Rules of the Harvest

Reaching for an apple-picking basket, Davyn did as he was told that morning (and every other) and inspected the rules on the tool shed wall. His younger brother Kersil stood silently beside him, reading the rules also. It was dark, as it always was in the shed, but the reaper behind them commanded regardless that they read the rules aloud. Such was protocol by now.

"Rule 1. The apple trees

are dead, but grow apples regardless. There will never be a ripe apple, but we

will pick them regardless." The brothers spoke in unison, the reaper

silently ushering them to continue. None have ever heard a reaper, but many

have felt their words.

"Rule 2." The

brothers continued, "The fence is inescapable. There will never be a hole

in the fence, nor will we ever be able to climb it.

Rule 3. The birds are dead,

but fly regardless. There will never be a living bird, but we will feed them

regardless.

Rule 4. The reapers are

inescapable. There will never be a way to destroy, outrun or outsmart a reaper.

Rule 5. We are expendable.

The apples and birds are not expendable. We have absolutely no reason to act

against the reapers' will."

With a psychic gesture of

affirmation, the reaper began to guide the boys out of the shed, their baskets

now in hand.

And so began another day of

harvest.

Reaching their usual

assortment of rotted, twisted apple trees, the brothers found themselves alone

at last as their reaper escort glided soullessly to the nearest collection

post. Davyn spoke softly as the two got to work,

"I know what you're

thinking."

"Well obviously. I think

it every morning now." Kersil replied as the two began reaching into the

dead trees, plucking sloppy, worm-filled, deep-grey apples from their branches

and beginning to compile them in their baskets.

"The rules aren't for us

to question little brother."

"But would it really

hurt to discuss them a bit? Why are they so... Specific?"

"Rules are supposed to

be specific. It's part of what makes them rules. If they weren't

specific-"

"They would just be

guidelines, right, but I don't mean it like that."

"You know for the past

week that you've been obsessing over this, you've never once given me an

example of what exactly you think should be changed. Maybe it's you who needs

to be more specific."

"Ok well fine. Rule 1. 'There will never be a ripe apple.' Why

bother telling us that? Just tell us that we have to pick them regardless. We

know there'll never be a ripe apple already because the rule starts with the

apple trees being dead."

"Kersil." Davyn

sighed, "I think you're overthinking this."

"I'm just saying. If

we're gonna get all memory wiped and stuck in apple picking purgatory or

whatever this is, it would be nice if they at least showed us the respect of

hiring a decent editor."

"I'm not sure reapers

really care about your grammatical inquiries, brother."

"Well, when we move on

to the next fence, they better have more well-written rules. That's all."

"Just because we're

fragments doesn't mean we can make requests."

"Well why shouldn't it?

We're more useful to the reapers than most of the mindless dirt-shufflers here.

Look at that prod over there."

Reluctantly, Davyn peered

past his brother to the husk Kersil was referring to. A woman, skin shrivelled

to her bones, tried wearily to trudge forwards despite a tree branch having

caught onto her matted dress, preventing her from doing much more than sliding

around in place on the dead soil beneath her. The apples she had picked were

occasionally falling from her basket with each useless step.

"See?" Kersil

looked to his older brother and smirked, "We deserve a little bit more of

a say than her, at least."

"As far as the reapers

are concerned..." Davyn returned to his apple picking, "We're nothing

more than high-functioning slaves that are suited to any role. They put us

where we're most needed because we can be more useful than regular husks.

That's all we are and all we'll be until we die."

"Ugh." Kersil went

back to his own work as well, "You're so bland you make these apples look

delicious. You know that, don't you brother.”

"Unfortunately, bland is

a safer way to be. Get back to work, Kersil. We'll have to pick up that husk's

slack."

Minutes soon turned to hours, the brothers slowly settling into their labour – if in Kersil’s case somewhat reluctantly – and creating a thick, almost-solid mush of dead fruit and live worms in their two baskets. Davyn’s lack of obvious care for his brother’s earlier words ensured he didn’t raise any suspicions, but in truth he wished things could change too. The difference, he would often summarise to himself, between his brother’s mind and his own was that his held a notably smaller pool of hope. He had long since ceased his longing for the days where he could remember the person he was before his ‘employment’ with the reapers. Years had passed since his last real glimmer of conviction, of plans for the future. He had become a person who was not, now is, and forever will be. Nothing more.

So then why today did Kersil’s words inspire something more in Davyn? Why only now did something cross from his brother’s mind to his own that made him feel as if his heart may one day beat anew? He continued to pick apples, sifting through dead branches and ignoring the stench of the abomination in his basket, but his mind had stepped into a realm of thought that he only hoped would not inspire the reapers to come and whip him into shape in front of his good brother.

Why were the rules so specific? What was it about a ripe apple that was so important, so undesirable, that they had to reassure folk that in a yard of dead things, everything was dead? Was it to shoot down hope? Was it just to make sure we didn’t wish for something better, something that didn’t reek of death? Or was it because, indeed, there was something outside of the reaper’s control? Something that was here, that they didn’t want us finding. What if there could be holes in the fence? If the reapers were not inescapable?

Davyn’s thoughts were interrupted as he reached into an assortment of dead twigs and stringy, black, lifeless vines and felt his hand brush up against something… Different. A round, almost rubbery surface. Something that emitted a cold – but a different cold to that of the other corpses surrounding it, were it a corpse at all. Davyn furrowed his brow. This could not be, could it? What had now so suddenly inspired this tree to…

He shoved aside the twigs and vines and peered into the shade of the dead apple tree. A ripe apple, red and round, hung comfortably from a green stem sporting verdant green leaves. Davyn simply stared, expressionless, at the miracle that had sprouted before him. Perhaps Kersil was worth listening to more often.