Apples - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The apples lie on the ground bruised. Their once rosy surfaces are flat and dark where they should be rounded and some have the tell take signs of mould. I should pick them up, take them to the compost but I won't. I'm too angry with Rebecca right now, her and her stupid dolls. I am sorry I broke her favourite, but how long can I keep on being sorry for? When does forgiveness happen? So instead of picking up the apples like a good girl I kick them around for good measure, only satisfied when they smack into the brick wall and crack open. The air smells of them now, sweet and fragrant. That should soothe me I guess, but it won't. I'm not going to be happy until every last one of them is broken open on the sodden earth.
Frank sees the apple, but just from the corner of his eye. He doesn't need to turn his head to know it's there and really it's best if he doesn't. He can see that the skin is mottled red and green, that it is plump like the ones he saw in those story books his mother used to read. Finding an excuse to walk closer he picks up a box and saunters to the shelving on the other side. It's fresh from the tree, any fool can tell that. It still has green leaves that show no sign of wilting. He feels the saliva pool in his mouth. What does Mr Darcy want with an apple anyway? They're almost priceless now. He imagines the money in his pocket, sweet. He just has to get the old man out of the room, just for a moment. Easy money. He started spending it in his head, and it was only an apple after all.
When I walk in Joseph is juggling apples. Of course they aren't all the same, he's picked one of every colour in the store. This is how he relaxes, loosing himself in the moment, watching the apples arc through the air and back to his hands. Not long ago he dropped them all the time, but in recent years they sail through the air with no chance of ever getting a bruise. Sometimes I walk by and just swipe one out of the air - just to her him cry in mock protest. Other times I sneak up behind him and shout real loud to shock him, make him drop the lot, but that rarely works anymore. So instead I just fetch an orange and add it in – then I sit back with a coffee and watch him. He works that bit harder to keep them all in the air until he can aim the new addition at my head. He got me a few times, but I'm getting better at dodging.
The apples are so uniform it's like they came out of a mould. I guess the ugly ones are apple sauce. I pick one up, the skin is firm and smooth with only the slightest softness. Without biting I know that on the other side of that rich red skin is crisp white flesh and in this heat I want to take a bite. But first I lift the apple to drink in the sweet scent. Almost no-one under twenty in this district has seen one, let alone tasted it. Before my teeth break in to release flavour and recall those distant days, I pull it away from my mouth and stare again. I should take it to the pre-school and slice it up thinly. They might not even like it, sometimes it's hard to like something you've never had before – the unknown can be scary – even if it is only an apple.
The orchard at the end of the lane is nothing like the big commercial operations. The old boy who lives there plants only heirloom varieties. Their skins are works of art, perfect blends of red, green and yellow in patterns my hand could never paint. But better than that, they aren't shiny. Their sizes are as uneven as beach pebbles and you can't predict the flavour unless you know the variety. They have brown spots and the occasional worm – they're real apples. They don't shine since they aren't coated with wax, and in their dullness I feel safe enough to take a bite. No chemicals, no trucking between states, just fruit right off the tree.
The apples were fresh right from the trees and their taste was clean and sweet, none of the sharpness that he'd had with the supermarket apples. They had been green a month ago and quite small, but they had reddened from the stem, the blush radiating outwards like the light from a distant star, encircling the apples. Some green still shone through the red strands and the insides were white and crisp.
Fresh apple, crisp, refreshing, sweet, tangy, sharp. Granny Smith, Red Delicious, Royal Gala, Spartan. Apple orchard, twisted boughs, open centred trees, low hanging apples, September breeze. Organic apple, eco-friendly, pesticide free. Apple pie, cinnamon, ice-cream for me.