Poison Apples

A flash fiction story by Tammy L. Breitweiser

Poison Apples

The last visual I saw was the fuzzy black ceiling. My eyes are open now and I lay a black bearskin with an apple in my outstretched hand. How very Snow White of me. The only time I have is the moment I am in. More apples surround me the pelt. I am tempted to eat since I have not tasted the juice and flesh in 5 years.

I stand to explore the room. My hand slides through the furniture although I can stand on the blue and white tiled floor. A piece of paper on a desk looks luminous and reachable.

A contract. A proposition is laid out on the parchment. Another life of possibility with simple parameters. For a gift of 20 years, I perform weekly tasks of service with no questions or deviations on my part. If rules are not followed death will be immediate.

I sign the page. I have nothing.

I sit and wait for instructions. The first task is simply to compliment every person I talk to. Easy peasy.

Week Two the card requires me to apologize to my mother even though she is wrong. I refuse. I am immediately compelled to bite an apple which results in me once again laying on the floor apple in my outstretched hand.

Will I ever learn? This time the paper says I can only live for ten.