The Rotting Apple

January 22, 2018
By matt_K BRONZE, Phoenix, Arizona
matt_K BRONZE, Phoenix, Arizona
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"HIKO, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" ~Anders Blume

A radiant apple, red and ripe, previously the fruit that was destined to be greedily handpicked by a committed hand. A bustling metropolis, formerly the host of economic boom and hefty profits to be made from the grand city. The metropolis has forgotten its glorious past, the apple shrinking, the city has appeared to have grown smaller, the apple deciding not to blossom anymore. The urban land does not bustle with the activity of a joyous community, all seeking ways to bolster their once healthy coffers. The activity; however, consists of a frightened mass of virtually displaced persons, all attempting to invent quick methods of increasing their odds of successfully evading the disaster’s consequences. An apple, no longer ripe and sweet, has descended into a state of rot and bitterness.

The people were becoming less of themselves in the last decade. The fading sense of civility was packing its bags and leaving whatever was left behind. Men were desperate to arrive in the breadlines before someone else could land a step further ahead of one another. Many thought to themselves of what the future could hold after observing the current state of their beloved city, once a bustling metropolis.

That man over there has no shoes to cover his feet.

The man in front of me is wearing a fedora that appears to be turning into a muddled mesh of broken fabric. Should I offer him mine? I certainly do not need this old thing more than him.

Some of the men were indeed willing to help others in need; however, other men were not as morally blessed.

Hey Charlie, you see that fella with that hearty paper sack of meat?

Yeah, what about him?

Well, we could follow that dupe and knock him out cold if he doesn’t look in our direction, and snag that grub for ourselves, what do you say?

I don’t know Joe, seems awfully wrong.

Well how else are we going to survive this hell of a mess, I ain’t one of them butter-and-egg men you know?

You’re right, let’s strike when there aren’t any cops laying around.

The women who were the mothers of struggling families were failing to maintain the overall well-being of the family. The women were becoming careless, unprepared for any unexpected events after the stock market had fallen flat on its face. The children were desperate to find ways to entertain themselves, similar to the halcyon days of their childhood. Many of the youngsters played in the filthy streets, searching for sunken treasure in the contaminated, man-made rivers that flowed from the gutters of the city. Mothers would shift their heads in the direction of their children, who seemed miles away, when they were only several feet away. The mothers were adrift, losing control over the family, slipping into sudden moments of stupefaction.

What will become of us?

What happened to the past decade, when times were swell?

How did this happen so abruptly, where will we survive?

Questions, questions, and questions were being formulated amongst the victims regarding the economic blow to their beloved country. Questions in dire need of answering, questions that meant progression or downfall for a population within a city. The apple was withering, its inhabitants were withering, the overall impression of the once bustling metropolis, was withering. An apple maggot arrived at this rotting apple. The apple maggot feasted on the apple, similar to how new ideologies consumed many frantic citizens during this fearful time. Communism was an apple maggot, consistently attempting to grow within the apple. Socialism, another apple maggot, flying about an anxious trove of weary minds. Minds forgetting the lofty jazz that dissipated from the uninviting aura of political radicalism. Minds yearning for a new and promising event, motive, entity, any sign of life.

This damn government, the old coot in D.C. has lost his marbles.

We are going to lose our marbles if we don’t find something fast, and guaranteed.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, where many people began to construct new homes after losing their superior castles to the banks. The banks were the kings and queens of the citied kingdom, heavily influencing the commoners’ actions. The commoners were the weary, the poor, and the majority of the inhabitants living in the shattered metropolis. The commoners had built new homes out of various pieces of junk, scrap, and rubbish, all hardly meeting the requirements necessary to construct a shelter to shield oneself from the unpredictable weather outside. The idea of “home”, the atmosphere of “home”, would both be reluctantly bestowed upon the shelter, a major downgrade from the homes lived in during the past decade.

The once bustling metropolis, was no more than a ruin of worry and poverty. The ruin did; however, possess a beacon of light to supply hope to a nearly abandoned hoard of people currently trapped inside of the rotting apple. The beacon was the ongoing construction of the majestic skyscrapers that reached the skies and beyond. These structures only grew taller as time went on in the rotting apple, where construction workers nonetheless completed decent and honest work in a time of fear and destitution. They were the heroes in the sky, the knights in shining hard hats, toiling away day by day, hundreds of feet in the air. People at ground level would always trudge past the tall buildings in the apple, where the buildings always stood their ground. These buildings were a testament to the apple still grasping a source of life, a purpose to grow, where people may not be living in a city that will crumble entirely. Although the edifices were improving, the rotting apple would only grow worse as the beings in the fortress of D.C. would be tilting at windmills in the fray to prevent the looming smoke of the economic inferno from obscuring America from any hopes of a better future.

The author's comments:

John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath inspired me to write this piece that attempts to imitate Steinbeck's style of intercalary writing.

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