My world was one of gentle peaks and valleys, a landscape with the hues of summer, drenched in glorious sunlight. I swayed gently on my slender vine, feeling the wind’s gentle caress. At night, there was a soft glow about me, nothing dramatic, just the faintest luminescence. Moths sometimes fluttered near, drawn near yet never daring to land.There were others, of course. My siblings, scattered all around with a pleasing sense of order, their forms mirroring mine, although not as unique.
I was content in my observation post. Everything was just the way it was supposed to be. Everything in its proper place, and me in the middle.
The Gardener was the most predictable. Each morning, his great steps thumping upon the soft earth below. His calloused thumb would stroke my brothers and sisters, pet the animals, talk to them. I never worried for anyone.
Then there was her. The Gardener’s Wife, all soft movements and hair the colour of the dry earth piled near our roots. Her voice was a birdsong compared to his gruffness. Sometimes, she would stretch out on the grass below me, so close I could almost sense her warmth. She gazed upwards, but never seemed to truly see us – only the space between leaves, fragments of the ever-changing sky.
The Landlord I only heard. A rumble of a voice that drifted through the garden every afternoon. A deep booming voice, imposing yet calm and soothing. Our life was simple, our purpose clear. I was to stay where I was, they were to stay where they were. Friendly neighbours, but respectfully distant.
Then there were the visitors. Squirrels with their frantic scrabbling, climbing on top of everything and everyone. Birds who perched near me, their sharp gossip fading as they took flight.
Once, there was an animal that moved with a silent grace unlike any I’d witnessed. It would coil and uncoil among us, its scales catching the sunlight like ripples on water. I never heard it speak, but there was an air of knowing in its unblinking eyes, a strangeness that made me uneasy. It kept coming back, its gaze lingering on me even in broad daylight. Unlike the moths, it didn’t seem attracted by my glow. I couldn’t help thinking there was something sinister behind its interest.
Eventually, it came back with the Gardener’s wife. Never before had I felt fear. Until her gaze fell directly upon me. It was as if the sun had chosen me out of all the countless others. A stillness settled upon my world. Her hand, delicate as a moth’s wing, reached towards me.There was no sound, but I sensed the shift. A change in the very air. I would have screamed if I could. The delicate fingers closed around my stem. With a twist I was wrenched free. Light turned to dusk, the vibrant summer hues turned dark . The sense of falling, the crushing impact as she bit into my flesh… and with it, a rush of knowing. Not of myself, but of the world, of consequence, of choice. My juice dripped on the ground, a stain against the perfection of the garden.
I was no more, but in my absence, something new had sprouted. A terrible, warped sense of freedom. The taste lingered, not of sweetness, but of possibility, a bittersweet tang that spread through the very roots of this paradise. The world beyond the garden walls shimmered, a hazy mirage beckoning with promises and peril. And somewhere, a serpent smiled.
F. F
(Forbidden Fruit)
This is the first of a 3-part story.
Part 2 is here .
Grab the full collection of short stories here
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