This story is by Ryan Fleming and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
The red recording light blinked. I leaned toward the microphone, salivating over these delicate moments when my voice would again shape the landscape.
“Welcome home, fruits and friends of the orchard. I am your Golden Delicious, Sweet Honeycrisp, York Imperial, and King David. I am your host, Marshall Applewhite.”
Farm-level status, they called it. What began as a simple sapling of a podcast had ripened into “The Orchard.” A sprawling grove of fruit, plump and eager, bushelled together each week beneath the canopy of my voice. Though thousands bent their listening stems to me, I hungered for something…else.
“Today, we are talking about bruises. Those soft spots you see on others and pretend not to notice. But you feel it, don’t you? That sense there’s something not right about them, that dark area on a peach, or the sagging skin of a pear, that weakness. The Orchard thrives when every fruit is firm, polished, and presentable. We mustn’t let rot set in. Not in ourselves and certainly not in others. Why, it’s the reason we say one bad apple can spoil the bunch!”
I could picture them—fruits of all shapes and sizes—drinking in my every word. As they commuted to work or prepared dinner for their families, whispering my phrases to one another like seeds passing secrets. Yet, there could be no room for doubt to sprout. Though they followed me, worshipped me even, I needed one of them to fertilize my cause.
“But don’t take my word for it. Instead, I have a special guest, a testimony from the Orchard. Many of you know her for her green sheen peel. Please welcome Granny Smith to the podcast.”
I played a curated applause and connected the call. “Granny Smith, we are honored to have you on the pod. For our tender listeners, won’t you share your story?”
I clicked unmute on my dashboard, and Granny Smith began.
“When I was young, we didn’t talk about bruises. No, we covered them up with leaves and hoped the sun would firm them. But bruises don’t heal; they deepen. They turn sweet to sour and skin to sludge.” Her prim and proper voice was unmistakable.
“Dreadful,” I added for emphasis.
“I knew of a Pink Lady on the edge of the grove. She hid her rot from others. Said she was fine. Said it was nothing. But by the time we took serious notice, it had spread to her sisters. It took out half the bushel before we understood.”
“An absolute shame.”
“But that’s not all, Mr. Applewhite. Rot attracts things. Worms. Vermin. Quiet eaters with incessant appetites. They don’t care about the Orchard, only the next bite of fruity flesh.”
“So true, Granny Smith. So true. Inspiring for all, but tell me and our listeners why you’re sharing this now? Why do you feel it’s important?”
After all the planting, watering, and cultivating for months, this was the moment I had waited for.
“You ask me why? Well, I’ll tell you why,” snorted Granny Smith.
I held my breath. This one apple was either about to hand over the farm to me or ruin weeks of preparation.
“Because, Mr. Applewhite, I’ve seen what happens when we tolerate imperfection. One bruise becomes a blemish, a blemish becomes a blight. Then, the blight wipes out trees, and the whole orchard is threatened. If we really cared for the Orchard, if we really cared about our way of life, our society, we would prune those who are spoiled and rotting.” Granny Smith spoke like a gale howling through the trees. With her zeal and fervor, I knew the Orchard was mine to harvest.
“Thank you for your bravery, Granny Smith.” I hastily muted her. “Such conviction should be contagious among us!”
“So today, my dear friends of all fruits.” I let my gaze drop to my notes, just long enough for silence to settle, heavy with anticipation. “It makes no difference whether you are an apple, an orange, or a berry. We, the Orchard, must pluck the bruised, not out of cruelty, but with care for the goodness of all fruit alike. For the health of the harvest, the strength of stem, the bounty of the bush, let no soft spot go unspoken. Let no shadow linger beneath the rind.”
“Let our conviction grow, and together, we will cut out the rot that plagues our beloved grove. There can be no weakness. The Orchard must endure.”
“Until next time, I am your guardian, the voice of passion for all fruits! I am your unseen host, Marshall Applewhite.”
The audio edits could wait. I uncoiled from my chair and stretched my elongated body. In the silver sliver of the mirror next to my desk, I saw the truth—my slick, segmented, slippery form. I grinned. Then I laughed, long and low.
I had done it! Once the episode aired, those foolish fruits would be too busy pointing out the flaws with others to notice their infection. Battling against each other, their self-righteous posturing “for the good of the Orchard” would divide them little by little. If they dared to glance in a mirror, they would surely see how disgusting they truly were, casting out their own in the name of virtue.
Oh, how deliciously ripe this feast would be!
Admiring my devious reflection, my smile curled like a shriveling peel in the sun. I, a single worm, was all it took. One slight deviation over time, one voice whispering inflated passions of justice in everyone’s ears. With every podcast, I had burrowed deeper into the core of their conscience.
More worms would come, vermin drawn to the battered and forgotten. But for now, I was the true unseen disease they rallied against, nestled safely within the beating heart of the Orchard.
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