Real Memories Taste Like Crab Apples
By
Katlina Sommerberg
The sign at the orchard’s gate reads: ENTER TO REMEMBER WHAT YOU HAVE LOST.
Below it, scratched into the wood, are the words: I REMEMBER AND YET I AM NOTHING.
You open the gate; iron hinges groan. The wide path welcomes you.
Branches sag with swollen crab apples. Some have split open, their insides soft and white, weeping juice. The air is thick with fermenting fruit, damp wood, and the distant sting of something sharp, metallic. It clings to the back of your throat.
You step forward, heart pounding. What terrifies you is the absence where something should be—a gaping wound where memory was. A face you should recall. A voice that once spoke your name. The thought of walking back through that gate empty-handed, of carrying that emptiness forever, is unbearable.
You have sacrificed too much for the chance of seeing her again. The orchard of memory is not found by accident.
A stag stands between the trees. His symmetrical antlers, eight points on each side, are white. His fur is dappled grey.
The stag follows you.
The ground is uneven, slick with rotting apples that squish underfoot. Some are nothing but pulp, split cores writhing with something pale and thin, something that twists and burrows deeper when disturbed. The smell is worse here—cloying sweetness turned sour, like old wine left in the sun. Mosquitoes buzz in small, lazy swarms.
Names are carved into the trees. Some are deep, deliberate, their edges smoothed by time. Others are fresher, jagged, desperate. A few have been slashed through, their letters curling at the edges, the wood beneath them raw and exposed.
At the base of a nearby tree, a figure crouches. It is thin, its clothes hanging loose, its hair falling over a face that flickers. Its outline is unstable, shifting, bleeding into the surrounding mist. A crab apple, split open, rests beside the addict.
It does not look up. Its fingers dig into the soil.
You step closer, and the orchard exhales.
A gust of wind shakes the branches. Crab apples tumble to the ground.
The addict stiffens. Its hands tighten into fists, knuckles pressing white against its skin. Its breath is ragged, uneven, its shoulders rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.
The stag lowers his head, stepping toward it. The addict does not see him. Its eyes are locked on the crab apple beside him.
The stag exhales, warm breath stirring fallen leaves. He watches.
The addict reaches for the apple. Its body shudders, and for a moment, it is mist.
Then it reforms, one hand clutching at its chest. Its eyes flicker toward you, just once, before it lowers its head.
Your stomach lurches. You should turn back. You should run.
But a sharp ache blooms behind your ribs. The absence in your mind sharpens, and you glimpse something—someone. A hand in yours. A voice whispering in the dark. A promise made under lantern light. Someone you love.
But her face--
Her face is still missing.
Your breath catches. Your hands shake.
You step past the addict.
Your tree is waiting. A pale doe stands on its roots. That’s how you know the squiggling letters spell your name.
Its bark is darker than the others, its branches lower, heavier. A single crab apple dangles within reach, impossibly round, impossibly red. Its skin pulses, the faintest shiver of movement beneath the surface. Inside, something shifts.
Your fingers close around the crab apple.
It is warmer, softer than it should be. Juice wells beneath your grip, trickling down your wrist, sticky and thick. The smell is unbearable—not tart, but cloying and sweet. The wind picks up, whispering in a voice you almost remember.
The stag grunts. The doe flees.
You bite. Crisp peel disintegrates into mushy flesh, sweet syrup.
A flood of memory crashes through you, a name, a face, a voice calling to you from across time.
Swallow. Your stomach churns. You press a hand to your chest. Beneath your palm, your heartbeat.
Your grip loosens. The apple core drops from your fingers.
You remember everything now. The memory of her face blooms in your mind. You see her now, clear as day—thick glasses adorning soft eyes, a crooked smile, the way her hands braided dough. You remember her voice, her lessons, the heat rolling off the oven. But the memory feels... wrong.
Real memories taste tart. Like crab apples.
But this is your memory. Sugary, yes, as it’s missing the bitter truth.
Who are you remembering? Your mother’s name blooms on your tongue.
The taste of rotten fruit lingers in the back of your throat. Your hands are stained red, the juice of the crab apple dried and cracked like old blood.
The stag stamps his hoof.
You blink. You look at your sticky hand. A sniff. You lick juice off your thumb: tart, fresh crab apple.
You have forgotten the addict, forgotten the journey’s start. But you remember that crooked smile. You shamble, legs unsteady, toward home.
The orchard hums behind you. It does not try to keep you.
The stag follows you.
You forget the iron gate’s latch.
The stag follows you out. He halts by the orchard’s warning sign. He bellows.
The stag waits. His call echoes through the orchard.
From the mist, his herd emerges. Slender does carefully, deliberately walk around fallen crab apples. A young doe still wearing her fawn spots hesitates at the gate. She sniffs the air. Her ears twitch at the wind’s whisper. Then she steps forward to join the rest, leaving the orchard behind.
The stag waits for the last—the oldest—and then he shows the orchard his tail. He tosses his head. One antler snaps off. He prances to the front. He leads. He leaps, and the herd bounces with him as they journey to a new forest, a real home.
You do not witness this. You are focused on returning home. Returning to mother. Isn’t she who you wanted to remember?
Katlina Sommerberg writes speculative fiction at the edge of the surreal, where human minds melt into ecosystems, falling feathers carry heavy messages, and animals remember what we’ve forgotten. Xyr work has previously appeared in Zooscape, Costs of Living, Divergent Realms, and other places. https://sommerbergssf.carrd.co
By
Katlina Sommerberg
The sign at the orchard’s gate reads: ENTER TO REMEMBER WHAT YOU HAVE LOST.
Below it, scratched into the wood, are the words: I REMEMBER AND YET I AM NOTHING.
You open the gate; iron hinges groan. The wide path welcomes you.
Branches sag with swollen crab apples. Some have split open, their insides soft and white, weeping juice. The air is thick with fermenting fruit, damp wood, and the distant sting of something sharp, metallic. It clings to the back of your throat.
You step forward, heart pounding. What terrifies you is the absence where something should be—a gaping wound where memory was. A face you should recall. A voice that once spoke your name. The thought of walking back through that gate empty-handed, of carrying that emptiness forever, is unbearable.
You have sacrificed too much for the chance of seeing her again. The orchard of memory is not found by accident.
A stag stands between the trees. His symmetrical antlers, eight points on each side, are white. His fur is dappled grey.
The stag follows you.
The ground is uneven, slick with rotting apples that squish underfoot. Some are nothing but pulp, split cores writhing with something pale and thin, something that twists and burrows deeper when disturbed. The smell is worse here—cloying sweetness turned sour, like old wine left in the sun. Mosquitoes buzz in small, lazy swarms.
Names are carved into the trees. Some are deep, deliberate, their edges smoothed by time. Others are fresher, jagged, desperate. A few have been slashed through, their letters curling at the edges, the wood beneath them raw and exposed.
At the base of a nearby tree, a figure crouches. It is thin, its clothes hanging loose, its hair falling over a face that flickers. Its outline is unstable, shifting, bleeding into the surrounding mist. A crab apple, split open, rests beside the addict.
It does not look up. Its fingers dig into the soil.
You step closer, and the orchard exhales.
A gust of wind shakes the branches. Crab apples tumble to the ground.
The addict stiffens. Its hands tighten into fists, knuckles pressing white against its skin. Its breath is ragged, uneven, its shoulders rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.
The stag lowers his head, stepping toward it. The addict does not see him. Its eyes are locked on the crab apple beside him.
The stag exhales, warm breath stirring fallen leaves. He watches.
The addict reaches for the apple. Its body shudders, and for a moment, it is mist.
Then it reforms, one hand clutching at its chest. Its eyes flicker toward you, just once, before it lowers its head.
Your stomach lurches. You should turn back. You should run.
But a sharp ache blooms behind your ribs. The absence in your mind sharpens, and you glimpse something—someone. A hand in yours. A voice whispering in the dark. A promise made under lantern light. Someone you love.
But her face--
Her face is still missing.
Your breath catches. Your hands shake.
You step past the addict.
Your tree is waiting. A pale doe stands on its roots. That’s how you know the squiggling letters spell your name.
Its bark is darker than the others, its branches lower, heavier. A single crab apple dangles within reach, impossibly round, impossibly red. Its skin pulses, the faintest shiver of movement beneath the surface. Inside, something shifts.
Your fingers close around the crab apple.
It is warmer, softer than it should be. Juice wells beneath your grip, trickling down your wrist, sticky and thick. The smell is unbearable—not tart, but cloying and sweet. The wind picks up, whispering in a voice you almost remember.
The stag grunts. The doe flees.
You bite. Crisp peel disintegrates into mushy flesh, sweet syrup.
A flood of memory crashes through you, a name, a face, a voice calling to you from across time.
Swallow. Your stomach churns. You press a hand to your chest. Beneath your palm, your heartbeat.
Your grip loosens. The apple core drops from your fingers.
You remember everything now. The memory of her face blooms in your mind. You see her now, clear as day—thick glasses adorning soft eyes, a crooked smile, the way her hands braided dough. You remember her voice, her lessons, the heat rolling off the oven. But the memory feels... wrong.
Real memories taste tart. Like crab apples.
But this is your memory. Sugary, yes, as it’s missing the bitter truth.
Who are you remembering? Your mother’s name blooms on your tongue.
The taste of rotten fruit lingers in the back of your throat. Your hands are stained red, the juice of the crab apple dried and cracked like old blood.
The stag stamps his hoof.
You blink. You look at your sticky hand. A sniff. You lick juice off your thumb: tart, fresh crab apple.
You have forgotten the addict, forgotten the journey’s start. But you remember that crooked smile. You shamble, legs unsteady, toward home.
The orchard hums behind you. It does not try to keep you.
The stag follows you.
You forget the iron gate’s latch.
The stag follows you out. He halts by the orchard’s warning sign. He bellows.
The stag waits. His call echoes through the orchard.
From the mist, his herd emerges. Slender does carefully, deliberately walk around fallen crab apples. A young doe still wearing her fawn spots hesitates at the gate. She sniffs the air. Her ears twitch at the wind’s whisper. Then she steps forward to join the rest, leaving the orchard behind.
The stag waits for the last—the oldest—and then he shows the orchard his tail. He tosses his head. One antler snaps off. He prances to the front. He leads. He leaps, and the herd bounces with him as they journey to a new forest, a real home.
You do not witness this. You are focused on returning home. Returning to mother. Isn’t she who you wanted to remember?
Katlina Sommerberg writes speculative fiction at the edge of the surreal, where human minds melt into ecosystems, falling feathers carry heavy messages, and animals remember what we’ve forgotten. Xyr work has previously appeared in Zooscape, Costs of Living, Divergent Realms, and other places. https://sommerbergssf.carrd.co
