by Reuben Vinal
I see an apple. A smooth, firm, red apple the size of my fist and a stem on top three-quarters of an inch in length. The apple hasn't a bruise on its body, nor any other scratch or blemish, even under close inspection. I smell the apple. Closing my eyes, I see the insides of my eyelids become vast orchards of ripe apples falling from apple trees and landing in a huge pile on top of me as I lie in the grass. They bounce off of my chest and my belly and my head and I can almost taste them. I open my eyes and pick up the apple. I hold it in my hands and run my fingers across its skin. I want to bite it but I must behold the apple with all of my other senses first, for if I bite it, it will never be the same. The apple is cool to the touch and reminds me of fine polished leather. Indeed, it is the perfect apple.
Before biting into the perfect apple, I hesitate. Do I really want to destroy the perfect apple? Yes, I must experience it in every way possible. I lick the apple. The perfect apple has no wax covering it. I cannot contain myself any longer. I turn the apple on its side and bite deeply into it, as though I were a vampire consuming his victim. The sound of the apple is crisp and true. Before chewing the bite, I move the piece of perfection around with my tongue, feeling its texture on the sides of my mouth. It is juicy and sweet. Almost too sweet, but nothing will stop me from chewing and swallowing my perfect apple victim. As my teeth divide the bite of apple, rich apple juice pours into my mouth. I must swallow you, my apple. I swallow the apple. I die.