Q. Cumber
By J. L. Young
Hi, I’m Quentin Cumber. My friends call me Q. There I was sprawled out on the vine just soaking up the water and the Sun. Then one day, I was minding my own business, and a machine pulled my vine from the ground and killed me. Severed, no more will I enjoy the light and the rain.
I am raised up only to fall. Now I’m piled on others like me. Oh, so many dead. Who has orchestrated such death? And why? Have we done something to deserve such treatment? We’re moving. Where are we going? Please, tell us.
I’m falling again. Moving on a belt. Water, so much water! I have never seen so much water. It’s being sprayed on us and we’re being submerged in it. Back onto the belt. Hands picking out the small ones. Whatever will be done with them? I need to know.
My brethren and I passed through more machines and dropped. Piled into smooth hard cylinders. More water poured into the cylinders. No, it’s not water! It burns! Whoever is doing this to us, you, you are monsters!
We’re trapped under metal, but I can feel us moving again. It has become dark. We wait awhile and we’re moved once again. We can see creatures walking by. One of them picks us up and puts it into a cart. What is in store for us now?
Our container is moving and placed in a box bereft of light. It’s oh so cold in here. I long for the Sun and the rows where we can sprawl and our flowers bloom.
Into the light once again. We’re moved and the metal taken from atop us. A hand takes me and I am impaled on a piece of wood! Do their monstrous deeds know no end! A red piece of fruit carved in the shape of a flower placed above me. Oh, my. Some pedantic fool has placed me in a bouquet. Pickles don’t belong in a fruit basket. What sort of hell is this? How am I able to tell you my story? I don’t know, I’m a damned cucumber. You figure it out.