by M.J. Moores, OCT – Author. Editor. Business Owner.
The apples for the pie were picked from Old Man Wicker’s orchard. Waiting for the oven timer to ding, Alexis considered her actions: she knew she shouldn’t have scaled the ancient wooden fence, knew of the local stories, and knew of the suspicious reports – but they beckoned.
Washing dishes that morning after the kids left for school, a bough blew over into the back yard dropping a gleaming green Granny on the kid’s play set. Drying off her hands with the dish rag, she ran into the yard before she forgot.
She couldn’t leave it there – knowing what she knew. But neither was Alexis able to toss it into the compost once she held it in her hand. The apple was perfect: no blights, no insect nibbles, no bruising.
Gripping the round, ripe fruit, she had taken a bite… and now, the pie she baked with those very apples bit her back.
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