"A Deconstruction of Bad Seeds"

JM Heluk © 2002

The nuisance across the street:

Apple Ridge. Quiet simple minded conformity with a rule book a thousand pages too thick. The houses (should I call them that)? are cookie cutter. No deviations. No character. No individuals. All who reside in Apple Ridge are perfectly content with their decision to have their decisions made for them. The two story homes are allowed only two shades of predetermined color upon them; sand dollar cream with an opaque pongee trim. Any deviation from the permissible color scheme will not be tolerated, it is forbidden. The houses, condo's, whatever they are, are sutured together upon winding avenues haphazardly like poorly sewn stitches. All of the homes are all attached; nothing breaks their continuity. Row upon row of sand dollar two story homes with pongee trim stand in Apple Ridge like poorly dressed soldiers congregating shoulder to shoulder on the front lines. They seemed very strong to me at first, and yes, possibly even imposing from all outward appearances, but the wind whistles across their tops carrying their secrets like whispers. On a quiet night you can hear what they are saying.

We wont be here in a hundred years. We are simply not that well built.


In the early to late evenings, a close-knit ribbon of oversized, mostly tan or some variation of that color, suburban vehicles and minivans clog the streets of Apple Ridge like cholesterol constricting arteries. Some of the more expensive units do posses driveways and garages, but there is simply not enough room to contain all of the vehicles. At night, streetlamps splatter gaseous yellow scars across the houses giving them a sickly appearance and in the voids of absent light, deep pockets bloom into ominous shadows. There are no trees in Apple Ridge anymore, just a clutter of houses that jut out from a completely flat landscape. Despite all these drawbacks, it is my understanding that people pay good money to live like this, in these minuscule blots. Each home has a front yard, or a more accurate description, a simple patch of grass that is 20 feet across. The occupants don't actually get to utilize that entire space as their own; they are allotted only half, exactly 10 feet of front lawn per family. These shared properties give the illusion of space quite well from a distance, but like everything in Apple Ridge, it is all illusion. Every unit has its very own walkway- a poor imitation of cobblestone, poured from concrete into square patterns that boast a lackluster gray wash. Walkways in Apple Ridge lead to very opaque front doors that are impossibly designed to face one another. I have not yet decided if this was simply a design flaw or intentionally executed to force human contact. I strongly suspect the latter. What I have seen of the backyards are that they are 10 feet across by 14 feet long and each cubical of property is divided by cheap white plastic fences. Most have concrete slabs. Children play on asphalt.

Mass Murder:

I was there when they tore the apple orchards down that spring. The demolition crews rolled in at dawn's light, dragging behind them an army of equipment bearing terrible iron jaws. I watched in quiet protest from my home across the main road. Massive dinosaurs lumbered around the field with mud splattered yellow bodies against the sky. Long necked metal animals with gigantic heads ripped trees that had six feet of girth from the ground as if they were mere splinters piercing the soil. At night, they stood like sentries, rigid, ever watchful and never really at rest. It took them three days to permanently destroy the orchard. Those wicked things ate the trees, which at that time were in magnificent full bloom, and left in their wake hundreds of half eaten stumps, craggy mounds of earth and a storms worth of delicate pink apple blossoms to rot into the soil.

If you have ever had the privilege of seeing an apple orchard in the springtime, you would appreciate what I am saying here. It is truly a splendid sight. Thousands of apple trees, all spaced into rows about 15 feet apart grow perfectly imperfect, ornamenting the landscape with snarled limbs that bloom millions of delicate flowers. With a gentle blowing breath, a few will flutter off and carry on the breeze stunningly like pink butterflies. An apple orchard is an explosion of color, loudly announcing springs arrival. But sadly, six and a half acres were ruined leaving behind a vapid wasteland. Not an apple tree was spared. Not one. Despite that fact, the developers still decided to name the housing development Apple Ridge. This was just another facet of a trend that had suspiciously been called progress. Deer Run, Fox Hollow Golf course, Crane Lake Retirement Home…Apple Ridge, you get the picture. What had taken generations to nurture and grow had simply turned into a sight that has forever left a troublesome stain upon my memory. The farm had meant so much to me growing up. I foolishly thought that it would be there forever. I understand that farmers get old and farmers eventually must die, however, just because I understand does not mean I have to forgive.

The Morning After:

In the swirling spring mist two figures appeared on a mountain of excess soil that the demolition crew had discarded near the rear of the clearing. At first they were just silhouettes, scant and fuzzy against the early dawn. But with the steady rising of light, I easily could see what they were. Two deer. A fawn and her mother looked out over the field of mud and stumps. What lie before them must have been so utterly horrific. A blob of sludge and earth had replaced the farm they had once called home, and was scattered with amputated tree limbs, dying pink petals stuck helplessly in the mud and row upon row of mangled, half chewed stumps. They were clearly vexed, possibly insulted, but the pair were undoubtedly frightened. Where would they go now that their home was destroyed I thought, and perhaps, so did they. Just then, the mechanic wail of a bulldozer came whirring to life to finish its task. The orchard is no more I whispered as the heavy machine began digging out the remaining occupants. I watched, tortured with desperation as the stumpy remains dangled perilously from its iron maw as if it were simply picking its teeth. The deer turned on hoof and ran, disappearing behind the mound.

Later that day the work crew erected a giant metal perimeter fence, bright yellow caution tape, barricades, and no trespassing signs around what had once been the apple farm. But one sight made me ache terribly down in my core. On the edge of Apple Ridge, right by the main road, one solitary stump had somehow managed a partial escape and was squeezing out from under the newly erected fence. A lanky fellow, his top half strained out from the confines of the soon to be Apple Ridge towards freedom. Unfortunately for him, he was firmly rooted on the other side.

A Dark Thought Grows:

I awoke late one summer morning to find the mother deer lying on her side on the main road directly under the artificial wood grain Apple Ridge sign. The heat had rendered her body into a gaseous bloated balloon and caused her legs to poke straight out like a wooden sawhorse turned tipsy. Her neck twisted backwards into a ridiculous angle. Her tongue, swollen and black, adhered sizzling to the pavement like a burnt sausage. Someone had struck her with a car. I saw the fawn a few days later, her starving little body had apparently wandered towards and dropped a few feet away from her mothers. So, after the last stump was pulled screaming from his home and after the bodies had been carted off, I decided that some drastic measure needed to be taken, something severe, something lasting. People had protested, quite valiantly I might add, to the development of this place. Some even went through greater lengths, going as far as chaining themselves to the metal gates and taking hand painted cardboard signs to the streets. One person even tried unsuccessfully to burn the place down one night. But late one evening, nature gave me a splendid idea.

Summer nights on the eastern seaboard are prone to heavy and often violent storms, and lightning, well, that's a pretty powerful adversary. The night had a voice, it crackled with throaty thunder and clouds, bloated with rain, rolled in fast obliterating the stars and the moon. A very deep shade of green leaked through the black fabric of sky as it often does before something wicked rains down. The air bristled with electricity. Suddenly the sky above the growing Apple Ridge development lit with a jagged bolt of lightning. It ripped through the darkness with brilliant fury causing night to turn into day. It had been a fierce strike; its target had been no match. The house frame literally exploded. Bits of timber rained onto the main road, singed papery particles fluttered down upon us like angry bats, smoldering wood beams crashed through car windows on my side of the street, car alarms blared, people rushed from their homes and into the dividing main road, some wearing pajamas and curlers, others wearing little more than fuzzy slippers. The blaze had been spectacular. It spewed a singular whirling funnel of crisp red and orange flames that painted the sky the colors of sherbert. We watched for hours, people clapping and cheering at Apple Ridges grave misfortune, but it wasn't until morning did we realize how extensive the damage was. Not just one of the frames were destroyed, but five. Five skeletal and smoldering things cowered in the mud shedding off wood planks and boards like burnt skin. After that, I realized that no man could fight nature. True, the lightning had only made a small dent in the progress of Apple Ridge, but I… I could do so much more.

Deconstructing bad seeds:

Children play in the hot summer sun on their concrete slabs and run happily through the constricted streets of Apple Ridge, deftly dodging the army of vehicles that ride to and fro. Mothers wash minivans in short shorts and other skimpy outfits. Sweaty fathers run their lawnmowers over their halves of the front lawns while other fathers next door wait, sweaty and anxious, to do their half. Homeowners with armloads of packages plod heavily up fake cobblestone walkways with forced smiles, greeting neighbors as they pass. A plethora of sprinklers hiss and click. The sun, so hot, actually makes the tar on the road bubble, turning some spots into sticky black puddles.

No one would notice the tiny parcels that I sent to them, carried within the breeze, so lithe, so seemingly insignificant.

The children would cough when these invisible tenants entered their delicate throats and nasal passages, but many things would find away around that human defense. The adults would sneeze a few out, but more would follow and find a way in. In the following weeks to come, the community of Apple Ridge would blame their symptoms, the tickling in their throats, the incessant cough and stiffness in their joints, on allergies. A few weeks after that, they would not have that explanation to cling too. My Apple Ridge neighbors like to be outside, they must love to be at one with nature. I am merely helping them along. By next spring, all those who reside in Apple Ridge will find themselves in an unbelievably horrifying predicament, every last one of them.

So here they are. Washing cars, carrying packages, playing in sprinklers and cutting their lawns oblivious to the invisible replanting that has ensued. Once, not too long ago, I would have told you that the apple trees where Apple Ridge now lies were producing nicely, but not one of them were left standing.

Well, that may not be entirely true.

One was left standing, not in the Apple Ridge development, but across the street, right here.

And I cannot wait until next spring when I witness the fruits of my loin.

In a few months the seedlings will sprout, take root and eventually flourish inside their damp lungs. Snarling limbs will grow and stiffen well inside of their soft, fertile bodies, finding avenues to sprout in, replacing their veins with woody threadlike arteries. What human screams will stifle and die in throats pasted thick with spongy blossoms I wonder. Some will struggle to escape only to discover that their feet are firmly planted.

A lot of people live in Apple Ridge, I would say an orchard full.

Those ugly cream-colored houses with the pongee trim are no match against nature. But they already knew that, they were never really built that well. Apple Ridge will crumble into dust when each and every one of their owners takes root.

On my side of the main road, houses are truly homes, each boasting their particular individual style, there are no rulebooks here, no predetermined colors, no postage stamp yards. Our children play on grass. Lawns here are expansive, fruitful, and well kept. Neighbors here are at a comfortable distance, but always close at hand, willing to help each other out for a good cause.

And there are all kinds of trees here…all kinds.

The End~