Once upon a time, there was this girl. She was a writer. Or thought she

was, anyway.

Anyway, she would often get these great ideas for stories during the wee,

small hours of the morning (which is when she would work on her writing).

Anyhoo, she’d always forget about them (right after affirming in her mind

that the idea was SO FRICKIN GREAT that she’d never be ABLE to forget about

them). 

But then, another idea would come along, and, well… you know how that

Goes.

Her boss, too, knew all about his star writer’s tendencies to focus on “the

next big thing” before doing anything about the big thing sitting in her lap.

So, one day, He told her to drop everything in her lap, her hands, her

everything. To sit down at His desk. And to write down even ONE sentence about

the idea she’d just been blathering about. Just a summary… While he watched.

She began to do so, but soon fell into fleshing out.

“What’s going on?” came His inquiry.

“Oh, Boss! This is so awesome! I know you just want a summary, but I

feel really inspired to start writing it up RIGHT NOW!”

Her huge grin told Him that she’d fallen into the trap yet again. “Um, look.

That’s great, but can you just write one little sentence? I want to start doing

some research on it, and THEN you can write whatever you want.”

“But I’ll lose my inspiration to write if I change gears now! Just one more

minute and then I’ll write it.”

One hour later, she’d written four excellent pages. Which had almost

nothing to do with the original idea she’d told him.

“Um, forget the summary, this story has nothing to do with the original

idea—”

“Well, what I’ve written is an explanation of the story.”

“So, like a fleshed-out summary?”

“Well, kinda. Like… a fleshed-out snippet of a snippet of the summary.”

“Ah.”

“So, can you tell me in one second what this story’s about? Like, a boy

meets a girl and it turned out that they were both running for president?”

“Oh, pish posh! I can do better than that!”

She rapidly printed out her document, and set it before Him with a

flourish.

“Ta da!”

He read through the four pages, set them down, and gazed at her with

great fondness.

“This is so well-written. You are truly gifted at writing.”

Her smile was as bright as the sun.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy with my writing,” she

breathed, swallowing a lump that appeared when her eyes got misty.

“If I were to nominate you for a prize, what could I write on the

nomination form? For the summary of this work, I mean.”

“Uh, You could say that I like to write, and that I wrote an allegory about

eternity and a place where death was really just changing addresses… remember

that?”

Her boss drew the heaviest sigh ever.

“Yes, but you’ve already gotten prizes for those. How about THIS piece?

Just a phrase.”

“I… I mean, I don’t know what it’s about, really, I just know how to write,

I’m not into thinking up the details, right? Tee hee. That’s why you keep me

around, right? Hahahaa!”

As she cracked herself up, he replied in a decidedly-sombre tone.

“For you to take a phrase and turn it into four pages… man. You’ve GOTTA

be into details, don’t you think?”

“Well, I am, but… like, I had a plan, but when I went to execute it, I saw

that it needed to be broken down a bit more. And a bit more.”

A cute(sy) ringtone began to blast from somewhere in the Boss’s vicinity.

He sat still for a moment, then another. She blinked at him questioningly. Finally,

he sighed heavily and pressed a button on a phone in the pocket of his black

jacket (which was decorated with almost-invisible pink pinstripes, btw.)

“And a bit more. Which is why it might take you a thousand pages just to

let the reader know that you were, in fact, writing about a gardener who pruned

good and productive branches… and cut out the unproductive branches.”

“But pruning and cutting aren’t that different! They’re both cutting!”

“That they are.”

“And they’re both important!”

“That they are…”

“But, out of curiosity, and coz I always like to know where the story’s going

before I start writing, you know? Like… what happens to the branches? Coz the

gardener COULD turn them into cuttings, you know. In fact, the story could even

be about a gardener who turns into a FOREST RANGER after his wife turns all

the poor, neglected cuttings into a MYTHICAL FOREST! Wouldn’t that be the

COOLEST THING on EARTH?!”

He looked stunned for a moment, and began to laugh and chortle and

hoot and every other word that humans use to denote “having the time of one’s

life.”

He laughed so hard that she got worried about Him.

“Are you ok, Boss? You should take it easy… like, not that You’re old or

anything, but um, guys have a higher risk of heart disease, and all that. I’d hate

to have to write a story about that, you know?”

“Oh, you’re precious, darling, you really are.”

Again with the laughter, but this time, He appeared to be driven by

gentleness rather than amusement.

“Oh! It could be a story about a high-powered publishing magnate who

was having some trouble—NOT serious trouble, and it was reversible—but, like,

he had to promise to take it easy so that he’d be ok. And then He got depressed

over having to hang back from His businesses, and then his creative and brilliant

and somewhat-flighty gem of a daughter got Him into gardening, and THEN the

mythical forest happened!”

“Oh?”

“OR, it could be that the daughter needed HELP with her gardening, and

He helped her out and found out He was actually a genius at gardening!”

“Oh.”

“ORRRRR… it could be that He decided to open a nursery for herbs and

vegetables and become a hermit but then she stepped in to convince Him to

share His wealth of edible plants with the world, and He SAVES the planet from

starvation!”

“What a noble daughter He must have!”

“Well, she has so many ideas, and He probably inspired most of them,

anyway! I mean, He’s her dad, you know?”

“I do know.”

“And I’m NOT going to say any puns or jokes about ‘who’s your daddy?’ !!”

“Words cannot express how grateful I am!”

“Well, I’m pretty grateful myself!”

“For?”

“This job, this nomination, this friendship, even. I’m so glad You’re in my

life, Boss.”

“Are you, now…”

“Of course I am!”

“Hmm. Do you think you could write me a story where the dead branches

get buried in the forest, and the other branches–”

“Huh? Well, sure… You’re the boss, Boss!”

“I am, aren’t I…”

“And what happens to them after they get buried? Will they grow runners

and become a forest? Or will they be depressed and run away and throw a party

for all the sad branches and save the world from sadness?”

“No. They’ll just be buried, and that’s it. The other branches, though—”

“Um, but, like… that’s pretty depressing, boss!”

“But depression does happen, doesn’t it?”

“Sure, but do You really want this tale to be a downer?”

“It’s not a matter of downer and not-downer, it’s simply a story where a

particular thing happened. Pretend it’s non-fiction.”

“But, like… Your mission in publishing’s all about redemption and stuff,

right?”

“It is.”

“That’s why You started this company. You told me so Yourself, Boss.”

“What a good memory you have, my dear daughter…”

“B-boss… You really sounded like a dad just then. That’s so cool!”

“So the branches that saved the village from starvation got pruned—

trimmed a bit… and the ones that couldn’t… or wouldn’t… bring any food…”

“Got the axe, huh?”

He’d never seen such hatred in her eyes before.

“Is it their choice to not bear fruit? What if they’re barren, and they were

born without, like, plant uteruses. You would REALLY have me punish them for

something beyond their control??”

“Love-bug, if the branches that have already dropped their fruit are left

intact, that branch will die anyway, and won’t bear anything else. Most roses are

like that, too. That’s nature, that’s life.”

“What about the poor, BARREN branches?? If they didn’t produce a fruit,

then they’re worthless—is that it?”

“If you leave a non-producing branch, it’ll take food and energy from the

entire plant, and make the whole plant non-productive.”

“But the branch COULD start producing later…”

“No. Once the season’s over, the branch will drop off and die anyway.”

“So You’d rather cut the dead weight to save the entire tree instead of

working to save the dead branch.”

“If it’s dead, what can one do? I’m not some gardening mage that can just

snap My fingers and make a dead branch start churning out tomatoes or

potatoes or whatever. You know?”

“I don’t know anything of the sort, and You’re mean.”

“Why am I mean?”

“Because! If the poor branches are dead and depressed and suffering,

then ALL the plant should suffer together!”

“That seems kinda mean to the healthy branches, doesn’t it?”

“Yes! Wait, no! I don’t know! I just don’t like Your attitude. I’ve never

thought of You as such a bitter and unforgiving person, but I guess You are.”

“If I am, then why are you so upset about it?”

“I’m not!”

The Boss kept silent as He gazed at her with the gentlest expression in His

eyes.

“Ok, maybe I AM kind of upset! You aren’t anything like I thought You

were!”

“When did you form a picture of Me in your head?”

“Um, when You won that award like… I guess it was 24, 25 years ago,

now. I wasn’t even in school, yet, but I remember thinking how majestic and

imposing you were, but also, how magnanimous. I thought right then and there

‘I wanna go work for that guy when I grow up. He’s changing the world, little by

little, and I want to change the world, too.’”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say. But I also said, back then, how slow Your progress seemed to

happen. I thought if we could work together, well, Your fame and resources plus

my great ideas would keep Your track record going… but at a faster rate.

Technology’s changing, and You seem… pretty stuck in Your ways. I’m sorry, but

I’m just being honest.”

“Honesty is the best policy, isn’t it?”

“It is. And, to be honest… this isn’t what I signed on for, I think.”

“I suppose it isn’t… It would seem that you have your own vision, and

your work here’s more about making your own dream come true than it is to

work for Me.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to make my dreams come true?”

“For a person living one’s own life, there’s nothing illogical about doing

anything to make that life what they want it to be.”

“See, You SAY that, but I can tell that You don’t mean it.”

“Can you, now.”

“I don’t know. But You… aren’t Who I thought You were.”

“So your commitment to me was about Who you thought I was, and not

Who I actually am.”

“That sounds about right…”

“If your parents turned out to be con artists…”

“They aren’t! Don’t you bring them into this!”

“Ok, if MY parents were con artists, but they were pulling cons to support

their seven sons and three daughters, then…?”

“Then what? If you’re asking if I’d turn them in, I don’t know. I mean, if

You should turn them in…”

“What if they weren’t con artists, BUT you overheard them regretting your

birth and going on about how much they hated you?”

“Huh?”

“Would you be as loyal if you know they didn’t love you?”

“You’re trying to trick me!”

“Am I?”

“Of course!”

“To what end?”

“To—so I’d write the story of the murdered branches!”

“You don’t think I could write it Myself? Or hire someone as talented as

you are… or more talented, even?”

“WTF, man??”

“Answer me.”

“What happened to the barren branches?”

“Does it matter?”

“TELL ME!”

A loud sound, like that of metal upon metal, issued from another floor.

“See how important a simple one-line summary is?”

“Tell me…”

“The friendly gardener—thinking happy thoughts of tomato and onion

salad for all—went a-pruning one fine day…”

Another sound—closer and louder—startled her. But He—oblivious to the

clanging—kept going with His summary.

“He plucked the lovely fruits from the branches, sighing in delight over the

feast that would soon feed the town…”

Muffled voices entered the airy editing room from all sides.

“Thinking of the future harvests that would be His, He snip, snip, snipped

every generous branch.”

A door opened, then another…

“The other branches—‘barren,’ as you called them—were so luxurious and

pretty that it seemed a shame to cut them. But they were beginning to wrap

themselves around their fertile neighbours…”

“Snip… snip… snip…”

Her voice was scarcely more than a pained whisper…

“Correct, my dearest.”

“Wh…aaappened to… ah… anchesss….?”

Her eyes glazed over as she stared at the trim-but-heavily-muscled women

and men that suddenly surrounded her desk, though The Boss seemed taken

aback for the briefest moment.

“The branches… weren’t useful. They dragged down the plant,

endangering its health, and giving false hope to the hungry villagers.”

“The… forest…”

“My beloved daughter… how could I expect a dying or dead branch to

create new life on its own… when it hadn’t produced any while connected to the

tree?”

“Heartless…”

Her voice was every bit as reedy as before, but she managed to

communicate her fury with the tortured hiss—and with the heel she ground into

the crumpled nomination form that had magically drifted to the floor in front of

her.

Other editors and writers streamed into the editing room, chattering

happily, excitedly, and/or post-lunch-sleepily.

One-by-one, they noticed Branchly’s absence.

“Where’s Branchly? She was supposed to—”

“Ohh, man…”

“Huh? Oh, no…”

Everyone noticed their colleague being dragged out of the room.

“She… got the axe, didn’t she… Man, that’s rough.”

Branchly suddenly broke free of the guards and frantically turned back for

one last glare at The Boss.

“Boss, You’re HEARTLE—”

She snapped out of her stupor the moment her eyes focused on His face.

“You’re fired,” He whispered, tears spilling from His eyes.

Her tortured wails filled the stairwell for several moments, until they were

drowned out by the sounds of a fearsome explosion… and a thousand ravenous

flames devouring a forest of drying—and dying—branches.

+

EPILOGUE

“I can’t believe that Branchly, of all people, got the axe. She put in more

hours than ALL of us.”

“MAN, that’s rough.”

The pair of editors rushed to a meeting down the hall, oblivious to the

sounds outside.

The Boss—Who heard their chatter as they scurried along—muttered a

reply, in a voice thick with unshed tears.

“You have no idea…”