Creative Writing

'Mundane'

It all started on a Thursday afternoon. It was quite a mundane beginning.... Except for the apple.

It all began to unravel with a single apple.

A single throw.

A single bruise.

A single curse.

A single shout against horrid millennials.

A single sentence on how his world used to be better.

A single bite in the deep red fruit.

He dismissed it as a prank, or a shot-at-the-bin gone wrong. He hauled himself up on his stick, and began to venture back home.

Then, came the second day in his usual spot, in his day-to-day walk to the local park. Joggers passing by with headphones on. Dog-walkers throwing balls with a stick, not their hands. Some with coloured hair, some with shoulders covered in tattoos. Some with holes in their nose, lip, navel, or perhaps all three with extra in the ears. Some with all those features, playing catch with a stick, whilst jogging with headphones on, who have fluorescent hair and tattoos on their shoulders, with piercings on their ears, noses, lips and navels.

He leaned on his stick, polished from frequent use, and sighed a deep sigh. Then all was disrupted.

An apple.

A second throw.

A second bruise.

A second curse.

A second shout against horrid millennials.

A second bite.

The apple had been of interest for longer that day. The damn thing having been eaten two mouthfuls, not one. Sighing, he leaned back onto his stick, rubbing his back, the bruise blooming blue.

Then came the third day in his usual spot, in his day-to-day walk to the local park. Then all was disrupted.

An apple.

A third throw.

A third bruise.

A third curse.

A third bite.

This time, he had not the time to fault the new generation. He stared at the apple in wonder. Three days in a row? Surely nothing was happening? In this ordinary world, where life was a routine? How could something change, when nothing should be different. Perhaps a new routine? Though a fairly odd one... he turned around -apple in hand- wondering who may have thrown it. Wasn't surprised when there was no one there.

Then came the fourth day in his usual spot, in his day-to-day walk to the local park. Then all was disrupted.

An apple.

A fourth throw.

A fourth bruise.

A fourth bite.

This time, he swivelled around as quickly as he could, mouth falling when no one was there. He counted the bites. Four for sure. A countdown perhaps? For what? He leant in on his stick and pondered longer. A tough one to solve. That was certain.

Then came the fifth day in his usual spot, in his day-to-day walk to the local park. Then all was disrupted.

An apple.

A fifth throw.

A fifth bite.

This time, the apple fell next to him, rather than colliding with his back. Nothing much of the apple was left now, just a bit of skin on the tip and bottom, together with the stalk, and the obvious teeth marks. The riddle was getting harder, no clues were being given. He smiled at the challenge, it was to be solved soon.

Then came the sixth day, in his day-to-day walk to the local park. Rather than sitting, he opted to stand and wait. Rather than his spot, he was by a different tree.

An apple.

A sixth throw.

A sixth bite.

At him. Not the bench. A change in variables made something clear. This was for him, and not his position.

He went to a different park the seventh day. People were different, some with earphones rather than headphones. Some walking with friends, rather than dogs. Some had no hair, some were vaping. Some were doing all four. Relaxed that no one could possibly know he was there, he smoothed down his shirt and leant back onto is stick. Then all was disturbed.

An apple.

A seventh throw.

A seventh bite.

Nearly all gone, but the core. Big massive bites taken out of the fruit. A wave of cold hit his spine in worry. Who was throwing these apples at him so? He thought of all the theories, most turning up bizarre. Though anything was possible when the riddles were in such muddles.

On the eight day, he decided to walk around the park for once in decades, hoping to avoid the apple throwing youngster. His legs in a rhythm of left, right, left, right. His stick clucking the path besides him, supporting his aged and frail body as he walked.

Though when he stopped, all was disrupted.

An apple.

An eighth throw.

An eighth bite.

It couldn't really be called an apple looking at the state in which it was in. A bit of flesh, with seeds and a stalk, but if the pattern remained, this was the eighth bite.

That night he slept well, the slight movement taxing yet relaxing on his body.

The ninth day, he walked around some more, turning his head around, greeting the passer-byes, wondering if one of them was the mysterious apple-thrower. Then...

A plastic bag.

A ninth throw.

There was no apple left. All eaten by whoever decided to start this silly game. Though the bag came with a letter.

To the old man who has seen much, but has lost sight of the current. Take a look around, and see what you see. Everything has changed since the day one bite was taken. Not all is a routine. Perhaps you see that now. I hope you see the world anew, and life has become something better. Not some expected pattern of life that has gradually become habitual.

He stared at the note one more time, and took a look at the world around him. The grass somewhat greener. The clouds somewhat whiter. The day so much brighter.

Then, came the next day in his usual spot, in his day-to-day walk to the local park. Joggers passing by with headphones on. Dog-walkers playing fetch with a stick, not their hands. Some with coloured hair, some with shoulders covered in tattoos. Some with holes in their nose, lip, navel, or perhaps all three with extra in the ears. Some with all those features, playing catch with a stick, whilst jogging with headphones on, who have fluorescent hair and tattoos on their shoulders, with piercings on their ears, noses, lips and navels.

He leaned on his stick, polished from frequent use, and sighed a deep sigh. Then all was back to its normal, mundane self.