Apples

Jess Anderson

War leaves no time for pyres and so when they were done, they buried us in shallow, unmarked graves. This was their ruin, the catalyst for their extinction. For of all bitches, dead and alive, a vindictive woman has the sharpest teeth, and two layers of dirt is easy to chew through.

We rose with skin white as snow, lips red as blood and hair black as ebony. Our nails and teeth were blades, our yellow eyes swallowed the moonlight. We were withered; our bones brittle, our faces lined like crumpled pieces of fabric. The oldest among us had been twenty-five. The youngest, seven. We could not breathe; we could not speak—our tongues were leathery lumps of flesh in our mouths. The only sounds we could make were low, baying moans that crested when we took in the mangled messes of our bodies. Slashes and gashes and gouges and tears and slits and knicks and rips. Our throats were open; we wore necklaces of our own blood.

And we were hungry. Oh, how hungry we were! It was unlike any hunger we had ever experienced, snarling and growling in our stomachs like rabid dogs. It was a specific hunger, too. A hunger that craved sweetness, the crisp crunch of flesh, syrupy sweetness on our tongues—

Apples! There—behind your head! Sparkling on the other side of the river, like little rubies hanging from a tree! Our hunger thrust us forward. Our feet swollen, we stumbled through the woods, howling and keening like wolves.

We crashed into the river, splashing and slashing at the hissing current until we were on the other side, below the tree.

The fruit on the ground went first, bleeding down our chins as we scoffed them, core and all. When they were gone, we sank our teeth and nails into the trunk, hauling ourselves up to the branches. This fruit was even better—ripe and blushing like the cheeks of little girls. We were a pack of starved things; one, two, ten, twenty, until the tree was as naked as we were. But it wasn’t enough. That vicious hunger in our bellies was not yet satisfied. We could smell them still—that fruit, that sweet, syrupy, fruit—floating towards us…

Footsteps. Hoofbeats. Silence. Not one of us moved; not one of us blinked. We waited.

A soldier was walking a horse down a winding path towards us. If he looked up, he may have seen us. He brought the horse to the river to let it drink, pet its hindquarters and sat down. He was a tall man with a plump, red face and a mess of acorn-coloured curls. His back was to our tree. We loomed above him like apes, still wet from the river. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a long sigh and there! That smell! Thick ropes of drool pooled in our jowls, running down our chins, running down our tree.

A droplet landed on his forehead. His eyes slammed open. He didn’t move; he didn’t scream. He gulped down his fear, and when he swallowed that little ball in his throat bobbed—that little apple.

We fell from the tree, shrieking, burying him beneath the writhing heap of our bodies. A frenzy of teeth and nails sank into his skin, peeling it from his bones. We pulled the apple from his throat. Slippery and slick with blood it bounced through our fingers before landing in the mouth of our youngest.

She bit down and it exploded like an over-ripe tomato, spurting red over her little lips. Her eyes widened; she issued a low keening moan. It was picked up by the rest as we turned our attention to the horse.

The thing reared back with a squeal and took off back the way it had come. We followed, tearing through the underbrush, trampling every green thing in our path. Smoke billowed in the distance—it made our minds flicker. A memory stopped us at the tree line.

A village—no, our village. Those were our houses, blackened and smouldering, windows smashed, glass mingling with ash.

Kill the men, keep the women.

These were not our men—our men were long gone. These men were foreign, cruel. They wore bronze armour, carried bronze swords; crimson cloaks were slung over their shoulders, pinned by bronze brooches. They milled around like maggots on the corpse of our village, illuminated by the giant watch fire burning in its centre.

A low growl began in our throats. We gnashed our teeth and stomped our feet. The soldiers turned, and in each of their throats we saw apples.

We lunged from the tree line meeting swords that pierced us but did nothing to stop us. Armour disappeared beneath our claws, giving way to soft skin and softer flesh. Slashes and gashes and gouges and tears and slits and knicks and rips. We opened their throats with our teeth; we savoured every apple. We relished the feel of them vibrating between our jaws.

And only when the last apple was swallowed did that savage hunger in our bellies quiet. The rain came. It put out the fire and cleared the smoke, revealing the moon. A soft breeze brushed our cheeks, and we felt our limbs growing heavy. The blood that stained our skin washed away and we glimmered like stars in the sky. The earth gave way, pulling us under, tucking us back into its gentle embrace. When we were buried, the dirt had been cold, but now it was warm, like a blanket.

And when we closed our eyes, we were at peace.

Jess Anderson is a creative writing student and emerging author of feminist fiction. Her work has appeared in Grapeshot Magazine. She currently lives in Sydney and can often be found daydreaming at the park with her greyhound, Mitzi.

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