text: Apples and Figs A wizened and gnarled apple tree, ages old, towers towards the sun. In this field trees of all varieties coexisted, with a smattering of tall grasses and flowers dotting the expanse. For as long as anyone can remember it grew. The apples it produced were not especially juicy nor crunchy, they weren’t perfect for pies, no one sought them out specifically for juicing. It simply was, it had been, and it would be for a while longer. Many trees such as this exist across the world, they were nothing noticed. Many greater trees, visited yearly for harvesting, existed as well. Below this tree in question, a statue had been placed. A young woman reaching both arms above her head in a futile effort. Years of neglect had caused moss and lichen to clamber randomly across the surface. Originally grey, her skin and clothes had become tinted brownish green as if someone had dumped mouldy syrup on her. The tips of her fingers strained against her hands to stretch just a millimeter more. She stood on her toes, barely making contact with the ground as they pushed her calves to their limit. Blank eyes, her mouth a thin line, only flared nostrils betrayed any emotion. If not for the location, it would appear as though she were straining to touch the stars. Unfortunately now the statue only looked to a limb of a mediocre tree, the sky blocked by its wilting canopy. Every year as the apples ripened, she reached towards the bowing branches. Bright green turning to bright red as they grow. But the height of the branches would never allow her to grab any, even the lowest hanging fruits. Even if she were to reach she would never be able to grab one, only graze it. The only hope for the stony maiden was for an overripened apple to fall into her outstretched palms. If one happened to be skipped by the hungry animals, it would become too heavy for it’s weakening stem to hold on to the branch. She had no choice in the matter, she was given whatever happened to be above her. When this happened, the bruised globe would slowly dissolve, birds coming to peck it, squirrels ripping bits off, maggots and flies crawling across it. Eventually what was left of the skin would slip through her fingers, drop to the ground, and mould back into the dirt. If someone had been around to observe these events, they would have seen the expression on her rocky face. Unchanged. Unbothered. She was used to the routine by now, each year the same thing. Perhaps in the beginning she would have wept with hunger. The seasons wearing at her resolve, causing her to question *why* she was still striving for something she would never enjoy. She may have wanted to leave, see what else there was to reach for. Of course, in the end, she was a statue. And statues do not stretch, grab, want, need, strain, look. She could not consider why it was that her arms would never rest at her sides, or why the expression on her face would never change.