Two police motorcycles dawdled past, swerving and making those obnoxious revving noises that all motorcycles seem to make. If I didn’t know better I’d think some major crime had just been committed and that these cops were part of some car chase. The leisurely pace could easily be explained away by the fact that no one in this town ever went above the speed limit of fifteen miles an hour. Ridiculous. I finally get my license and now I don’t get to enjoy the luxury of a “joy ride” or some phrase equally stupid that basically adds up to rolled down windows and a heavy beat blasting from your stereo.
Back to the present though, these motorcycles were part of the dumbest parade ever, celebrating the apple harvest and all of its oh-so-glorious bounty. Since I arrived here (not by choice) less than a week ago, I’ve attended this parade, the 23rd Annual Town of East Mannsville Picnic (where there was bobbing for apples – how unsanitary…), the Apple Festival, and the Apple Carnival. Personally, I couldn’t differentiate between the two; they both were mainly made up of various apple pie contests.
The townsfolk (that’s what they call themselves) either really like to go overboard with things or just love apples. Right now, a trio of clowns just unicycled by me and they were juggling… what else but apples.
All I’ve heard about since I got here has been gosh darn apples. I’ve learned about every type of apple related food there ever was. Apple pie, apple sauce, apple juice, apple cider, caramel apples, apple turnovers, baked apples, candy apples, apple fritters. What is the difference between a crisp, cobbler, strudel, and crumple anyways?
It seems like everyone here has got to be over the age of forty, but nonetheless I got dragged along. Apparently, my aunt, whom I’m staying with right now, is like the organizer of all these events. The mayor, who’s fond of putting everybody to sleep with his speechmaking, has already given her a bouquet (complete with a personalized note on apple-embossed stationery) and two trophies shaped like apple cores. If you’re going to hand out trophies, at least have the decency to make full-blown apples instead of partial ones. Always emotional, after faking a smile when receiving the awards, my lovely Great Aunt Laurie went home and cried because all her hard work had amounted to such small and cheaply-made, inedible apple cores.
Aunt Laurie has got no real reason to want more apples, she’s got them (along with some tufts of white hair) coming out of her ears. I never knew of so many varieties of apples. In fact, before I moved here I was living with the belief that apples only varied by color. Imagine! Needless to say I was quickly educated by the neighbors who rang the door every five minutes asking for “just a couple more” Golden Delicious, or Gala, or Granny Smith, or Red Delicious apples. It seems that Laurie’s an official apple supplier or something.
As I’m standing here watching this parade I try to avoid thoughts of home, with try being the key word. My thoughts drift to Seattle, where people are all different and a walk around the city can be made fun by counting the number of fellow pedestrians sporting blue hair or the number of Starbucks you can pass without crazing one of their chocolate chips cookies. Here in New York, they don’t have a single coffee shop for miles around and craving a cappuccino means figuring out how to operate a coffee maker.
I’m not so great with kitchen appliances, one time the rice I was making overflowed out of the pot like the old-fashioned popcorn in Orville Redenbacher commercials. It sort of set off the fire alarm too. And being short, I had to find a tall enough step ladder (chairs aren’t sturdy enough, okay?) to reach the stupid beeping thing. By time I turned the stupid thing off, my stupid neighbor with impeccable hearing had alerted the fire department and it wasn’t long before the bright red trucks showed up. My mom… my mom banned me from the kitchen.
“Ouch! Watch it!” I just got jostled by some creep and my head just snapped back to hit the brick wall I’d been leaning against.
I reached to massage the place on my scalp where I was sure to have a bruise later. Looking up, I saw a guy that must have been my age (judging by what he was wearing) hurrying away as if he actually had some place to be, as if – there’s nothing to do here. Then he turned back with a regretful look and he stared at me for a second like he was telepathically apologizing. I guess it worked. Maybe too well because I didn’t get his face out my head, even as flyers and sour apple Jolly Ranchers were thrown at me.
So I've never got any feedback on Quizilla so I was wondering if somebody could send me a message or rate this story to give me an idea of how it is. It'd be really nice of you if you'd do that so...
I know its rambles a lot but I can't seem to write fiction any other way. Tell me if the rambling is annoying, because the last time somebody read a story I wrote was in the fourth grade or something.
