There were eight apples in the bowl: Granny Smiths, wax green and goose pimpled. The man took one and tested its texture with his fingers as it rotated in his palm. He took from the drawer a small wooden-handled knife, tried its edge, and then began to peel away the skin, from stalk to nub, slowly revealing glistening flesh. Once removed, the skin formed a pleasing twirl, all in one, like a Christmas bauble.

Using the knife, he split the naked flesh in two. At its core an opalescent darkness swirled and shifted. Once his eyes adjusted, he began to discern images in the shadows, which flickered as he blinked. In one, Newton’s apple engorged to the size of a beach ball then fell from the Tree of Knowledge scattering Adam and Eve like skittles; in another, Aphrodite’s golden apples turned to thorny cuffs around the wrists of Atalanta, her marriage to Melanion lost to history, forever. As he watched transfixed, the apple’s pale flesh browned at an unnatural rate and the dizzying vortex shrunk. Before long, nothing remained.

There were seven apples in the bowl.

Inspired by Corin Sworn’s exhibition The Rag Papers (2013) at the Chisenhale Gallery.