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Jourdan Headley, Age 12

We're In A Pickle

It was very green, and murky in the jar. My family and I were squished and jammed into this jar four months ago, and our bodies are starting to get soft and fleshy. We are a very briny and sour family some might say. My name is Darby and we are...pickles.

I slowly rush to the condiment aisle. And yes, this is my third time coming back to the store today. You can say, I am a bit obsessed with pickles. I come to Joe’s food pantry three times a day. “Oh, Emily you’re back again.,” the staff would say. I can see the supermarket workers side- eyeing me every time. Since there is a scarce amount of jarred pickles, I search for hours just to find one jar.

As you might have guessed, I am a pickle, but I am the bravest one out of my whole family. We are tired of being in this cramped jar. But I have a master plan, a way to get us out. Once a costumer grabs our jar, my whole family and I will shake, shake until the jar drops out of their hands. In fact, I think I see a girl approaching now!

I finally find a jar of pickles. They are sour, but I could care less. I grab the jar and start skipping towards the checkout counter, impatiently waiting to eat my delicious pickles. I look at the jar, the pickles are squirming… they are wiggling so hard I lose my grip and the jar falls out of my hand. “What in the world” I shout. Great, now there’s shattered glass, and wasted pickles on the floor.

My plan worked! I exclaim. My family and I are now on the hard grocery store floor, wet and soggy pickles. Now it is time to execute the last part of my plan. “Darby, what are we supposed to do now” mom yells. “What do you mean, run and head for the exit.” I shout. 

I picked some of the pickles off the floor before anyone could see me. I can’t afford to let heavenly pickles go to waste. As I’m putting them in my mouth, I feel like something is dancing on my tongue. I immediately spit it out onto the floor. “What the -” I shriek. The pickles are… gone.

Epilogue

“No, mom you don’t understand. I really did see the pickles running” I wail. “Honey, enough… I think it’s time to see a therapist” Mom whispers. I get up from the ground and walk towards the exit. I leave the grocery store knowing two things. One, Mom is going to make me go to therapy, and two, I may never eat another pickle again.