• Member Since 10th Dec, 2012
  • offline last seen Oct 26th, 2023

Winree


More Blog Posts3

  • 492 weeks
    So a while ago

    I told a few people about a lovely Flutterbat sculpture I was making for school.
    Well. It was finished. And my mum smashed it.

    So

    Here's an unpainted pic, I guess, but that's all I have.

    4 comments · 364 views
  • 512 weeks
    Big Mac dreams about Apples.

    Something too short for story stuff, but I suppose I need some example of my writing style?
    ~~~

    Read More

    0 comments · 227 views
  • 514 weeks
    luks licke im becumin uh prereeder/edito

    After reading the latest chapter of BIGBLACKINTOSH's Sanguinem (now taken down for revision), it struck me how many mistakes there were. Long story short, I spent my entire free lesson finding them and PM'ing them to bigblack. Little did I know, he had actually made

    Read More

    0 comments · 227 views
Jun
26th
2014

Big Mac dreams about Apples. · 3:27pm Jun 26th, 2014

Something too short for story stuff, but I suppose I need some example of my writing style?
~~~

It had been a long day, but I knew it would be a longer night. Bright Luna is shining over the trees, over the empty buckets and fruitless branches, beams falling through the windows of the old barn and striking rusted equipment and sleeping animals. Leaves rustle and night-birds chirrup as I walk toward the house, scented with apple and sweat and hard work, and away from my orchard, my apples. A long day and a longer night, and all I could think of were the apples I had yet to pick. The barn was full to burst, and more apples to come, rumbling downhill, chased by fruit bats and grubs and hungry ponies.
My family was long asleep, but still I walked. I was the eldest, and I had to pull my weight, and I had to protect them. They might think they were in charge of this business, and they work their hardest, but I am always on guard, ever since ma and pa died. I had to protect them, and protect the farm.

The house is quiet, the remains of happy meals and unwashed dishes. A memory of a pie. I stumble into bed, and the cider apples will have to wait longer as I dream of sleep. Apples take the stage in my mind, rolling over in detail of red and green and yellow. I feel the trees beneath me as I stand and watch the apples rise and fall with every breath. The great apple in the sky rises and the day begins with a rumbling from the cellar, a load of apples dreaming and waking and mumbling. They are pulled from their lives and given to the dark of the barn, and they know they will be squashed into sauces and mashed into breads and cut into pies and crushed between hungry teeth.

When I wake I am tired still, tired of dreaming and tired of apples and tired of the combination, but I must go on for my family. For my sisters and my dog and my long-dead parents, I will pull fruit from tree and tree from earth, selling down to the masses, drink and jam and pie. After all, we are all Apples, and apples we must give on.

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