Green Apples

By Brianne Kohl

November 15, 2021

Green Apples

I cut green apples into fourths and then eighths. I slice them into smaller and smaller pieces, the flesh slippery in my fingers. I arrange them in a careful line on the plate, counting as I go—one through twenty-four.

So far, twenty-four is the smallest I’ve been able to get them without slicing my finger. Blood ruins the tartness. I eat the slices slowly. I want to get the pieces paper thin. So fine, they lose their crunch. So thin, they melt on my tongue.

My therapist asks me to consider that adding ritual to consumption is an act of control. "Not everything has to be so complicated," I say. Every day I’m getting better. Everyday I’m feeling healthier.

"Not everything is a rite of affliction," he counters. Could I try just eating the apple?

"Yes," I say. "Of course."

Later, I pull the seeds from the core and hold them in my hand, close my eyes and make a wish. I push the seeds into the soil of my palm and hold them safe, delayed. Bank them for later. I slice rows of dormant seeds into the creases of my hands. Someday, I’ll hold my palms up to the sun and offer whole greening trees full of ripe, sour fruit.


Brianne M. Kohl’s writing has appeared in various publications including Catapult, The Masters Review, and Wigleaf. She is currently working on a collection of essays. For a full list of publications and awards, please visit her at or say hi at She loves when people say hi. 


Picture by Jessica Lynn Lewis courtesy of Pexels 

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