The Apple Peeler

When it fell from a wooden box stored on a cellar shelf, she explained how it worked why it never worked the way it was intended, its blade biting too deep into the fruit’s soft flesh and turning the orb to a baluster upright on a lathe; yet having been consigned to history, the handle still cranked and the gears responded, spinning pronged spikes like compass needles. The blade had gone rusty and if used left a trail of blood around the girth of all it mapped on an apple globe, the awful history that brought us here.