I've officially deemed Wednesday "Writing Prompt Wednesday." Every Wednesday (or as many as humanly possible) I will post a writing prompt and my response to it. Some will be fun and silly and some will be serious and thought-provoking. Feel free to tackle the prompt yourself in the comments section. It will be fun!
Write a story from the point of view of an apple, sitting in a fruit basket on your kitchen counter, observing life around it. (Courtesy of writersdigest.com)
Not much to do in this little kitchen but wait for her to come back in and eat. Again. I think the safest thing to be in this kitchen is a piece of fruit. Pastries and baked goods don't stand a chance. Sometimes I try to wager with the oranges on how many cookies she'll eat in one day. But they're boring and never take me up on it. Once in a while I hear her stub her toe and curse under her breath. That's fun, too.
The baby is terrifying. He makes me grateful I'm not a plastic cup or a cheerio. If I was, my fate would be smashed in pieces all over the floor or half-chewed and smeared in the baby's hair. I bet if he could get ahold of me, he'd sink his baby teeth into my skin, too, but luckily she pushes the basket away from him every time he tries to grab it. Thank goodness. I have nightmares about being grabbed by those drool-covered fingers.
My place in the basket gives me a perfect view out the kitchen window. I can see green pasture, grey mountains, and a few fluffy white clouds. I try to imagine what it would feel like to hang from a tree on top of that mountain, to feel the wind rush against me, to see everything, not just this little room and its cheesy white cabinets. That is my dream. To see the world.
I told one of the oranges this once. She sneered at me and asked what would happen to my shiny red skin if I was dropped on the ground. I stopped talking to her then. Those oranges. They think they're so much better than everyone else just because they have an inedible peel.
The bananas were nicer, but they didn't stick around very long. They started getting brown and pungent, and he came in, grabbed them, and...I shudder to tell of it. He peeled them, sliced them, and threw them in that big black cold place. It was terrible. I can't let that be my fate. I must make it to the mountain!
I accidentally said that out loud, and the orange next to me said if I was lucky I'd end up in a pie. Just as I was trying to come up with a sassy reply, the man picked her up, peeled her, and ate her, slice by slice.
That's what you get for dashing my dreams.
The Brown-Eyed Apple, er, Girl