Malus Domestica

I’ve been living alone longer than what most people seem to think healthy. They all want me sent to that windowless prison they call a hospital; I know it. Every time I sneak into town to sell my homemade cider and other wares, I find a place to hide and catch up on the gossip. I know they all talk about me… they all think about me. Some of them speculate that I killed my dear husband, but they don’t know a thing about that. He wasn’t even at home when he passed on… and I had lived miserable every day since. Just because I don’t cry in public they assume I don’t cry at all.

Living on the outskirts of a small town has many advantages- privacy, acres of land, and little contact with nosy neighbors. Solidarity of this sort truly can be enough to drive some mad, but I couldn’t find it more relaxing. The only time I feel truly happy is when I am cradled under one of our hundreds of apple trees reading a book in the spring or picking apples by the bucket load in the fall, turning some to cider and others to pies.

I can’t blame the villagers for gossiping about me though. I have a sense of humor that is rather… well, twisted, as my husband would say. When I first heard the word “mad” mentioned in connection with my name, I decided to embrace it. I muttered to myself all day scaring anyone I passed by. If anyone spoke to me, I would stare at them a long while before answering. Sometimes I would even twitch. It was all in jest, but as nobody in the village ever bothered to call at my house or really get to know me, nobody understood.

This didn’t bother me until the doctor came by.

I still remember the first time it happened. I was shocked- I don’t remember anyone ever knocking at my door. When I peaked through the window and saw his stupid white coat with a stethoscope and his medical bag in hand, I had to stifle a laugh. I had grown up with George and could think of nobody less suited to be a doctor than him. But in a small town, desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures.

I opened the door, but not enough for him to squeeze through.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Good morning, Alice!” he said, though it was three in the afternoon.

“It’s three in the afternoon.” I said, which he must have mistaken for “Do, come in” since he pushed through the door and stepped into my kitchen.

I saw him sitting nervously on a barstool as I walked in to see what he wanted. He just stared at me as if expecting me to say something, so I offered him a drink.

“Juice?”

“Yes please, as long as it’s not apple.” He replied.

Of course it’s apple, you idiot, I thought but didn’t say. Then I remembered his allergy and felt bad for calling him an idiot, even if only in my head.

“Water it is then!” I said uncharacteristically cheerfully.

He took the glass and drained it before looking at me again. He started to speak several times before he managed to string a full sentence together. And they think I’m mad, I thought bitterly, their beloved doctor can’t even speak.

”How…” he eventually managed, “how have you been, Alice? Since last June, I mean.”

“I’ve been fine.” I snapped. He seemed to either not hear or not understand because he just continued on.

“People in town have been concerned about you. You have been acting strange since then and people are taking note, Alice. We’re all worried. That’s why I came here today. I think it would be best for all of us if you came with me somewhere I could help you better. If you just came to the hospital, you could live there quite comfortably, and I would be able to help.”

I fought against the accusations, the charge to leave my beloved house, and George’s medical qualifications for hours as he repeated back to me the same nonsense he had been spewing since he arrived. Eventually, as a closing statement, he said “Well, I will return tomorrow… with my car, even. I shall expect you to be ready at 8:00 in the morning. Good day, Alice.”

As he shut the door, I shouted “IT’S EIGHT O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, YOU FOOL!” which, in retrospect, didn’t make him like me anymore.

This all took place three weeks ago, yet here I was, comfortably baking an apple pie in my own kitchen. George had expected me to go down without a fight, the simpleton. True, I had to stay up late every night plotting a way out, but I had managed it so far even though he returned every morning at 8:00 sharp. I must be the only sick person in town, at least in his eyes.

The first morning was sloppy, but it was all I could do with such short notice. When he came, I opened the door and offered him some water. What I didn’t tell him was that I had spiked it with the smallest amount of apple juice. He ran from the house with his tongue so swollen up he couldn’t even properly threaten me or tell me he would return tomorrow.

By now, it had become a game for me. Now that he is better prepared for my tricks, I have to find more and more clever ways to bring on an allergic reaction. One day, my entire pathway was lined with halves of big red apples. Another, I had rigged a bucket to drop on the head of whoever first walked on my porch filled with apple skins and cores. Apparently his reactions were bad enough to make him flee but not so bad that he didn’t try again the next day.

I put the finishing touches on my pie crust and set it in my ice box. I would wake up early tomorrow to set it in the oven so it would be in place on the windowsill to cool when he approached.

As long as I never ran out of apples, he will never be able to drag me away and lock me up.

An apple a day will keep the doctor away.

Round Up: Week Six

Prompt: Write a story using the most vivid dream you can remember. You can change the characters in it if you wish, but the plot should stay the same.

Amanda

As soon as I read the prompt for this week, I was really excited because I think I have pretty freaking cool dreams. Unfortunately… as soon as I tried to remember them, I couldn’t remember ever having a dream in my life. The only one I can remember details of, even now, was the basis of this story- I dreamt I was in my church building and there was a picture of Ariel with a crown on and somebody was trying to convince me the crown was a clue. Also I spent most of the dream looking for a bathroom.

I wrote the poem because I can’t dream in poetry and changed myself to Cinderella (called Ella in the story) and whoever was talking to me to Philip. I love Disney and the idea that their hidden secrets within movies could actually be clues to a quest. Disney, you should get on that, I know plenty of disneyphiles who would love a good quest with clues hidden in classic movies, with or without a fortune waiting at the end. Maybe just like a really cool hidden mickey and a dole whip stand.

MY VOTE: Kylie

Korrin

I wrote this story at 11 o’clock at night so my brain was kinda dead.  The dream I wrote about was the only reoccurring dream I have ever had.  The captain in my dream really was my mother and she really did stab me in the chest and it was terrible and awful, mostly because you can’t go and sleep in your parents bed after your mom kills you in a nightmare.  I picked the dream because I had had it so often and it still frightens me to this day.

MY VOTE: Kylie

Kylie

NOTE: I published my story early Wednesday morning. I hit publish. I made sure it went up. And for some reason, it did not publish. So I claim sanctuary.

Don’t hate me because I was late this week, hate me because I’m the fairest in all the land. Just don’t be offended if I turn down any apples you try to offer me.

I had to try to find something off-limits this week. I have so many dreams that evolve into the basis of one of my future novels that it was difficult to find something. That contributed to my lateness, along with other personal stuff. So for this prompt, I wrote about the time I met a genuine rock star in one of my dreams. Except in my dream, it was Pink, and I spent the rest of the dream waiting for her to call me back. It was quite rude of her to leave me hanging like that. I would have even settled for a text. I also left out the part where after the commercial was done shooting and they had cleaned up the plaza, Joss Whedon showed up and started filming the end credits scene for Age of Ultron. The crew noticed that I was trying to take Snapchat pictures/videos, so they started taping up things over our windows so that we couldn’t leak pictures. Unfortunately, all they had was paper plates, so we had paper plates very hastily and poorly taped over our windows.

I still got awesome pictures, though.

I’m fairly happy with how it turned out, but I think I’m far happier with the fact that I actually got something written.

MY VOTE: Korrin

Next Week’s Prompt:

As a writer, the number one thing we are told is “AVOID CLICHES AT ALL COSTS.” So this week, we’re writing with cliches. But--plot twist!--you have to earn your cliche. Does this mean it’s literal? Does this mean it’s figurative? Does this mean it has to prove a point and ends up as a terrible pun, as commonly happens in the comic strip Pearls Before Swine by Stephan Pastis? IT DOESN’T MATTER! Just earn it.

I Might Even Be a Rock Star

                It’s a warm day today, and warm days make me tired. The last thing I want to be doing right now is walking home with a huge backpack weighing me down. I’m just so tired. I’m tired all the time, lately. It’s not like my classes are any more stressful from the past two semesters. Maybe it’s the new commute. I used to drive for an hour to get to school, but ever since the move, I walk all the way there and back. It sounds like a fair trade, but I walk through downtown to get there, so it almost isn’t.

                I can see my family’s apartment from here. It isn’t hard, to spot I guess, considering that we have a huge penthouse. I guess the apartment’s nice. There aren’t any dogs and its pretty quiet living up in the sky. The adjustment was difficult, though. One minute, Mom’s running around the house with wild eyes, waving some scratch card over her head, and the next, we’re moving into a penthouse downtown with lots of fancy art. I don’t know how much we won, but based on the way Mom smiles when I ask her, I know it’s a lot.

                I hitch my backpack up on my shoulders and duck under some yellow tape that’s in my way. There are barricades in the middle of the street that say “road closed,” but it’s probably just road construction or something. Nothing I can’t handle walking through. I’m sure I could flatten a steamroller right now through sheer will power. I get angry when I’m tired. I don’t think there’s a word for that, yet. There’s “hangry,” but as much as I love food, lack of it doesn’t usually upset me. It’s being tired that gets me all riled up. There should totally be a word for being angry because you’re tired. Get on that, internet.

                There’s something going on in the plaza. It looks weird. There are giant boxes, and… a tree? It looks almost like a playground, with all the bright colors. Well, the color I can see underneath the huge piles of white. They can’t be installing something new. The plaza is in the middle of downtown. It’s where the city lets local bands play. It’s where the city holds all their big festivals. Heck, it’s even where they hold the farmer’s market on early Saturday mornings. They can’t take all of that away and put a playground there. It’s part of the city’s cultural history! They can’t replace it with… with…

                Christmas?

                Oh my heck. I’m such an idiot. Mom warned me about this as I was scarfing down my bagel before class. We all got the notice that one of the large department stores was shooting a Christmas commercial out here this afternoon. There’s no road construction, just sleighs and banners and presents. And that means that there isn’t anything keeping me from walking in the middle of the road.

                I try to walk in the middle of the road as often as I can. It’s a liberating experience for me. I’m exactly where I’m not supposed to be, and nobody can stop me. Plus, I’ll have cross the street at some point anyways, so why not just start walking that direction now? It’s like killing two walking related issues with one road closure sign.

                For now, I’m walking in the middle of the road, one foot in front of the other, trekking on the way home. I can hear someone walking behind me. Apparently someone else had the same idea as I did. I guess they could also be coming to kick me out of the middle of the road. The director or someone could be pulling a diva fit because there’s an extra out of place. The person is walking faster. I’m not going to try and run away. I’m going to be off the street soon enough, so they can calm down for thrww minutes and let me get home.

                “Long day?”

                I don’t turn towards the woman’s voice. Instead, I kick a pebble. “You have no idea.”

                “Yeah, man, I know how that goes.” She chuckles. “So what’s up?”

                I shrug. “I’m in college, and I walk there every day. Either one of those alone is bad, but put them together, and—“

                “Damn. That is long.”

                I glance up at the lady. She looks genuinely surprised. I’m sure I do, too. My family doesn’t swear, and neither do any of my friends. At least, not very often.

                “Yeah,” I say slowly. There’s something weird about this lady. And it isn’t just the fact that she’s decked out in a bunch of furry winter gear. It’s that she looks familiar. She’s just old enough that I know I don’t recognize her from high school, but she’s young enough that she doesn’t look like a teacher. “Sorry,” I finally say after this long internal debate with myself, “I really don’t mean to stare, but you look incredibly familiar.”

                She grins. “Well, it’s nice to hear that for once. I usually get screams of ‘oh my God‘ and ‘sign my boobs!’ I take it you don’t listen to Top 40 radio?”

                “Well, I do, actually, but—“ Her lips are bright pink. She has bright pink lipstick on. Top 40 radio and bright pink lipstick can only mean one thing.

                The one and only rock goddess Magenta is standing in front of me.

                “You—“ I stammer, “you’re Magenta.”

                “Hell yeah I am!” She’s laughing. “Oh man, you should see your face right now. It’s golden.”

                I’m walking down the street with a rock star right now. This is real life. Sure, I don’t know many of her songs or obsess over her, but… she’s a rock star. She’s met the president of the United States of America.

                “I’m like… wow. I’m so sorry. You must be—and you’re in,” I point halfheartedly towards the plaza, but I can’t stop staring at Magenta. My best friend from middle school would be flipping out right now.

                “Hey, don’t worry about it. It isn’t often that I get to talk to someone like a person, even if it is for only thirty seconds. I’m just sorry I don’t have a signed headshot or something for you. Do you have a phone? We can totally take a selfie or something. I’m supposed to be heading to the set, but I can stop for a few. What are they gonna do, fire me?”

                My head is still reeling. “Actually,” I hear myself say, “I live up there, in the penthouse of that old casino. You’re always welcome to stop by. Do you want to have dinner with us? Mom’s making spaghetti.” I sound like I’m in kindergarten and asking for my friend to stop by. This is absolutely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Now I will live my whole life knowing that I was an idiot in front of the rock goddess Magenta.           

She laughs. “You know, I just might. I’m heading to set now. See ya later, dude!” She waves as she jogs to set. I stand there and watch her leave for a moment, then immediately run home.

                Just wait until Mom hears about this.

A Pirate's Tale

We had ship wrecked.  For the fourth time this year. It was starting to get really annoying, but there were freak storms everywhere.  Guess that's what people would call karma for a pirate.  I had been sailing the seven seas since I became of age and nothing as bad as this year had every happened before.

I woke up on the beach. Not necessarily a weird thing after a ship wreck but I'm happy I lived all the same. None of the crew are around me so I should probably start looking for them.  First, I have to stand up though and that is never an easy thing to do when you feel like you inhaled three gallons of sea water and then got slammed against some very sharp rocks.  I start by sitting up.  The world hasn't turned upside down on me yet, which is a good sign.  I finally make it to my feet and have a look around.

We crashed on an island.  Big surprise.  There was a hill that ran up to what looked like a small oasis.  I should probably start there to look for water and the others.  But the beach is so beautiful that I can't not walk around a bit.

The sand is golden and soft.  It isn't really hot either, peculiar for the middle of the day.  There are no rocks or seaweed on the beach, in fact the tide doesn't really go past a certain point, like it is avoiding hitting the island at all.  Everything is really calm, there are no waves in the water and when I look up at the trees they aren't swaying in any wind.  I must have been conscious for a long time, there isn't any sign of a storm blowing through at all.

I also don't see any pieces of our ship. That's great. We will have to start from scratch. Just brilliant.

I keep walking along the edge on the beach, something feels wrong here but I can't put my finger on it.  I stumble here and there, the water must have done something to me or I wouldn't be tripping over nothing.

I feel as if I have been around the whole island when I hear a sound behind me.  I turn around and see her, the Captain.  She also happens to be my mother.

"Thank goodness you are alright!" I shout and start to move toward her.  She isn't moving sluggishly like I am, but it can't be easy for her to move around in the soft sand with her peg leg.  She is holding her cutlass at her side and her eyes tell me that something wrong has happened.

"Mum? Are you alright?" I ask. I am much closer to her now and she is staring at me blankly.

Suddenly she gives a ferocious yowl and charges me.  I fall over into the sand.

I turn and spit grit out of my mouth. That's when I see that my mother is standing over me with her sword pointed at my chest.  I freeze like I had been taught to do.  My weapon had been washed away while I was out and I was completely defenseless.

"What is going on?" My voice is quavering.  The look in my mum's eyes is terrifying.  I have only seen her look this way when one of the crewmen tried to mutiny and she tossed him overboard.  Seriously what kind of idiot mutinies by himself? Anyway, I was horrified.

"You should have known better child." She tells me.  Her voice is soft, but in no way warm.  Her eyes tell of a hatred that I have never experienced before. "This is what was coming for you, what was always coming."

"Mum I don't understand. What has happened to you?" I can feel water on my cheeks and it isn't the kind of salt water you get from a spray of the sea.

"Nothing has happened." She says.  That's when she swings down her sword and stabs me in the chest.

I feel cold, and my shirt is suddenly wet.  I thought there wasn't any waves. That's right there isn't.  Then what is this wetness on my shirt?

I look at my mum and my vision is tinted red.  She is smiling with glee and that's when I know that my mother killed me.

The next thing I see is the bright blue sky over head.

And then...

Nothing.