Found Fiction: Apple Cores

I once ate an apple, and when I got to the core, I took one look inside to see the brown seeds. Instead, the seeds and the walls were covered in fuzzy gray mold. The apple had been dying inside — was dead inside — all along.

In one motion, I spit out the piece I had just put in my mouth, tossed the core away and immediately brushed my teeth. I didn’t touch another apple for more than a month, and when I did, I didn’t eat toward the core. I’d enjoy the juicy flesh, but I didn’t want to take the chance of finding out if it was dying on the inside.

That’s the way we deal with people, isn’t it? We like them until we get to their core, and if they’re gray and fuzzy, we toss them aside and spit out the good part because we’re paranoid that some of that fuzzy badness will rub off on us, and our own mouths will turn to gray and fuzzy. We wash our hands of them, brush our teeth of them, try to forget we ever dealt with them. And what scares us the most is if that juicy, flavorful, shiny person has a sickening inside, then any juicy, flavorful, shiny person has the potential to have that sickening inside. And there’s no way to tell just by looking at them, or by biting into them. You have to spend the time ripping the flesh from them and diving deep, enjoying each sweet taste until you get to the core and find out if there’s brown life or gray death. You have to get to the core.

This was found in notes from July 2017. Even now I’m not sure who I was specifically writing about, or if I was just getting maudlin about a bad apple at lunch that day.

#NaNoWriMo2017 Day 27: “Dread and Adoration”

He thought — and then red wine made him say it aloud — that he shouldn’t adore her so much. He dreaded how it would end for him.

The thing about adoration is that it fades fast, like a half-formed idea that’s forgotten among the hustle of a day only to reappear in the dead of night when he rolled over and smell her perfume on his skin, or hear in his head how she somehow could pronounce “literally” as “litchrally” without sounding pedantic. All he’d think about for the next 30 seconds of wakefulness was her: Wonderful, riveting her.

But dread? That’s what kept him up the rest of the night after her perfume had faded and voice had quieted. He studied the book of everything they had said, done, planned, agreed upon, disagreed upon, bonded over or fought over in hopes of calming or confirming his fears that this was a paperback beach read of a relationship. So many nights he stayed up reading and hoping with every page turn that he would find a passage that proved this wasn’t just an author’s cruel joke of a novel meant to make smart readers feel outmaneuvered.

Just as he rounded the 10th or 11th chapter — he had lost count of how many nights he had spent on her porch, on her couch, in her bed — he realized that he had to make a choice. He could keep running his eyes along every curve of every letter of every word, hoping to find a single phrase pointing to this relationship not being a waste of time.

Or he could leave this book, unfinished and unwanted, for someone else to try to decipher late at night. Best wishes to whoever cracked her spine next.

#NaNoWriMo2017 Day 23: “Tightropes”

All these people were walking a tightrope at one point: Balancing in a line on a line until the cable forked and some went left and some went right. And as they struggled even harder to make it on their own lines, they noticed the other lines and declared “mine is better” or “yours is better.” Some pushed, some were pushed, and almost everyone fell off.

And the joke of it all? If they had just looked ahead instead of at each other, held hands instead of shoving shoulders, they would have seen that all the tightropes came back together into one and tethered into the same endpoint.