Biting The Apple

The 60's brought peace, love, flower power and Honeycrunch. Just right for a hardened, biting-cold, Minnesotta winter.

I worked the hinges on my mandibles a bit and wondered if my jaw would disarticulate like so many broken and disjointed thoughts of late, like the illuminatingly foggy notion of joyfully extricating a worm from the hole it had made, only there was no worm, but it dawned on me that the taunt stem was reminiscent of an old germanic irminsul pillar and I fancied saxon pagons in fervored dancing around the trunk.

The crisp had a greenish-yellow background and was covered in a reddened orange flush and the sun had kissed it with a hint of pale pink from its furnaced lips.

His sagastic grandparents, the famed Golden Delicious and a firm Haralson, birthed with glee, sacchrinistic Honeygold, in the turbulent 30's who was thought to have wed Macous, but had likely married, Keepsake, and gave birth to dear young, innocent, Malus, the Honeycrunch who sat before me, who didn't know his mother and only had inconclusive DNA tests to rely on. I took possession of him while he was still small.

The market, scented with apple blossoms, held scores of his kind. I would be returning, soon.

Though not as bright as his friend MacIntosh, I pierced his virgin white flesh, with my molars leading the charge, filling the air with a viscous soft crisp crunch, disturbing flecks and russet dots. He was bred for this and discharged his solemn duty, faithfully. I hungrily ingested his tender purity and digested his wholeness within me.

Malus was a sweet young pomaceous rose with but a trace of pear-drop settled on my coralled salmon mouth muscle, Too bad the domesticus had neither depth nor complexity.

But still, life was seeded in his core beliefs and I would plant them for future generations. This, in stark contrast to having just tossed out his remains for the dark ravenous birds to salvage without so much as even pomp and ceremony.