Perhaps I would have believed the stories had it been a pomegranate, and not an apple. An apple was an apple. A pomegranate, however, was desire. Each seed bright and pure and sweet, running red like blood into your mouth with every bite, that hint of bitterness that followed.
Knowledge was always bitter. Even when it was sweet.
I stared at the mists swirling across the window pane. Each evening they came and each morning they left with no trace save the taste on my tongue. The sunlight could not keep me inside, and neither could the moon-glow. The mists could.
I had tried, the first night, to go back. I had braved the mists and kept walking — into the shadows and towards the soft lights that glimmered just that one step across the boundary. And I had made it.
But the wind smelled of marsh grass instead of water lilies and the trees glowed from without and not within. Even the light was too bright, too false and cheery, as if seen through a silver mirror. The light hurt my eyes and the memories hurt my heart.
I did not again go back.
© Rachel Faye Lipsy
Rachel is a recent college graduate currently working part-time for a “green” production company. She also works for a program that teaches elementary school students about science by giving them marbles and cardboard ramps and styrofoam balls to play with. She will read anything that doesn’t run away fast enough. Her fiction work has appeared in Depth magazine.