Posted by: DIYwriting | November 7, 2020

Apple Picking

I really hated apples and I most definitely hated apple picking.  But I sucked it up and went with my family.  Every.  Single.  Year.  All the apple picking did was make my stomach and my heart hurt.  All I could remember was the year my brother had vanished and how everyone said that he was fine and living in Denver.  Denver?  They think my brother willingly left the apple orchard and went to Denver?  He hates snow and he hates mountains.  He lived for the sun and the beach.  And if anyone else bothered to listen to what he said and looked at all his artwork, they would know this as much as I did.  He also would not leave me alone with my parents in a podunk town where I never had a future or even a full meal. 

I think he is still out here somewhere.  Somewhere out in this field, slowly wasting away to nothing because my parents had managed to keep us away from most of our neighbors and when they told lies about how my brother up and left to Denver, why would the neighbors not believe he just up and left?  Everyone knew we were the poorest family on the street so he must have left to make a better life for himself.  I know better.  I know what they have done.  I will just have to prove it.  And then I will get my revenge. 


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