An Apple’s Life

• Ethan London, Grade 3
• Short Story
• 2017

“Brrrrrrr!”

It is bitterly cold as sleet and snow in the frosty fridge. Every time the light flickers on as the door opens, I’m overcome with anxiety, dreading the image of an enormous hand reaching into the crisper for me or the members of my family.

I’m Gerald, part of the granny Smith family. I’m tucked in between my sisters, Gemma and Gina and my parents Gretel and Grant. Our apple family used to live safely in a peaceful apple tree until the Tpoz family plucked us from the comfort of our branch.

The light flicked on again and this time, my fears came true. I was grabbed hurriedly out of the crisper. The soft fingers quickly grabbed my cold red skin and swiftly pulled me out of the chiller. Carelessly, I was dumped into a blue lunch box. I peered over and noticed petrified sandwiches, whispering to each other about being devoured.

“Phew, what a relief!”

I avoided Mrs Tpoz’s execution at morning tea as she lost her appetite after being fired by her boss. However, hours later, the sandwiches weren’t so lucky when her hunger pangs took over. As Mrs Tpoz greedily gobbled her peanut butter sandwiches, her elbow tilted the container and I rolled out onto the floor. I was saved by the soft carpet but became lightly bruised so that I’m now a golden yellow on one side of my face. Thank goodness for unrenoved kitchens with sloping floors! The rolling momentum glided me out of the Tpoz family front door.

As I glimpsed around for predators, I heard leaves rustle in the darkness and wings flapping. Suddenly, from the nearby elm tree a possum clambered down from one side and a fruit bat glided down like a spooky vampire from the other ready to suck my apple juice.

The battle for my delicious body started with a yelp and flap. Quickly it escalated until the possum kicked the fruit bat ferociously into the dark oblivion. Whilst they were fighting, a strong gust of wind blew me into the closest sanctuary - a hollowed out tree stump.

I’m safe for now, but I’m filled with dread about what lies ahead. Would ants soon be crawling all over me as the scent from my bruised body lay helpless or would I silently decompose here in this dark, damp, depressing stump?