stories unfold and caramel apples bob up and down.

I thought of another story to tell.

Ohgodwhyisthishappeningtome.

He tells her, once, of the sweet, caramel apple. Bobbing red with a fresh layer of lie. He stares at her. She takes the apple, peels its lie layer by layer and hands him the fruit. He devours it whole and leaves the [apple] core of truth to her care. It rots and burns her.


He tells her, twice, of the beautiful, fragile flowers. Alive with happiness and grace. He stares at her. She gives him her youth and watches as he mercilessly plucks the petals one by one. He hands her the wilting flower of her youth and walks away.


She grows old.


He tells her, thrice, of the pure, unstained canvas. Rough with tales of aging, yet light as a feather. He stares at her. She glances at her own canvas, framed up and hanging around her neck. She removes the canvas from the frame and passes it to him. Her soul is in his hand.


This time, he walks away, vanishing, leaving her with the wilted flower and the burning, stinging core of truth.


Every single person he meets, and yes, he meets every single one of them--they pass him their apples, their flowers and their canvases. 


Oh yes, and his name is "Life".


lalalala.

sigh.
sleeeeeeeppppppppp.