Apple Tree

 by Garrin Bufo  

The apple tree bloomed black every year, the apples tasting, as everything did, of burnt hair; the peaches, the grapes, all ripened to the color of death. My grandfather Fabroni had a lampblack complexion: same as a dying face will turn when stricken with pestilence (the kind that took my parents), though Fabroni lived on, even after burying his son. 

His cold touch made me hate him, those ashes that made a man, and I snuffed him out on a cold March night when I was sixteen. His heart, as I had suspected, was charcoal. I buried him under the apple tree.

 I thought I could make the land bear better fruit, but after that spirit was gone the landscape changed. The plaster and rock faded from newfound sun, the grass withered from its former black; like an infrared photograph, a picture of that eerie light at the bottom of the spectrum, the apples turned the color of chalk; the grass faded out as old film fades. And my own face, slowly, changed—turned as Fabroni’s had, but not black; pale, thin as celluloid…I became the shade of a man; color of mourning, of death, of ash entirely spent, the imperfect white of an immortal ghost.


Garrin Bufo is an English student at the University of Southern Maine, and hopes to become a professional writer some day.  He writes between work and school or whenever else he gets the chance.  Garrin is anticipating the day he can leave New England to pursue his career in New York, Chicago or L.A.; either in film or fiction, or that mixture of the two, screenwriting.

Published on December 31, 2007 at 5:22 pm  Leave a Comment  

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