The Plucking of an Apple

Short Story by Lauren Kawamoto

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It is human biology that defines the rise of a deft-fingered hand, the crackly free fall of dry autumn leaves twirling and tangling amongst the rest of the undergrowth, or those fingers curling around the green-speckled but otherwise bright red piece of fruit that is plucked from the bud-peppered branch. Or perhaps it is simply human nature for that apple to be sucked between two rows of white-sharp teeth, for that tart, crisp flesh to simply disappear as if it had never been. 

“Ms. Woodson?”

She straightens a wood-curved spine. Swivels her puppeteer-guided head. Of the thirty chairs that were arranged in perfect rows, hers is the only one that remains occupied. 

She still can’t remember the names of the city teachers who flash through the years in her head. 

The city teacher pushes forward, plowing words through her heart-shaped lips like an iron-tipped shovel sweeping away the leaves. “The bell rang ten minutes ago.”

Bells. Tinny, sparkling mechanical devices that dizzy her ears, still so accustomed to the quiet chirps, neighs, and sighs of a barn in high summer twilight.