For nearly half a year, Chris hid from the world. He’d built a new house, become a very dedicated farmer and managed to keep his head. His new form had provided him once again with further insight and abilities, than any of his previous bodies. While still bizarre to him, Chris found that carrying the logs and other loads where now much easier, be it logs or quantities of produce. Remembering a few lessons in his wood shop class, he’d created a ramshackle wagon and latched it to his horse body, and harvesting the days since the last change.
But his new body required far more nourishment than either of his previous equine selves, and getting it was no small task. Planting apple trees helped pass the time, and now though yet only sapling they bore hopeful signs of future fruit. He still foraged, as the new trees where nowhere near capable of producing fruit to satisfy his hunger.
By this point, having spent almost six months in solitude, he’d become completely sure that wherever he was he was not in the small forest he entered back then. The forest despite being largely deciduous had a bizarre mixture of tropical plants, thrown in with creatures that could have never existed in the forest of North or South America for that matter. In addition to the bizarre flora and fauna, the smell of the farm was gone, as was the pavilion from the field. Only an apple tree alone in a field, now circled by Chris’ ten saplings remained. The rest was all forest, as far as the eye could see. Chris’ phone had been sundered, slowly corroding into it’s original components, then completely transmuting into bark. His wallet, changed from the square shape to a satchel, and his currency had lost its shape and bore a language he could neither read or place.
He had not lost any of his human sharpness, he could read, and write and had not forgotten any of his memories he regained from his horse dementia. However, he wondered exactly what would have happened had he eaten another one of the “cursed apples” I morbid curiosity and against all dread in his heart decided that when he was finished with his “chores” he would head out and pick one.
After plowing his field, with yet another contraption using his own horsepower, Chris walked at an exhausted pace to the apple tree. It seemed less sinister than he’d been demonizing it in his dreams, as if before he thought the serpent from Eden lay coiling in it’s boughs.
Proping his arm up against it, He took an apple closest too him, and once again he turned it over in his hands, gleaning it for bugs or rotten sections. Finding none to his satisfaction, he bit down.

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