The window flies out of view in a rush of red, green and white and little black seeds.
Jack falls painfully, decisively back into the sea of apples that was once a back yard.
He feels something in his hand, tries to raise it to his eyes.
Every tiny bruise is a bastard with a hammer as he struggles to raise his arm from the weight of the terrorist fruit.
“This isn’t funny, Doc,” he mutters softly as his hand is finally freed, “…apple pie doesn’t even begin to enter into it.”
With a sigh, he gingerly bends his arm in front of his face, turning his wrist to face the object to himself.
Long small bit, check.
Smooth, slightly rough, slender, narrow with a bit of a sharp tip and a little round pushy bit, check.
Round, dimpled four times on bottom, but only once on top, check.
Roundish, dumpy, check.
Smelling of sweet pie, of spicy cinnamon, the juice of a lemon and warm summers, check.
Of course it’s an apple.
To be continued in: Freedom to Live