Fall is in the air. The sun is bright and warm, but doesn’t
produce a sweltering heat, which may also be eased by the gentle breeze that
flows unhurriedly by. The air smells of earth and apples, plenty of which have
already fallen from the trees; forced from the comfort of a sturdy, lush green
home, surrounded by fresh, young companions to a morbid mass grave site, only a
short distance below, where they face inevitable rot and decay, which completes
their circle of life at the conclusion of this harvest season.
Yet, some may escape this unpleasant end, in exchange for
another. Those that may be salvaged, whose bruises have not spread like an
infection, penetrating to their core, and whose flesh has not been claimed as
home to any number of burrowing insects, are carefully scanned, turned hand
over hand, tenderly dusted of grit and grass, and placed snug in a bucket among
other fallen comrades.
Now, clustered together in anxious anticipation in a single
room with only a skylight, they await a plethora of alternative fates, which
depend upon the creativity of their grim reaper and the availability of
ingredients. Perhaps, they will be chopped into pieces, drowned, and boiled
into an unrecognizable pulp. Or maybe, once in bits, they will be drenched in a
sticky substance, suffocated between two sealed, heavy sheets, and endure a
steadily intensifying, roasting heat. Or,
they may even be pressed between heavy weights until they burst from the unbearable
pressure, their innards splattering and juices flowing freely. Some may be even
less fortunate, meeting their end slowly and agonizingly, one chomp at a time.
But I think that the “best” way to go is really a matter of preference.
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