An apple... Its arm extends toward the sky, as if trying to return somewhere. Maybe to where it began. It cannot cope with change, even as in its experience it was witness to the descent of others like itself. Or maybe its fate was unnatural, the consequence of something divine or otherworldly. The apple extends its arm upward, wishing to reunite with its world, always dissatisfied with its own fate... Always wanting to go back... Going back. It's interesting... But it distracts the apple from going forward... It distracts it of a darker future. So its arm is plucked off. Then its senses are impaired. The apple becomes paranoid. Uncomfortable. It rationalizes; realizes. It remembers its fall. It remembers seeing others like it fall. Then it remembers a tight grasp wrapping its being, suffocating the apple. Darkness follows. Its arm is removed and it rationalizes; realizes... It sees it is with the others; others like itself. Fear engulfs the apple. Suddenly it realizes it is not unique. It is the same. It is the same as all the other apples... This rationalization, realization, comes too late though. Suffocation... Again.
A gloved hand takes hold of the yellow-red fruit. The blending of colors almost makes it look orange. Ascent is soon followed with the force of forward motion seeming to continue in infinity. White razors close in on the apple as it is halted, almost entering darkness. Then there is the first slit; sweet blood of the apple tears out and into the coming abyss. The slit becomes a much larger incision until a chunk is finally pulled off, the yellow insides of the apple beginning to rot slowly. The chunk of apple disappears down a dark tunnel after being further grinded. Above the execution are two windows. The windows face forward, looking toward the concrete and tar. Looking at the large combination of glass and steal. An aggregate of colors, segregated by their location on the sides of steal or brick, lifted by polygons – mostly rectangles - stained by words and images. Words that give meaning to what these windows look toward. Words like, "Jewellery, 15% off!" A few minutes ago a basket of apples would have been the focus of these windows, and then a tan arm with a large white gloved hand reaching down to suffocate one of the apples as the visualization raised. Then the faint sound of another cursing, "Thief!", entering triangularly pointed receptors. Everything passes at an equal pace of happening.
A red shoe, separated by a horizontal stripe of white, hits the pavement. It moves up. Another appears on the opposite side. The process repeats again and a again, few breaks in between where the sneakers take off in unison. In preparation for their fall they distance, making room to balance, then returning back to their predictable movement as they plant the ground. Such perfect movement. It's like watching a video on loop. The same motion, perfected; never changing. It's the result of experience. The way a master smith carves an edge, a crafter smooths their masterpiece, or a painter adds depth to their picture. Through practice... Through running. Constant running out of necessity. Not because there is a strict desire to run, but because it has to be done. Desire comes from acquisition of excellence. It's impossible to not utilize such skill. It creates a challenge. It creates an excuse to use the skill. There are other alternatives, but none as rewarding as the endorphin high from running. It's an addiction. There is no immunity to the adrenaline or post feelings.
A pair of black gym shorts spread, the red sneakers sliding before coming to a rough halt kicking up dust and rocks in the process. Tiny spring fuzz balls on the concrete walk way jump up back into the air and float away slowly. A sneeze from a passing bystander follows. The legs kick forward again running down a narrow artificial path between two single story brick buildings. Coolness consumes the air. Sunlight reaches only the tip of one of the buildings, shade conquering the rest of the narrow space. Gloved hand reach onto the side of one of the buildings, blue spines and an orange vest pressing onto the other. The light becomes more intense as the alley begins to end. One step out and the swelling heat returns to the right leg. The figure exits, casually assuming position amongst the busy body of the crowd. He takes the form of a cell in an active bloodstream. Arms raise behind the head to cool the panting. Thoughts then vocalize, "Looks like that's it." Exhaustion is protected from the words; the breaths are taken in large controlled inhaling and slow exhales to show no sign of being winded.
Blinds of the windows close, covering the greenness inside them. The core of the apple is dropped, disappearing into the steps of an abundance of apathetic persons. Calmness takes control of the figure as the endorphins kick in. He continues to walk forward, blocked by a clot in the bloodstream. Walk flashes on the sign in front as a green dot shifts to yellow on the street light above, and then red. The sign changes in unison. Don't walk. A blur in the crowd, a balding man with a thick black mustache stops to stare at the core of the rotted apple. His eyes twitch as he looks forward, a clenched fist covered by the bodies of the crowd walking against the frustrated man. Next to him is another man. He's dressed in uniform, younger than the other; a clone to others while dressed in his blues. The older of the two points forward into the crowd, something strikes him as important. The latter of the two lazily looks at what's being pointed out; he's out of shape and judging by his task not very good at his profession. He simply nods, apathy still taking his full commitment. Just another day without any significance to him.
The runner takes one glance backward. Instinct possibly. He notices a body approaching with haste, recognizes the uniform; S.S.P.D clearly read on the chest pocket. "Cop" he thinks to himself, "No problem." Just another mess up placed on street and traffic duty to prevent distraction in the department. He plans his move, looking to his sides. The right side blocked by renovations to the side walk just on the other side of the street. His left side is open with a long stretch of concrete and buildings; shops, businesses, and apartment complexes. Red sneakers follow suit with others moving that direction. The blue figure disappears under the height of the crowd. The cop arrives at the end of the block. Walk. A car honks behind another; the driver in front distracted looking down at their phone, probably a text. The cop's target is no where to be seen. He looks to the left, notices something familiar for a second. Suddenly he becomes part of that vein. He reaches the end, still nothing. Apathy... The cop just doesn't care. He returns back to the angry vender empty handed. Just another failure.
There's a thick smell of coffee. An obnoxious "Hello" from a counter and a blonde girl in work attire – a green apron and visor – looks fakely with a smile at a new customer. Her teeth were inappropriately white; too white. Did she bleach them? It didn't matter. Just across from her sits a blue figure – a hedgehog, not a man - wearing a sporty outfit. Black gym shorts, a sporty orange vest, and sunglasses hooked to his triangular ears, hanging just above his green eyes. He held a newspaper, imitating the look of reading. All he really saw was a headline: Station Square Financial Crisis Over? His ears tuned to another conversation. Finances, not one of his concern, but it was all he could hear. Two hardened pals discussing the same headline he only glanced at.
"Mayor Jackson got us out of the crisis." A gruff voice spoke, coughing shortly after. The blue figure looked up, caught a glimpse of the participants in debate and then quickly covered up. Older men, about in their fifties or sixties judging by the grayness of their balding hair and their flannel button ups.
"I don't care!" The other retorted, "He's the one who made deals with the business men and politicians that got us into the problem in the first place. A little less than hero if you ask me."
"But he didn't actually do anything, it was all the businesses and their lobbying for certain stipulations."
"There you go," A sigh was heard, a sign of frustration, "Allowing these lobbyist to influence his decisions. Accepting their bribes. That's doing something. I think he should be punished with the others, but everyone looks at him as some sort of messiah. He's no better than the others. If you attribute anything to a crime you're a criminal. I don't care if you try to redeem yourself! You're still just another problem. Lock them all up I say! Let's get somebody in power who actually cares!"
"Right, and who wou-"
The hedgehog got up. He couldn't take any more. Every word they said went over his head. The knob of the door twisted, a bell sounded, and then he was gone...
