I spent days rebuilding my website so it has a new look that might serve to better highlight my published books including the hopefully soon to be published The Souring Seas and The Road to Environmental Armageddon. I don’t think it will really make any difference, so I sigh, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” (epigram by Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr – 1849)
Here are three little stories I once wrote for a 100 word story contest – the theme was ‘apple’.
Saved by an Apple
A passing stranger threw the apple into the bin. A young homeless woman, broke and starving, reduced to dumpster-diving for rotting fruit to feed her eight-month-old fetus, rummaged for it.
She stood, pulling a thin disc from a paper sleeve. Pictures of a Granny Smith apple decorated both.
“That’s a Beatles record,” her partner exclaimed. “They’re famous! Some rich shit will buy that.”
One month later, she awaited her baby’s birth. They had a tiny room with adequate food and a few possessions. The box of pristine hundred-year-old 45 rpm records she found in a dumpster had been their salvation.
The Tainted Apple
Almost everyone thought our grade eleven biology teacher was a total jerk because he cast lascivious glances as he munched apples three besotted girls left on his desk before each class.
One day, a guy swapped out the apple. I noticed, but everyone else seemed oblivious.
During the class, the teacher lost it, cursing wanton harlots as he overturned an aquarium and stomped the fish. It was the worst bad acid trip I ever witnessed.
The police grilled the three girls, and I made my first descent into the world of crime when I didn’t tell them what I saw.
Two apples clung from a low-hanging branch.
“Look at that git,” Mac said, gazing down at the gentleman recumbent against the trunk of their tree. “He’s dreaming of Betty, the serving wench in the Cock ‘n Bull, when he should be pondering the principles of the gravitational force.”
“One of us will have to bring him to his senses,” Tosh replied. “Rock, paper, scissors to decide? Ready, one… two… three…”
“Looks like me,” Mac sighed. “The things one does for science.”
He took dead aim at the bald spot on Sir Isaac’s crown and released his grip on the branch.