August 25 - Patch

The loud hum of conversation fills the room, made up of the many small conversations occurring between those who know each other. Rumours fly hot and fast across the room, all speculating as to the cause of this gathering. A figure steps up to a small podium, and quickly a hush falls upon the assembled masses.

“Welcome all, and thank you for coming. This is a time of troubles, and something occurred today that cannot be ignored. One of our own, unassuming and innocent, has been cruelly struck dead in an act of most heinous villainy. No warning or mercy was given to our poor comrade, who even now lies cold and lifeless in their hands. We must act, before more innocents are hurt. Historically, we are not fighters. I know this. But I also know that this atrocity cannot stand. We must make our own history, and all who are here today will bear witness. We must destroy those who did this to our poor fellow. We must act. They have gone too far this time. 

The cucumbers must die!”

There is silence. The peas titter slightly, and somewhere in the back a stringbean faints. The silence grows, and someone coughs. Maybe a carrot. The lettuces all wilt slightly. No-one is willing to meet each other’s eyes.  Finally, a venerable old pumpkin lumbers up to the stage, gently pushing aside the red-faced capsicum. He whiffled slightly, then spoke in a sonorous voice.

“You all know me. All of you have come to me for advice sometime in your lives. As such, you will all know that I am an old fuddy duddy whose advice is to think things through and try a diplomatic solution. Unfortunately, as I have learned to my sorrow, there is no way to talk with a cucumber. They are large and dangerous, cunning rather than intelligent, and remorseless as a borer grub. So it is that I must reluctantly agree. This is only the start, and if we do nothing who next will fall pretty to the cucumbers? No, I will not let that happen. We must take up our weapons and fight, fight for our very survival. The cucumbers must die.”

A great sigh passes over the gathered vegetables. A radish starts crying softly, and is quickly comforted by the bok choy. The cucumber claps its hands, calling out names and instructions. Before long every vegetable is lined up to receive whatever weapons and armour have been scrounged up from time long past, before filing to their places in the army. The pumpkin looks at them all sadly from beneath bushy brows, then joins the end of one of the lines.

The vegetables line up in the field. The eggplants, solid and strong, take the centre to absorb the main thrust of the cucumber attack. The carrots and capsicums take the flanks, with all the peas and beans in long lines behind them. The leafy vegetables are in the very back, the lettuces and cabbages, the bok choy and the kale, the reserves in case the worst comes to pass. The potatoes and corns range ahead, acting as scouts due to their excellent eyesight and hearing. Some faces hold fear, others boredom, and yet others nothing but grim resolve. There is no turning back now.

A hollow thump rings out across the field. It sounds again, and again, settling into a slow rhythm. A long shadow appears across from the massed vegetables, then another and another. They resolve into the long shapes of cucumbers, covered in warpaint and beating their chests to the time of their march. A carrot cries out in fear, for the lines of cucumber stretch to the horizon, a blanket of green covering the land. The cucumbers stop, their bestial faces contorted in contempt, their army many times the size of the other. Then, with a great roar, they rush forward, and battle is joined.

Morning comes, and the field is strewn with the bodies of the fallen. Some crushed, some torn to pieces, or cut in half. A great shadow falls across the site of the battle.

“Gosh darn, would you look at this. Looks like summat got in the vegetable patch again. I don’t get it. Why would they destroy all of these vegetables, and not eat a single one?”