Windfall Apples | Flash Fiction

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

 

The knife cut through the wormy apple, hitting the cutting board with a deadened thunk. The two halves lay open and exposed, white flesh rapidly turning brown. A writhing bug popped from the rotted core onto the cutting board. Millie wasn't surprised. She considered it as it turned and turned in confused circles. After a moment she brushed the bug into the garbage, along with all the other black and bruised scraps.

She’d neglected her garden. She’d planted it with good intentions in the spring, but those intentions were quickly forgotten when the heat came in the summer. Now her apple tree had lost all its fruit. It wasn’t until the air took a chill that Millie remembered. The threat of approaching winter sent her repentantly picking up holey apples off the ground. 

This was penance, this cutting away the rot. 

She didn’t know what she’d do with all the soiled flesh that was left; how she’d carry the weight of it all. She sliced through another apple. There were no bugs in this one, and for a moment Millie’s breath caught in grief. How had she once so naively eaten any apple from the ground? Didn’t she know better, didn’t she know worms always destroyed? But she’d eaten anyway. 

Now it was autumn and all the fruit had fallen.

The bowl on the counter was only half full of browning skinned apples. It hardly looked like enough for canning. Millie wiped her hands on her apron. She retreated into the darkening dining room.

The ornate mirror opened like a window in the shadowed corner. If she looked, she would see the strands of strawberry hair falling from a hasty bun. She’d see the scar on her lips, the bruises on her ribs, and the heavy lines that still carried the weight of him. But she didn’t look; she ignored it like bugs in the trash can, cutting around all the rot. She should’ve known better; summer always turned sour in your mouth.

The dining set her parents had gifted her stood as sturdy as wisdom, made of heirloom wood. Millie sat on a chair and it held her. Faith, the lazy cat, hadn’t left the spot Millie had last seen her, curled on the table, waiting for Millie’s return. She stroked the cat’s fur; it was soft, and Faith accepted her touch. The autumn sky hung heavy out the dirty windows and Millie wondered if there would be enough salvageable fruit for canning. There had to be enough. She had to believe she was enough.