times.
A few cucumbers had the foresight to stockpile happy feelings in bottles and cans, but when the joyful weather turned sad and briny, their reserves quickly diminished. The cucumbers evolved with the evolving planet. In the span of a few years, Absolute Happiness became Absolute Sadness. Cucumbers became pickles.
We called our pickled plight eternal because misery was everything to our race. Nobody felt good about anything, not even for a second. If not for the books and pictures left behind by our ancestors, no pickle would know sadness's polarity had ever existed.
There was a little bit of hope in knowing that somewhere in the universe, a little happiness might remain. That smudge of hope soured our pickled hearts a little more. That hope made the sadness just a little bit too much to take. I could not continue worshipping my sadness like the rest of these pickles. I had to leave the sadness behind, no matter what awaited me.
Unchain yourself from this briny fate, oh pickled prisoner! was written in cactus blood on the side of my rocket ship.
Unchain yourself from this briny fate, oh pickled prisoner! was the motto of Captain Pickle, the superhero we loved to hate. When we watched his television show, we screamed obscenities at the screen. We clawed at our faces and rolled on the ground. Our loathing for Captain Pickle made us insane. Secretly, I admired Captain Pickle. I'd scrawled his motto on the side of my rocket ship because even if we never transcended the sorrows of our brine, even if the laws of the universe preordained us to fail, failing was no excuse to avoid trying.
I had to blast off into space and search for happiness, no matter how small or inconsequential. No matter how gracelessly I failed.
Even if I discovered happiness, would I recognize it?
All I knew of happiness had been learned from the words and pictures forged by dead vegetables. I often lay awake at night and wondered if happiness was a lie.
I killed garlic spiders until I ran out of nails. I felt so weak and tired; I could not hold the hammer. I was ashamed of my ship. It disappointed me. I disappointed myself. I would never finish it. I would never fly away from Pickled Planet. I'd prostrated myself for a dream, and all for nothing. I stroked the crushed abdomen of a garlic spider and wished that I’d been born a cactus. I whispered quietly to the twitching dead thing.
I understood none of the words that I whispered.
Depression killed my mind.
*
I crawled inside my spaceship and shivered in the cockpit. Besides the pickled framework, the whole ship was built of garlic spiders, hammer nails, and the feces of my family. The feces was the hardest material to acquire because we were all too constipated to move our bowels most weeks. My ship was rotten, decay upon decay. I had to finish it before the whole thing fell apart. I got out of the ship and read Captain Pickle's motto. I popped a bubble of green paint in the slogan's crooked exclamation point. I felt a little bit better.
I needed two rocket boosters to lift me from this crazy planet forever. What could I use for rocket boosters?
I looked around my room, at the bare walls and molded carpet. I owned next to nothing. The cacti in the yard could work, but I did not think cacti deserved to be happy. They were too stupid.
I left my room and shuffled down the hall. I kept my eyes on my feet. I jostled my shriveled brain for ideas. If only Father was kinder.
I opened the back door, but a swaying in the kitchen grabbed my attention. I looked up at a tall, slender, pickle-shaped object, precisely what I needed for a rocket booster. I thought it was a ghost. Pickled ghosts were sly, so I hurried into the kitchen before it had a chance to sneak away.
I felt like shouting, “I've got you now.”
I did not shout.
I leaped from the hallway to the kitchen in a single bound. I clutched the air. The ghost was not what I'd perceived. The ghost was Father, hanging from the kitchen
A few cucumbers had the foresight to stockpile happy feelings in bottles and cans, but when the joyful weather turned sad and briny, their reserves quickly diminished. The cucumbers evolved with the evolving planet. In the span of a few years, Absolute Happiness became Absolute Sadness. Cucumbers became pickles.
We called our pickled plight eternal because misery was everything to our race. Nobody felt good about anything, not even for a second. If not for the books and pictures left behind by our ancestors, no pickle would know sadness's polarity had ever existed.
There was a little bit of hope in knowing that somewhere in the universe, a little happiness might remain. That smudge of hope soured our pickled hearts a little more. That hope made the sadness just a little bit too much to take. I could not continue worshipping my sadness like the rest of these pickles. I had to leave the sadness behind, no matter what awaited me.
Unchain yourself from this briny fate, oh pickled prisoner! was written in cactus blood on the side of my rocket ship.
Unchain yourself from this briny fate, oh pickled prisoner! was the motto of Captain Pickle, the superhero we loved to hate. When we watched his television show, we screamed obscenities at the screen. We clawed at our faces and rolled on the ground. Our loathing for Captain Pickle made us insane. Secretly, I admired Captain Pickle. I'd scrawled his motto on the side of my rocket ship because even if we never transcended the sorrows of our brine, even if the laws of the universe preordained us to fail, failing was no excuse to avoid trying.
I had to blast off into space and search for happiness, no matter how small or inconsequential. No matter how gracelessly I failed.
Even if I discovered happiness, would I recognize it?
All I knew of happiness had been learned from the words and pictures forged by dead vegetables. I often lay awake at night and wondered if happiness was a lie.
I killed garlic spiders until I ran out of nails. I felt so weak and tired; I could not hold the hammer. I was ashamed of my ship. It disappointed me. I disappointed myself. I would never finish it. I would never fly away from Pickled Planet. I'd prostrated myself for a dream, and all for nothing. I stroked the crushed abdomen of a garlic spider and wished that I’d been born a cactus. I whispered quietly to the twitching dead thing.
I understood none of the words that I whispered.
Depression killed my mind.
*
I crawled inside my spaceship and shivered in the cockpit. Besides the pickled framework, the whole ship was built of garlic spiders, hammer nails, and the feces of my family. The feces was the hardest material to acquire because we were all too constipated to move our bowels most weeks. My ship was rotten, decay upon decay. I had to finish it before the whole thing fell apart. I got out of the ship and read Captain Pickle's motto. I popped a bubble of green paint in the slogan's crooked exclamation point. I felt a little bit better.
I needed two rocket boosters to lift me from this crazy planet forever. What could I use for rocket boosters?
I looked around my room, at the bare walls and molded carpet. I owned next to nothing. The cacti in the yard could work, but I did not think cacti deserved to be happy. They were too stupid.
I left my room and shuffled down the hall. I kept my eyes on my feet. I jostled my shriveled brain for ideas. If only Father was kinder.
I opened the back door, but a swaying in the kitchen grabbed my attention. I looked up at a tall, slender, pickle-shaped object, precisely what I needed for a rocket booster. I thought it was a ghost. Pickled ghosts were sly, so I hurried into the kitchen before it had a chance to sneak away.
I felt like shouting, “I've got you now.”
I did not shout.
I leaped from the hallway to the kitchen in a single bound. I clutched the air. The ghost was not what I'd perceived. The ghost was Father, hanging from the kitchen
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