By Sophie Zhang, aged 16

There is a grey room with grey walls and grey curtains. Mint green, but grey all the same. Grey with excessive sweat, grime, and taints from all over.

 

***

 

The farm.

 

In a time not so different from our own, there was a farm. The soil was rich and nutritious, and it was a large farm, but not so large compared to the many acres of thirsty, dry, spent grey earths beyond it. But it’s improper to talk of those alienated patches of hungry soil with greying stems growing from them, for they are far away, something to be forgotten.

 

In the farm, there were farmers. They did not die, they lived forever. They had one dream in their mind, and that was to farm the best apples in the world, providing them with good money and the privilege to boast, to boast to each other, and to boast to the grey lands. No one grew anything else except for apples; once, there were farmers who farmed blueberries and bananas and mangoes and watermelons and grapes and all sorts of fruits. They are in the tales now. All the banana growers are in the grey land, banished for their stupidity. Bananas and berries and all the others were lower even than the cow manure used to grow the apples, and so nothing except apples were grown. Red apples.

 

The Profs.

 

There was a time of year when all the apples were to be sold to the factory of  That Place. That Place being somewhere the farmers knew nothing of; they only knew that That Place was good for their apples. It would make the apples sell for more, and before the growing seasons the next year, That Place hands them back a package to grow more apples. It’s a good business, says everybody. The more money the farmers pay to That Place, the better the apples sell. It’s the trade, says everybody.

 

So the farmers pay their money, sending their apples off to the Profs. The Profs always know what to do with apples. It is known. Apples are polished till they shine with the light of the darkening sun, waxed till the rigid surface of their skin can’t be felt anymore, and injected with needles until the flesh of each one bulges with counterfeit freshness. Then the Profs pack all the apples and send them to the factory, packing them so tightly together that some of the apples are crushed against each other. Their skin breaks, juice flowing out, and they are tossed into the grey area. But what does it matter? The farmers paid their money.

 

 

The factory.

 

The apples enter the factory at last, wrapped in their red and white foam. Red is the colour of farm, and the farmers grew them to be red, coating them in red now too; red is their hope, and it is the farm. None of the factory workers look closely at each apple; there isn’t that time, and it isn’t what they are paid for. So, to make sure each apple is perfectly red, they are submerged into a tub of bleach, until every ounce of colour is gone. Then, they are dyed red, all their pores filled full with the artificial sweetness of the dye. Dyed red is always more red than growing red, and not all apples are completely red as they grow. It is known. Sometimes, an apple keeps some of its colour when it is bleached. This was the worst annoyance to a factory worker. That apple has to be bleached again and again. In the end, if there’s still some green or yellow to it, it’s thrown out. Then, outside, crushed beneath the black, polished soles of a worker.

 

The Juicers.

 

The reddened apples are then sent to the Juicers, the most important people of the factory. Their hands are almost gnarled roots, knobs of the joints sticking out of the skin like some grotesque membrane with construction poles underneath. The outline of their hands is visible even under the grey gloves they wear. Mint green, but grey all the same. Grey with excessive sweat, grime, and taints from all over. The apples would be rolled into segregated little enclosures in a box, square, just enough to fit the apple. Soon enough, each one would be snatched up.

 

There. A Juicer is picking up his first apple. The tainted red flesh between his gloved thumbs, a crease in his brows, a puff of air between his blackened lips, and the apple split, similar cracks echoing all around as all the Juicers do their jobs. The last of the apple, the sweet fluids, and pieces of splintered flesh, fly through the air. The fingers of the Juicer are buried deep within the apple, tearing, pinching for the hard, black seeds, the last pieces that are truly of that apple. Plucking out the hard seeds, he tosses them into a pail. They will be sent back to the farmers, to get more apples. It ia known.

 

The pieces of the apple are then put into a small, circular bowl, in a conveyor belt. There, the broken pieces wait for that which will increase their value, the highest glory of their life, all that which the farmers hoped for. The apples did not hope for anything; they were merely apples. Something to be traded, to be sold for money. And in that factory, as the bowls fill up, the conveyor belts begin to move. Metal cylinders above each bowl move, pouncing down on the apples. Crunch, crunch, CRUNCH, CRUNCH, goes the factory. Vroom, vroom, VROOM, VROOM, goes the factory, the factory that then spits out jams and juices, selling for the cheapest price. CRUNCH, VROOM, and each apple is just a tool. CRUNCH, VROOM, and the grey gloves of the Juicers are splitting, and the tubs of bleach are filling, and the wax is being layered, and the needles are injected, all on the apples, on the APPLES…

 

***

 

There is a grey room with grey walls and grey curtains. Mint green, but grey all the same. Grey with excessive sweat, grime, and taints from all over. A girl is wearing a uniform, Red and White. She was raised to know that Red is who she is, and she wears Red with pride. Her parents have paid for classes that polish her knowledge, learning beyond what her brain can take at this age; have asked agencies to make up experiences and competitions in her application form, slowly depleting who she is; and injecting her with the reddest of words. She is to be red: red means fame, red means money, and red means safety. It is known.

 

In her hand, she holds a box of Juice. On her uniform, the name: APPLE, RED.