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I am five years old, and I am spending my vacation at my grandparents' dachya, or summer house, outside of Noginsk, Russia. Behind the house, past the flower beds, the strawberry patch, the greenhouse, and the apple tree, my uncle builds a wooden framework, to which he attaches a pair of swings. My cousin and I play on that swing set at least once a day, every summer. Every morning we race to the back of the garden and climb onto the swings, gaining momentum and sweeping higher and higher, until the rough wooden frame moves imperceptibly. The higher we swing, the closer we can get to the crown of the apple tree that grows in front of the swing set. The higher we swing, the closer we can get to the small and sour green apples that taste better because they are harder to reach.

I swing forward, the wind blowing in my face and the ground rising up to catch my shoes and miss. The earth again drops out from under my feet as I stretch one hand forward to meet the little apple that is moving closer and closer. I grab for air just before the fruit begins to recede as I swing down to the ground. I swing back and the wind whips my hair into my eyes, blinding me for a second before it is in my face again and I am swinging forward. The apple approaches, and my fingers slip past the smooth cold skin before I am pulled back once more.

I swing back. I am standing by the ground well in front of the house, holding a metal butter knife. My fingers turn to ice as I wash it in the freezing water. The cold polished surface of the knife slips past as I hear a splash and my hand is suddenly empty. I look down to see the warm August sun being reflected off the metallic handle as the knife spirals down into darkness, the image distorted by the ripples on the water's surface.

I swing forward. The green leaves of the apple tree blend with the green of the grass and the green of the dandelion leaves. Holding a clear glass from the kitchen, I walk down to the stream. I fill it with water and set it down on the ground. Plucking a dandelion from the bank, I peel its hollow stem apart into sections, like a banana skin, and drop it into the glass. The sun gleams over the surface of the water as I watch the thin strands of dandelion stem coil into pale green spirals.

I swing back. The green recedes and I close my eyes and the wind blows into the back of my head. I can still see the world inscribed into the inside of my eyelids. I withdraw from the glare of the sun, past the shimmering stream-bed and across the dusty dirt road. I look up the steep gravel embankment to the railroad tracks, and walk along the road until I come to the giant circular pipe that serves as a tunnel through the hill and under the railroad. As I step inside it, the crunch of gravel under my shoes resonates through the passageway. I call out, and my echo comes back to me in a metallic voice that is not my own. In the distance, I see a glowing green circle that is the field at the other end of the tunnel.

I swing forward, and the green circle approaches my outstretched hand. At the instant the swing stops its motion, my hand closes around the apple. As I swing backward, the stem breaks, and the apple is in my hand. I hold it tightly and bite into it as the world moves beneath me.

Creative Writing Contest

2001 winners