MicroHorror

For years, my family went apple picking every October. We would all wake up with the sun, pile into the car, and drive for over two hours into the black dirt region of New York. Around there, every home was a farm or inn, anxiously awaiting their next customer. By the time I was ten, this tradition stopped. Our produce came exclusively from the supermarket down the street.

For my twenty-second birthday, I begged my family to go one more time. Under threat of a two-hour presentation on the importance of supporting local agriculture, my family reluctantly agreed.

There was one orchard I always wanted to visit. The family that owned the land put on a big production every year for Halloween: apple mazes, pony rides, pumpkin decorating, and complimentary apple pie. The Tasker Orchard was the reason I wanted to travel back to the black dirt region.

We had family in the area that kept us informed about the farms. Most of the farmers had given up, abandoning their land, livestock and all. Others became desperate and lowered their prices so much to compete with supermarkets that they couldn’t afford the electric bills. Despite all of these hardships, the Tasker Orchard still threw money into their seasonal tourist attraction every October.

On the first cold October Sunday, my family dragged ourselves into the car and began the familiar journey. Our group was much smaller this year–only my mother and father agreed to the trip. Still, it was a fun way to spend some time together.

The winding New York interstate was built straight through the mountains. Trees hung heavy with golden leaves over the well maintained roadway. Long-abandoned farm houses coexisted peacefully with well manicured mansions.

The trip seemed to make us all young again. We could barely contain our excitement passing by small farm stands. Five-dollar giant pumpkins at a house with a sign to leave the money in an empty cigar box. Twenty-pound bags of carrots lining the gravel lot of a farmer’s market. Fresh-made cider donuts fried to order on an open grill. And some truly gorgeous apples.

We seemed to pick up small containers of apples at every stand that had them. The wooden baskets bled McIntosh and Northern Spy all over the back seat. The skin was crisp, protecting the tender flesh inside. Juice exploded in our mouths and onto our clothes with every bite.

The Tasker Orchard was finally in our sights. The large signs announcing sales and events were weathered with age. The neat bushes that once lined the dirt entrance were overgrown into the road. A young boy with a green flag and walkie-talkie sat in a lawn chair waiting for customers.

He shoved a flimsy ticket into our open window with a map on it. Our car lurched over the uneven terrain, struggling to distinguish the path from the farm land surrounding.

The drive seemed far longer than we remembered. Did we always drive over that hill? Did the trees always seem to grow into the road?

We were flagged down by a farmer thirty minutes later. He asked us to step outside the car so he could show us to the orchard.

It felt good to stretch out my legs again. I did have trouble seeing where the path led past the steep hill below.

My father was the first one to fall. His head hung heavy under the force of the blast over the hill and stopped moving. My mother let out a powerful scream before the second gunshot came. Blood dripped onto her shirt from the hole above her left ear.

An apple fell at my feet when the farmer shoved me down. The crisp skin gave way to the tender innards as the warmth began to leave my body.