This I wrote yesterday -- it was less than a page because I just wasn't willing to put the creative energy into figuring out the woman, or the orange, but the first part was a neat exercise of writing with all senses engaged.

She took the fruit firmly in her hands, the pitted surface tickling her fingertips as it gave way slightly to her touch. It was between coral and gold, imperfectly globular, and slightly blemished with brown. The bitter-fresh smell of it was faint, but she could taste its tartness in her memory. Looking inquiringly at the woman, she weighed it in her hand for another moment, and when the woman made no apparent response, sliced through the thick skin with her thumbnail. There was a sharp-smelling spray of juice as she pulled away the skin, letting the pieces of it drop to the floor. When she was finished, she held in her hand a unkempt orb, bits of white clinging to it on all sides.

“Seek its heart,” the woman told her, and once again she forced in her finger, this time to the center of it, and pulled it apart.

A brilliant flash of light blinded her and she recoiled, unable to drop the orange halves. There was a glassy cackle, then silence, then, nothing at all.