Pinesweet straighten fully, while I gathered what was left of our wares. Applegold and I pulled the cart while Pinesweet clucked for Peachpeach, and we moved along the brook, away from the maidens and their forbidden fruit. We left Lizzie’s silver coin where it belonged, in the cold mud.

By midnight we were back on the road, huddled close on the seat, alert and jumping at every sound.

“What happened to Meadowblue?” Applegold’s voice was low, as husky as always, but small.

Pinesweet flicked the reins, Peachpeach gave a gentle squeal. “Humans,” he said.

“Like that?” Applegold was sounding smaller and smaller, and I reached behind Pinesweet to gather both our tassels and hold them in Applegold’s hand with mine. They gripped tight, the tassel knots digging into our fingers and palms. I felt Applegold’s thumb move along the knots and braids just like mine did. We breathed together between knots.

“Yes,” Pinesweet sighed finally. “They use us as reflections. As doorways into new selves.”

No wonder we were taught to keep the orchard doors as far from them as possible. A shudder spurred me to my feet and—briefly letting go of Applegold’s hand—I began rummaging in the back of the cart.

“Careful, Figrose!” Pinesweet grumbled, scooting over to compensate for my weight. I managed to grab Applegold’s harp and the golden plate, handing them the first and keeping the latter so I could angle it towards them, showing them their own reflection. Brilliant and gold and beautiful even in moonlight.

“Sing,” I demanded.

Applegold looked uncertain. They plucked at the strings, still tensing in case it gave away our position to any nighttime travelers, but there were hours still till sunrise.

“Sing, child,” Pinesweet urged softly.

Applegold swallowed, and strummed, a melody less mocking than the one they’d played earlier in the day. It was sad, slow, but a rumble of anger ran through its core.

“Come take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,
Our feast is but beginning.
Our fruit is sin our flowers shame
Come eat your fill and lay your claim
To filth and love,
To truth and lies
To see yourself through goblin eyes.
And know we see you, too.”

Applegold reached for my hand again and I held it. They ran their fingers along my knuckles like tassel knots.

Show Notes

This quarter’s fiction episode presents "Ma’am, This is a Fruit Stand" by Maya Dworsky-Rocha, narrated and music composition and performance by Heather Rose Jones.

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online