Manzanilla de la Muerte

"Take this," the tree spoke, to the boy on the ground. 

"You'll need it for when Life comes sauntering around."

"It's an apple, oh my, but why?" the boy sighed.

"Who's to say I even have a mind to comply?"

"Well fine, go ahead, ignore me I suppose. It's not as if I don't have plenty of those."

"Just hold on one second! It's pretty, I reckon. Can I take it and have it for myself since you beckoned?"

"Called you? Are you sure you have that correct? I offered the apple for you to collect."

The boy looked confused, and utterly defeated. "Alright, then it's mine," the boy conceded. 

"Wonderful! Splendid! This is just how I planned! You'll be stronger against even what I can withstand!" 

"What do you mean, you rotten ole' tree? Now I don't want it, please take it from me!"

"Are you deaf little one, or merely incredibly dumb? The apple is yours, and now we are done."

The boy looked around, but the tree had vanished. The spot where it stood was burned, ravaged, and damaged.

"Oh no! Oh dear! Where could it have gone? All I have is this apple, that tree was a con!" 

The boy sat down on the cold earth to think, what would come next as the skies turned to ink. 

"I'm really quite hungry. I've been here all night. The tree won't return, of this I am right."

So the boy relaxed, apple in hand. The juices were pleasant, if not slightly bland.

One bite, two bites, three to be sure. His appetite was in desperate need of a cure. 

But once the boy stood to make his way back, the pit of his stomach felt like he needed to yack.

"Damn that tree! What did it do? I'm becoming so rigid, please, I don't want to be you!"

But before he could peep just one more word, it all went dark, as his eyesight blurred. 

His arms turned to branches, his feet into roots. The tips of his fingers into delicate fruits.