An old apple says goodbye to the shooter.
A boy, no more than the age of ten was sitting upon a shredded stool, rifle at the ready. It was only a .22, but it was his. He had gone with his father to the shop, picked out the blank of wood to be made into the stock. In his shop he had seen his father work tirelessly, spinning the dull piece of lumber into shape and slowly sawing, planing, and sanding to size. Sweat upon his brow, he said to the boy,
"Measure twice, cut once, and this is what you'll get."
While the apple had long fallen out of its parent tree, it had overheard the many lessons held from father to son.
"Work slow, and it'll be done before you know it."
"You have to be gentle, you only get one chance and a rough hand is all it takes to ruin the whole thing."
"Soon enough this will be yours, you just have to have the patience to make it."
Then one day, the boy had come to the shop to see that he was alone. His father was nowhere to be found. The apple, just as bewildered as the boy, had remarked hearing the large metal boxes screeching and whining towards the house, only to disappear as fast as they had arrived. Not knowing what to think when the other men took away the father, who lay still on a tray, it continued to sit in silence. No way to let the boy know anyway.
The boy had seen a note scrawled hastily on the table next to the completed rifle stock. Next to the note was a small knife. After that came the tears.
For days upon days, the boy had sat next to the apple, carving away at whatever scrap of branch or pallet wood he could come upon in his nightly walks on the property. The apple was wilting away, where once the skin was taught it had now shriveled and became coated with a light, powdered mold. Where once the skin had protected the bright, crisp innards, now were holes where the oxygen had seeped in, leaving the sweet contents to become brown and thick like the mud it had settled on.
The apple knew it did not have long. It felt that soon, wherever that man had went, he would have company shortly. And it was with this realization that the apple noticed the boy had been carving on something different. He had been carving upon the rifle stock.
It couldn't have been but moments past the first glimpse of the sun, but here the boy was, carving away with the knife given to him by his father. No trace of impatience, no hint of sadness. Just carving. No tears. Just work. It wasn't long before the clouds had come to suffocate the sun, but the boy did not falter. To work he went. The stock he carved.
His dog had joined him, giving the apple a curious sniff, then sitting beside the boy. The boy had given him no mind, not even when the whimpers of pain and confusion as to where the master went left the lungs of the dog.
No distractions. Just work.
When the first hints of moisture hit the ground, the apple felt relief. Perhaps these few drops could prolong its' life, and let it observe the boy for moments longer. The boy showed no signs of pause, and with every bit of vigor that had gone into carving the stock, he had hastily made a shelter to protect his work from the rain momentarily. After giving the fort a few strong shakes with his calloused hands, he sat down and resumed his activities.
No distractions. Just work.
After the mid day rains, the apple could feel the full fury of the sun. It threatened to drain what little moisture the apple had left. It tore the ground asunder, leaving no trace of the water the clouds had so graciously given to the earth and its fields. Surely, thought the apple, the boy would have to take rest from this heat.
No distractions. Just work.
Suddenly, a feeling of weightlessness had consumed the apple. The boy had just finished attaching all sorts of metal tubes and trinkets into the stock, and had taken the apple along for his strange journey. After a while of moving, a freeing feeling, the boy had placed the apple upon an old wooden fence post. He fed his strange machine a small yellow pellet, and gave the rifle one last inspection. The apple could see no signs of emotion on the boys face. Just before the boy turned away from the apple, it had caught a glimpse of what was written on the stock. It could not make it out, but the markings looked to have a special meaning to the boy.
The apple could recall the shape of each marking. Symbols. Definitely a special meaning.
But what exactly did they mean?
"This really is the last one, isn't it dad?"
A droplet of water struck the ground in solitude. The apple had seen no clouds, so it knew that it had come from the boy.
When the sun shone down upon the rifle stock, the apple had finally gotten the clearest view of the symbols carved upon the wood.
T H E L A S T G O O D B Y E
The boy walked, one, two, ten, one hundred steps to sit upon the same shredded stool his father had placed for him in anticipation of this day. He slowly locked the bolt in place, watched only by the apple and a tearful mother.
And then, like all things, the apple was gone.
(My first post, haven't written for fun in four years so I expect a ton of errors, go easy lads)