H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
Granny Smith Apples
At the corner of the market near my house sits a granny who sells apples. Unlike most vendors who sell a variety of fruits, old granny only sells Granny Smith apples. She reaches her stall at five every morning, places her near-rotten apples on used egg cartons before pulling out her red plastic stool. She will not tout, she will not budge. All day long she stares at the ground and waits for the hours to roll by before packing her unpopular apples home in the evening. No one really knows who old granny is or where she comes from. No one would have even noticed her if not for her grotesque back, so badly hunched, as if life has dealt her a blow so great that she can never recover from it, forever cursed to look at the dust on her feet.
Jinny Koh was the Fiction Editor at The Southern California Review while pursuing her Masters in Professional Writing at the University of Southern California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Conium Review, Role Reboot, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and FORTH Magazine. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter.
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