under the apple tree

I started a story. I could go on and on with it, but I'll stop and leave it unfinished, as it is, and call it a blog post.


Once upon a time, there was a great big apple tree --a fruitful thing that had enough apples for everyone. 

The people lived beneath the apple tree, as that was their source of nourishment. They lived in two groups: the group that lived in the grass directly under the apple tree; and the group that lived in pits that had been dug out of the way of the roots.

Some of the group who lived in the grass above set about climbing the tree to collect the apples. They were industrious. They grew thick calluses on their hands and feet from scaling the trunk, and when they shook the branches, apples rained down from above. Some of the apples rolled into the pits, but most of the apples landed in the grass and stayed there until a grass-dweller happened to feel peckish and leaned down to pick it up.

One day, a pit-dweller named Sam, who had gone hungry for quite enough time, called up. "Can someone please throw down an apple? I'm starving down here!"

What was this noise from below? wondered the grass-dwellers. And why was it demanding apples?

"If you would like an apple, why don't you climb the tree like everyone else?" snapped a grass-dweller named George (who hadn't, in fact, climbed the tree himself but had certainly broken a sweat watching those who had).

"We've been down here trying to climb out of the pits!" called up another pit-dweller named Lucy. "We'd gladly climb the tree --our hands are strong now, from trying to grapple with the dirt, but whenever we dig in, the dirt gives way, and we tumble back down again."

"Fine. Here. Have an apple." George tossed down the core of the apple he had been happily gnawing away at before the complaining began. It's not like he could enjoy it anymore with all of that racket going on below. They didn't have enough energy to climb the apple tree --where did they get all of this energy to complain so loudly?

"That was generous of you," a grass-dweller named Maude complimented George. "Too generous. You don't want to encourage their sloth! And they're devious, too. Do you know, just the other day, I was reaching down to pick up an apple, and one of those pit-dwellers grabbed my ankle and pulled me over and stole my apple! You're much more generous that I would be. They don't deserve it."

"Oh, I know. It was just to get some peace and quiet. I was done with it, anyway."

"Still, it'll only encourage them to be loud again."

"We can hear you, you know," Lucy called up.

"See what I mean?"



It was just an idea that came to mind when I woke up one day this week. I stopped where humanity looks pretty bleak, but it doesn't have to end that way. Any ideas for how the two groups can come together?

And some questions about what's already there:

• What do you think of the pit-dweller who stole the apple?
• Do you think it makes sense for only some of the grass-dwellers to climb the apple tree? Why or why not?
• How did the grass-dwellers and the pit-dwellers end up in such different circumstances in the first place (with the pit-dwellers obviously placed at a disadvantage)?

the second first (three) chapter(s)

Seriously, I have these things laying around like ships in a ship graveyard. Many first chapters sank to the bottom, only to be forgotten under the waves of time. If you think I'm using this metaphor because it's a pirate book, sorry --but that gives me an idea for another book ... 

Tangents are a bit of an issue. Lots of ideas, little focus. I am slowly learning & refocusing, though, and in the end, anything that can be a book will be a book. My habits are getting better. The book I wrote about in The First First Chapter? It is proceeding nicely now. It took a little nudge provided by publicly shaming myself in the nicest way possible.

Let's explore today's, shall we? This is the first chapter to a children's book I started a gazillion years ago called The Runaway Bestseller. Because they are short chapters, I'll give you three chapters for the price of one (which, incidentally, is free). I have gotten slightly distracted by my desire to teach children how to read while they are reading, but they're not awful chapters. I'm not sure I'll start this one up again. I may be struck by inspiration now that I've brought it out of the shadows, though --we'll see.

The Runaway Bestseller

Chapter 1

Mrs. Reed smiled.  “Milton, I have the perfect book for you!”

Milton hated books.  Milton hated reading.  Milton hated library on Wednesday.  Mrs. Reed was nice for a grown-up, but Milton did not like her very much right now, either.

“Mrs. Reed,” Milton shook his head.  “You know I do not like reading.  I did not like it in kindergarten.  I did not like it in first grade.  I did not even like it in second grade.  I am almost 9 years old now.  It is not going to happen.”

“Of course.  No reading.  Check the book out anyway.  Okay?”

“O-kay.  What’s it about?”  Milton asked in a way that told Mrs. Reed he did not care, no way was he reading that book.

“It’s called The Runaway Bestseller.”

Milton gave her a look.

Mrs. Reed smiled again.  She smiled too much.  “It’s funny.  The book is called The Runaway Bestseller, but it can’t be.  A runaway bestseller, I mean.  That would make it a book that everybody knows.  Nobody knows this book.  Funny, don’t you think?”

“Funny.”  Milton rolled his eyes.

“Let me go get it for you.”  Mrs. Reed walked through a doorway and closed the door.  Milton could not see her in there, but boy, could he hear her!  Some bumps.  A bang or two.  A bunch of thumps.  Milton even heard a clang.  What was going on back there?  It sounded like Dad working on the car in the garage.

The door opened and Mrs. Reed walked out.  She looked different than when she walked in.  Her cheeks were red now.  She was breathing hard.  And her hair –oh boy, was her hair a mess!  Did she look for a book in there, or did she have a PE class?  

Milton saw a small brown book in her hands.  The book was not there before she went in. 

“Here we go.”

She set the small brown book down on the counter.  The letters on the cover looked like they were made of gold --gold covered with dust.  Milton read the words in his head:  The… Run… away… Best… sell-er.  So this was the book.  It did not even have a picture on the cover!  Or maybe it did.  It was hard to tell with the dust.

“Oh, let me clean that off for you.”  Mrs. Reed picked up the book and wiped off the dust with a rag.  Milton was right.  No dust now and still no picture.  Mrs. Reed handed the book to him.  He stuck out one hand and grabbed it.  The cover felt soft, like his dad’s leather coat.  A leather cover?  Weird for a library book.

“I can’t scan it, so I will write down that you have it,” Mrs. Reed said.

“I’m not going to read it.”

Mrs. Reed was writing on a clipboard.  She smiled again.  “Enjoy the book.  Looks like your class is lining up.  See you next Wednesday!”

Chapter 2 

Milton put The Runaway Bestseller in his backpack when he got back to class.  He tossed the book into his backpack the way you toss an apple into the garbage can when you are done eating.  Then he sat down at his desk and took out his math. 

Milton did not think about the book at all during math.  Or during recess.  Or during lunch.  Or during any part of the school day.  He did not think about the book at all until it was time to go home.  

He needed to put his homework folder in his backpack.  The book was in the way.  He moved it out of the way.  Stupid book, he thought, and he stuffed his folder into the backpack.  He stopped thinking about the book by the time he zipped the backpack shut.

Dad was home when he got opened the front door.  Dad called out, “Hey, Mom is still at work.  What do you want for dinner tonight?”

Milton was in charge of dinner?  Awesome!  He called back, “How about pizza and ice cream?”

“How about no?  Try again.” 

“I don’t know.  Just no broccoli.” Milton made a face and walked into the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the counter.

Dad smiled.  “You got it, chief.  Do you have homework?”

“No.”

“Nice try.  What is your homework?”    

Milton groaned and dropped his backpack on the floor.  “The usual.  Reading, writing, math.” 

He started with math.  It only took five minutes to do.  Milton was great at math.  He  did not need any help with that.  

Next came writing.  The writing homework took more time and he needed Dad’s help.  He had to start a report about an explorer.  He had to choose one, so he and Dad looked on the computer.  They picked Vasco da Gama.  

Then it was time for reading.  He pulled the brown leather book out of his backpack.

“Remember: you have to read at least 30 minutes.  It’s 4:00 now, so read until …?”  Dad stopped and looked at Milton.

“4:30.”  

Dad nodded.  “That’s my boy.  You can read in your room while I start dinner.  And don’t worry,” Dad said. “No broccoli.  Promise.” 

 

Milton walked into his room and closed the door.  He dropped the book and himself on his bed.  He thought about what he had told Mrs. Reed.  “I’m not going to read it.”  He did have to do his reading homework.  Milton would not tell her.  Reading the book would be his secret.  

Chapter 3

Milton opened the cover to the title page.  The paper was yellow with age.  The page was kind of crispy.  An old book.  There were the words again: The Runaway Bestseller, typed in black ink.  Under the title was the word ‘Anonymous’.  

It took Milton a minute to sound it out.  An –on- ee- moose, he thought to himself.  That was where they put the writer’s name in books, so that must be the writer.  An –on –ee –moose.  Anonymous.  Weird name.  Weird name for the weird writer of a weird book.  And there were still no pictures.  Ugh!

He turned to page one.  He smiled.  Maybe this book was going to be okay.  On page one, Milton saw six words.  Six words!  The book looked like it had 100 pages, but only six words on a page?  This was going to be easy.

Looking at the words, only the last word was going to be hard.  He knew the other five words, but that last word was really long.  He read in his head: Read, this, word, out, loud.  Easy.  Now for the last word.  

Humblebumbleflumble.

Milton groaned.  He needed to break up the big word.  He saw the letters ‘u-m-b-l-e’ three times.  Um –bull.  Now he just had to add the letters that came in front of um –bull.  There was hum –bull, and there was bum-bull, and last was flum-bull.  Hum-bull bum-bull flum-bull.  Hum-bull-bum-bull-flum-bull?  What kind of a word was that?      

He turned the crispy yellow page.  The next page had no words.  He flipped more pages.  There were no words on any of the other pages.  

The Runaway Bestseller was not just okay --it was the greatest book of all time!  A kid only had to read six words, but parents and teachers would think a kid was reading a 100-page book.  

Mrs. Reed was right.  This was the perfect book for Milton.   

.   .   .

The next day, homework time came again.  Mom was at work again.  Dad was in the kitchen making dinner again.  Today, they were having macaroni for dinner.  Milton closed his door and flopped down on his bed for reading homework again.  

This time, he had a plan.

He would read the six words and flip through the rest of the pages.  Then, with the rest of the time, he could play or maybe draw.  He had to stay quiet so Dad would not know his plan.  If Dad found out, he would have to choose a different book, a real book with real words.

He opened The Runaway Bestseller to page one.  Read this word out loud: humblebumbleflumble.  It was way easier to read that long word today.  Milton stopped. 

“Wait a minute,” he said to himself. 

He was thinking too much about reading the words.  He was not thinking about what the words said.  Read this word out loud.  The writer wanted him to read that long word out loud.  Weird.  Milton was in his room, so no one would hear him.  Since he was alone and no one would hear, he gave it a try.

“Humblebumbleflumble,” he mumbled.            

BANG! 

.   .   .

the first first chapter

Here's something I've been toying with the idea of doing: posting first chapters of pieces I'm writing that I haven't finished yet. 

It's a way of keeping me honest. These pieces are not done because I haven't done them. They are longer, which tends to be an issue with me. I can finish shorter works in a single sitting, and do. Longer pieces, I run off and do life and get distracted and then remember, oh yeah, that thing ... .

It's not the work's fault. Usually, there's a bit of the overall story that is fuzzy in my head, and that's where I hit a roadblock. A wiser lady than I would just keep ramming the roadblock until it got out of the way, but as I said, life. That, and I go write something else that's shorter. It's not that I'm not writing --I write all the time. It's inefficiency. I'm working on it.

In the meantime, here is the first chapter of something that is not available yet: The Infinite Monkey. It will be. If you are someone who knows about philosophy, medicine, or academia, I'd love feedback because it's complete and utter fiction.

1.

Dr. Bartholomew

“Where does one find primates for short-term lease?”

Dr. Nathan Bartholomew was generally full of practical thoughts. At the moment, his practical thoughts involved monkeys, which left Dr. Bartholomew feeling unsettled and staring at his framed diplomas. Preparing a study with monkeys was proving to be a challenge as it was his first time working with animal subjects. It was certainly different than preparing a study with human subjects.

“At least there’s no need for informed consent,” Dr. Bartholomew muttered to himself in an attempt to soothe his nerves. How would one seek informed consent from a monkey?  Chatter at it, offer it bananas, and hope it would say yes? It would be completely impractical and, fortunately, was not required.

His mind drifted back to some of the undergraduates who had served as human subjects in past research studies. The monkeys might be better equipped to understand the consent paperwork. He shook his head in an effort to refocus. He stared hard at the calendar on the wall. What day was it? September 8. There was work to do.    

Other more practical questions bullied their way into his mind, shoving the undergraduates aside. He would have to organize; a man of intellectual inquiry requires order. Dr. Bartholomew scrubbed at a spot of tomato soup that marred his favorite blue-and-white striped tie with his thumb. Lunch had an unfortunate habit of succumbing to gravity when he ate. One does not worry about how to eat soup, however, when one is contemplating the Universe. He scrubbed some more. Julia would take care of this. She’d have it out by tomorrow without difficulty, like she always did.

Julia. Julia wasn’t there.

No, he would figure it out himself when he got home. That would be later. Now, a list was needed because a man of intellectual inquiry requires order. He swiveled his chair back towards his desk and the computer with purpose. He stroked his bearded cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand, then began typing.

Where does one find primates for short-term lease?  He assigned this task to one of his research assistants, the tall one who looked like he should be playing basketball.  What was his name?  Matthew?  Mark?  He typed an M.  That would do for now.   

Has the paperwork cleared for conducting research on animal subjects?  This one would be handled by the the improbably-named Kimberlee, another research assistant. Kimberlee had a very pretty face and an excellent mind, but Kimberlee?  She would never be able to advance in her career with a name befitting a trailer park resident.  

What do monkeys eat?  He was certain it couldn’t possibly be bananas.  If Nathan Bartholomew had learned one thing in his thirty-seven years as an academic, it was that the most obvious answer was almost never correct.  Indeed, entire careers had been built on finding obscure answers to questions that the rest of the world never bothered to ask.  He assigned this job to that short one with the purple hair. Eugene?

Where will we house the monkeys?  Dr. Bartholomew gave that task to Kimberlee again.  Of the three lab assistants, she was the one most likely to get things done, despite her pretty face and horrible name.  Struck by this thought, he also assigned her When do we get the computers for the monkeys?, Do monkeys require special sleeping arrangements?, and Are monkeys toilet trained?

The grant had seemed like a good idea at the time it was written; money is always a good idea when one seeks paid work.  The grant proposal---Nonhuman Primates & Generation of Meaningful Text: A Case Study Examining Viability of the Infinite Monkey Theorem---was a logical one for the Department of Philosophical Inquiry of the University of New College to tackle under the direction of Dr. Bartholomew.  

He and the department were building a reputation for innovative thinking. From the time he had arrived from Patrick Henry University eight years earlier, Dr. Bartholomew had set immediately to work establishing himself as an academic with vision and an ability to carry out groundbreaking research. He was beginning to suspect, however, that even he would have difficulty with this latest grant.

Monkeys. What had he been thinking? He shook his head and stroked his chin. He must have become overly confident based his previous successes. He could not allow this monkey study to become another Las Vegas. He took a deep breath, glanced quickly back at his diplomas, and exhaled. No. More than likely, this would be another success.

His first project in the Department of Philosophical Inquiry had certainly been successful. Based on Wittgenstein’s concept of Internal Language and the pain scale typically used in hospitals, it could be conducted quickly at very little expense. Any project requiring limited time and money which related to the field of medicine was guaranteed to be funded, Dr. Bartholomew had reasoned correctly. His grant had been approved without difficulty, and the study---comparing the pain scales of people undergoing the same surgical procedure---had been simple to supervise. The resulting articles (cited as Bartholomew et al., the first time he had been the primary author) had appeared in journals with impressive titles: American Journal of Pain & Palliative Care, Northwest Journal of Medicine.

Dr. Bartholomew had tried to explain the basis of the study to Julia at the time. It was one of the few instances she had listened, he recalled, pursing his lips and frowning.

“Wittgenstein said that feelings and perceptions are like having a beetle in a box,” he had told her, trying to simplify it for her as if she were one of his students. “No one else can truly know what is in that box---only you can. Maybe there really is a beetle, maybe there’s no beetle. Only you know. Things like pain and color---they're like those beetles. You can describe them, as people do with pain scales, but it's not the same.”

Although Julia’s voice was growing quieter and quieter in his memory, he could still make out her words: “We all have a bit of the beetles, don't you think? People can never really know each other's beetles.”

“People can never really know each other's beetles. ...”

Dr. Bartholomew waggled his head for the second time that afternoon, wanting to erase that moment. He stroked his bearded cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand, then checked his email. It was time for monkeys, not beetles.