Only a handful of apples ever really come to the incredible realization that Harold the Green Apple did that day. You see, while Harold was a green apple - which is really nothing out of the ordinary as far as green apples go, most of them are different shades of green that sometimes even range into the yellow-ish realm of things - he wasn't the only one of his kind. He was, however, the only one of his kind - the nothing out of the ordinary green kind with a skin that was nowhere near tinted yellow-ish - to discover the cause and potential solution to his own demise.
Harold, in all of his green glory, was just one of the bushel. A bushel which in fact was no more than seven apples on this particular day. Oh, they all had names given to them by whoever it is that gives names to apples, and for sake of argument you could let such labellings as Hector, Helena, or Hugo roll off your tongue, but such details about the other apples in the bushel would be determined as trivial, considering our adventure is about Harold.
Harold knew he was different. Maybe it was a certain amount of curiosity that floated within his consciousness. Perhaps it was that he was saving up a degree of bravery for a rainy day. Some might have suggested that he, quite simply, had an abundant amount of tenured charisma.
What is most certainly for certain is that Harold still had a stem on his top, while the others did not.
Yes, that's correct - Harold was separated by a digit growing out of him that had not fallen or been pulled off, and while the other six apples in the bushel could see this protrusion that had been protruding from him, Harold could not. And since apples don't speak in the audible languages that we, as human beings, are used to then it was relatively and incredibly impossible for any of the other six apples in the bushel that were also not at all yellowy tinted to let Harold in on the difference that made him different.
As it were, the apples had once taken a vow of silence anyway, and weren't about to break it over a silly little stem that could simply fall out at any inconvenient moment in which someone might just pass by and accidentally bump into their bushel. Unfortunately, these things do happen.
So it's also safe to say that Harold, also harboring the inability to even look up at his own top, was completely unaware that he even had a stem or was different from the others at all.
It came as a shock to all of them when a larger man, spouting profanities in a European accent - and if you're reading this story somewhere in Europe then feel free to substitute "European accent" for "American accent" or "Islamic accent" or even "Icelandic accent" if you're really full of hatred - grabbed the bushel and proceeded to spill all seven of the apples onto a very clean stainless steel counter top. If, in fact, Harold couldn't see the stem on his top then he could surely see the collection of well-sharpened kitchen knives in close proximity to him and his bushel companions, all of which - possibly from an unnerving apprehension in this moment - had seemingly started to tint toward a yellowish-ness that they had never tinted towards before. It was very brief, the yellowing, and they were all most definitely back to their usual green shade within a moment or two.
Soon, an aroma of cinnamon filled the air. Good cinnamon, the kind your mother's mother would use when baking a pie, which is not to be confused with the discount variety often utilized by large corporate baking facilities that pay their employees in the most minimal of wages. Harold, entranced by this pleasuring odor, followed the rest of his bushel friends into a round pan, about twelve inches in diameter. It was like a warm, newly made bed with freshly washed linen that had been air dried on a clothesline in a Spring meadow. Harold wanted to lay there with his friends and nap for the rest of forever.
Another warm blanket, almost like a comforter, soon covered up Harold and his hardly unique pals. The darkness that now surrounded them became warmer and warmer until it reached a loving three-hundred and fifty degrees. The comforter sunk down on them all, and it was at this moment that Harold finally realized he was physically different from the other green apples. No, he didn't manically believe he was now a yellow apple - or heaven forbid a red apple, because that would be enough to have him tossed into an asylum - but instead discovered that ounce of building bravery that was now stemming from his seeds inside of him.
And stemming is what he did. His stem, that one iota that made him stand out in a crowd, was no longer simply protruding from his top. That stem was reaching from his top all the way up, as high as it could go, which just so happened to be just enough of a distance to puncture the comforter that had been keeping the pre-heated darkness inside.
Something funny happens when one apple comes to the realization that they are contrasted from the others in any given bushel. They desire to fit in, to belong, to kiss the prettiest girl at the high school semi-formal (assuming apples go through such tedious and traditional happenstances) - and when they realize they can't, like Harold did this day, they decide to stick out once and for all - much like the stem on Harold's top did this day - and then fade into obscurity with the rest of the bushel.
And so Harold stuck out, once and for all, and pushed his stem as far up as he could - which was just enough to garner the attention of those with the European (*you know what to do here) accents to pull the snuggling bed out from the three-hundred and fifty degrees. And upon inspecting the green apples further, they noticed one small stem laying amongst all of the friends who had left the bushel together. Moments passed, and the assumption determined that something must have been wrong with one of the green apples and thus all of them would be spared. Many experts would refer to this as quality control. Others, divine intervention.
A voice in an accent that really doesn't need clarification because it will change from region to region then suggested that yellow apples should have been used all along anyway.
And so, Harold had discovered not only his own demise, but that of his fellow green apples, and in the process assured their safety for the future (well, time being anyway, apples only last a few days once they've been picked) all the while discovering that he was, in fact, different and would now be fitting in for the rest of his days.
At least now Harold finally felt as though he was one of the bushel. No longer would anyone make a comment having to do with the comparison of him and his greenly, un-yellowishly tinted comrades as being, "like comparing apples and oranges."
The end.
- ryan
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