Far out in the country, near the shade of a large, lonely mountain, there was an apple orchard. It was glorious, as picturesque as could be. There were many trees sprawled out along the grassy lanes of the orchard, all grouped, tagged, and beautiful; but only one tree was important in this particular tale. Among this tree's many branches, twice as numerous as the lanes, were apple blossoms sprouting into petite, charming flowers. They looked like little ballet dancers, both elegant and pale. There were hundreds of these, but, just like the trees, only one was important in this tale.
Once old enough to become an apple, this particular blossom made a promise: never fall off. For, as you may know, the fate of a fallen apple is harsh, to say the least. It is bruised, nibbled, kicked, carried, and ultimately ground down and drunk through apple cider. Yes, it wished to become a large, plump apple and live out its twilight shriveling in safe seclusion amongst the upper branches. Fortunately, the apple was well placed for this quest, surrounded on all sides by green little leaves. It had visible potential to be a success and live out its dream. It had hope and determination, vitality and intelligence: it seemed to have everything it needed.
When the icy, threatening wind blew, the apple held tightly to its branch and lived another day. When birds flew in for their apple raids, licking their beaks, the apple hid behind the leaves. Many of its friends fell. Some were eaten, and some grew sick and stopped growing. Nevertheless, the apple held firm.
Finally there came the day when the red, juicy apple glinted and shone like a red pearl, full of vitality and hope: it had reached maturity; soon it would accomplish its goal.
Now, my friend, do you know what happened to the apple that did not want to fall? It was picked.