A short story to challenge myself, again. This time, I was aiming for a morose poetic display of hidden emotion. I wanted the apple to be real.
Soft echoes rippled across a black sea. Deep and boundless, the pool appeared to have no end. Perfectly stillness confused by the presence of a perfect apple, bobbing and innocent. Red and polished to a shine, the apple meandered across the vast liquid, half in, half out. Would it be corrupted by the sinister realm below, or float away untainted?
By unseen force, the apple turned lightly, as if brushed by a feather. Across the backside, it had been scared and appeared rotten. The twisted flesh seemed to fester with deep green and bruised black. This seared across in a gash of distortion, breaking up the perfect red surface.
Below came screams, snarling, and vile gurgles. The pool of depression gripped at the apple, pulling at it with determined effort. Confused, and dazzled by the darkness below, the apple bobbed down to investigate. Sometimes, it seemed, the apple enjoyed the depression; as if drowning in sorrow was the only possible answer.
Above the air was clear, and crisp: A stark opposite of the consuming bleak depths. Inspired on occasion by the happy openness of the air, our apple would emerge. Suffocating among the joyous open space. Above the air was different, and uncomfortable.
The apple bobbed uncertainly upon a distinctly thin line. If it were to elevate, all would be well. Yet, no one wanted the apple above. There was simply no need for it. What use is an apple, anyway? The apple is useless, and uninvited. It could sink oh so easily, and forever be forgotten to the spiralling deathbed below. This bleak future welcomed the apple with open arms.
Alone on this ugly sea, our apple bobs alone. Sink or swim; only the apple cares. Why? Why does this apple teeter-totter? Why continue this aimless adventure? No one cares, so why bother at all?
Just sink, little apple, your inners are disgusting and poison. You are tainted by the abysmal below. You look at the above, though through a farce of yourself. Quit this torture, and sink so your outer rots as your insides have already.
I like where this personal challenge took you. These lines stayed with me:
"...it seemed,the apple enjoyed the depression; as if drowning in sorrow was the only possible answer...
Inspired on occasion by the happy openness of the air, our apple would emerge. Suffocating among the joyous open space. Above the air was different, and uncomfortable."
Very real. Emotions reach out to be heard. Pen on!
~SilentDream
Jeff Martin, his friend, Hawk, and his dachshund dog are captured by Osage Indians. Eventually they escape and find their way home. Due to his unusual shape Adolphus is called a Spirit Dog.
