A worm, a worm curled tightly at the heart of an apple, a secret fruit, a secret shell, a secret seed rotting from the inside cloaked in camouflage. It will never be an apple tree. It will be a worm tree, branches full of wriggling writhing fruit; it will reach up its spotted leaves to the sky to fuel the rot beneath. The fruits drop one by one, thick fleshy plunks onto the ground, where they burrow down into the earth and return to the roots from whence they came. The tree of bees stands nearby, rustling, outline shifting and whispering as its children strain against their yokes with a yellow-black buzzing. Bees' wings flutter down flickering like incandescent snow from failed fruit ripped apart by its brothers, while the queen rests suspended inside her orb of sweet amber honey, within the heart of the trunk. Slowly shifting and turning, pollinated by the seed of her sons, she floats in her golden world with a calculated gleaming. The worms are not aesthetically pleasing, she muses, and they are using up precious resources that she should rightly give to her children; but perhaps they can be put to good use.
She shifts and turns, shifts and turns within her ever-flowing throne. Time runs slow here, slow and thick like honey. She is the nucleus of the sun, the fuel for its golden gleaming fire. Her patience is infinite. She can wait.