I pluck the apple off the
tree, making it shake and its leaves rustle in response. The first apple of the
day. It’s large, round, and red.
I move along the branch to pluck off the next one, another
the same perfect color.
Two trees down I see a tree with yellow apples. Maybe
I’ll make my way over there. I’m sure the kids would like a treat – usually I
can only bring home red.
In between trees the sun sneaks its way across the sky.
The rays light up the leaves, making them seem luminescent. The air is crisp,
and I am reminded that the fall is coming in strong. When the leaves die and
fall from their branches, I will be sad to hear them crunching under my feet.
But now the whole scene just seems so surreal. The only
thing that takes away from the beauty is the building to my right – the big,
square, white one with its name on the side facing me in big block letters: The Weltin Saunders Corporation.
I sigh, but I don’t feel regret. I know I’m stealing –
one of the most dangerous crimes – but I know what I have to do. When you have
a starving family at home, you learn that the rules aren’t the most important
thing anymore.
The yellow apples on those trees are also quite large, so
I grab two when I make my way over there. I’ve grown to love the sound an apple
makes when it’s pulled off its branches. Pluck.
Pluck.
I remember the first time I heard that sound. It was the
first time I ever stepped out of line. The first time I ever had to step out of line. But even then I
was stealthy and I knew how to steal. And now, it takes no effort.
And that first time I brought home apples, my mother
didn’t even care. We were all so desperate for food that it didn’t matter where
we got it or who we stole it from, even if it was off the land of one of the
highest government buildings in the area.
I slide down the tree, grateful for my black, long
sleeved shirt and skinny dark jeans, but not for my blonde hair. It stands out
too much, falling to my waist, a foot and over of thin, straight brightness.
In my hands are eight apples. Six red ones, and two
yellows.
From there I run as fast as I can back home without
dropping the apples. We don’t live far – but we were on the other side of the
building than the city was. We wouldn’t have the money to live there, anyway.
So instead we live in our rundown shack standing on rotten wood and under the
rusting shingles of our rooftop.
But the apples are ripe and juicy and the trees are green
and growing. What more can we ask for?
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A/N: This is the beginning of my story, Apples. I hope you like it and I might post the second chapter?
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