ROTTEN APPLES
by John Claude SmithHalloween loomed and the apple tree out back was bursting with a plethora of plump, blood-red apples amid a cloak of leaves the color of rust and old skin. Leaves that carpeted the dirt floor of the backyard as they always had at this time of year, as well as half the roof of the house. The sickly sweet smell made my nostrils unhappy and my head throb. Apples were everywhere, collecting as a silent congregation, watching over the proceedings.
I did not think much of it, but my only sister, Sara, blamed the late season surplus on Father, whom we buried beneath the tree last year. Her father, not mine, the secrets a family keeps often narrowed down to participants and not even siblings who would not know otherwise. My cousin Candi had decided to spill the
