Judy stands in the produce section at Food Oasis. The store is sampling a new product: crabbedapples. Essentially, on the outside they look like crabapples, and on the inside they have the texture and flavor of shredded crab meat. Judy is third in line. He wants one so bad; he’s been waiting for almost an hour, craving that tart salty juice, that first crisp bite, that wet pop.
*
Judy is at the beach. He leaves his family to continue his search for sand dollar chunks and hermit crabs. An older kid in a polo and khaki shorts approaches him and asks if he wants to see a nest of baby ducks. He follows him underneath the pier. There are no ducklings.
*
Judy admires the packaging; the apples come in grey cartons like blushing eggs. Each customer is allotted one to taste and/or a half-dozen to purchase. How many calories are in these? a person asks over Judy’s shoulder.
*
Judy is sitting at the kitchen table, wearing Powerpuff Girls pajama pants and a Panthers jersey. His father sets a bowl of unseasoned scrambled egg whites before him on the placemat. Eggs’ll make your hair long and silky. But never eat the yolks—they make you fat.
*
Judy is finally first in line. The crabbedapple-hawking person wipes yellowy liquid onto their white apron and smiles. Hello! …sir? I mean, ma’am, I mean uhhh… Hello! I’m Carl, your local crabbedapple pharmer. Have you tried them yet? You can really taste the lack of pesticides. Carl gestures to an ice bucket, and Judy selects an apple. Holds it by the stem, twirls it between his fingers. Gently pinches, then bites.
*
Judy is between two men trying to retrieve an over-filled martini from the bar. A bearded whisper on his ear: I like your boots. Judy turns around. Marc. They talk. For awhile. You’re so funny, Marc says. Judy moves closer, anticipating a kiss. It’s too bad you’re… you know. He squeezes Judy’s tit and laughs. I am pretty drunk though… wanna suck me off in the bathroom? He does.
*
Judy wants more than his allotted share of apples. Something in his brain has switched, unlocked. He needs them. Grabs handfuls of apples and ice and fills his pockets. People in line try to restrain him, but he breaks free, toppling a pyramid of gallon jugs of Baja Blast margarita mix and a display of tequila-infused jelly lime wedges.
*
Judy is with his mother at the bank. He stares at a jar of candy fruit slices too high to reach. What color you want, shug? The teller gives Judy an orange one. Yeah you know how to suck on that. In the car, Judy’s mother lectures him about eating around grown men. It’s not that it’s you I don’t trust, it’s…
*
Judy slips in the melting ice from the spilled crabbedapple cooler. He lies there motionless, hoping to disintegrate or die, as the other customers scavenge the pilfered apples from his pants and the surrounding floor. By his head, someone pauses their shopping cart, smells like Lysol and clove oil.
*
Judy is lying in a dental chair. He closes his eyes and visualizes himself aerially, watching his body from the ceiling, as his cardigan is pushed down to his elbows. Then breasts exposed. One nitrile hand wipes cum off an iris on the strap of his dress. Another wrests into his mouth, rubbering against his gums. You be careful with that tongue ring, missy. I’ve seen ‘em chip teeth.
*
Judy rolls onto his side and pulls a pair pliers out of his jeans. He removes a couple of his most easily-accessible teeth and plinks them into his front pocket. Fuck he sprays, semi-relieved. He stuffs a crabbedapple in the socket to absorb the blood. Twists his head up. Carl and the display are gone. By his leg, a CAUTION WET FLOOR cone. Everyone shops as usual. But twinkling at him under a nearby bin of coke-cumbers: one last stray crabbedapple. He army crawls toward it, the stripe of blood connecting the corner of his mouth to his ear now dripping down his jaw, the crowd parting around him obediently.
sally burnette is originally from North Carolina but currently lives in Boston. They read flash fiction for Split Lip Magazine. Recent work has appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Sixth Finch, Yes, Poetry and more.
Twitter: @dunebuggy12.
Occulum 