Tuesday, April 15, 2014

A Day in The Life of a Pickle

a long, long time ago I talked about how my grade 8 students challenged me to do the same amount of writing I was having them do and I accepted their challenge.

What was the challenge? Well they had to write a story from an inanimate objects point of view (they could choose from about 6 objects) but I let them choose just one object for me to write my story on... they decided it had to be a pickle.

Well, here is that pickles tale

*Sigh* Another day. Day after day I sit on the shelf sitting next to hundreds of others who look just like me. Some look a little different on the outside, but on the inside, we are mostly the same. I am crammed in this tight space with so many others. Every day I wonder “will today be the day… will I escape this prison and fulfill my purpose?”. The thing is, I’m not sure if I want to live out my purpose as it most certainly means death. 

Today has started out the same as any other. Lights are turned on and I grumble a good morning to the mustard on my left and the ketchup on my right. All of us on this shelf wish to serve the same purpose to be picked up and placed in a cart, basket, or bag and break free of this aisle, building, and store. By midday I have seen hundreds of men, women, and children pass by. Sometimes they slow down, look directly at me but pick my slightly cheaper neighbor to bring home. Once, I was even lucky enough to be picked up. Yes, it is true, someone picked my cool, clear jar off the shelf, examined my insides, glanced over my green and red label only to pick the container behind me! So Close! I was left questioning: what’s wrong with me? Why was I not good enough? I’ve been sitting at the front for weeks now! The lights outside started to fade and with a sigh of frustration I began to get ready for another night on this dusty shelf. But then, then something different happened. A man who couldn’t have been than 30 stopped right in front of me. He didn’t look at any of the others and I quickly joined the few other items in his basket: a loaf of bread, some meat, boxes of prepacked dinners, and some cans of Coke. This is it!

I sat next to my new friend on the ride home.  He had a fancy, shiny black automobile and the seat was comfortable compared to my cold, hard shelf.  We listened to a much louder and harder kind of music than I was used to in the store.  He takes me up to his warm and small one bedroom apartment and makes a sandwich out of the meat and bread.  I hear the snap and fizz of his drink being open and he carries us all ot the living room for a night of television.  Then just as I'm thinking "ah, this is the life" I see his big, greasy, unwashed hand unscrewing my lid.  With a twist and a pop he allows me to take a breath of fresh air... my first in weeks.  Then I panic.  But wait, this has all happened too fast, I'm not ready to fulfill my purpose, I need more time!  His fat fingers root around in the jar ad he pulls out a long green friend of mine.  Poor him I think... 3 crunches and he is gone.  The fingers are back and I can't escape this time.  As I'm being brought closer and closer to that big black hold I can't help but think that I could have been something more.  I could have gone in a potato salad, sliced up on a burger, or made into relish.  But no, I se his yellow stained teeth, feel the first tear in my skin, and a crunch and it is all over.  The pain only last a second.  I've fulfilled my purpose of a pickle... I've satisfied this mans hunger.

You can find the lesson this was used in here

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