Pickle Impossible by Eli Stutz & C.B. Canga

Author:Eli Stutz & C.B. Canga
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publications
Published: 2010-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

“Everybody okay?” asked Pierre.

“Yes, if you’d get your shoe out of my face,” I said.

“Sorry,” apologized Pierre, picking up his foot.

“Nice landing.”

“Thanks,” said Pierre. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Well, I’m not sure how true that was, but at least it was a nice thing for him to say.

I kicked the door of the cockpit open. It took us about ten minutes to lug Jackson, the semiconscious pilot, out of the plane and onto the snow. We pulled our bags out of the plane, and Pierre made sure he had his pickle jar.

“Well, we’re alive,” I said. “But where are we?”

We surveyed the terrain. Behind us were the two mountains through which we had flown. Ahead was a series of lower hills that eventually faded into what looked like trees and small lakes. Far, far away, what looked to be a village peeped out in the distance. It could have been twenty miles or a hundred—it was difficult to tell.

Pierre was staring at the jar of pickles. He wouldn’t take his eyes off it, except to look back and forth to the pilot every few seconds.

“What is it, Pierre?” I said.

“There’s something not right,” said Pierre. “That woman—the pilot—this jar. There’s something not right.”

We bent over the pilot to see how he was faring. He was breathing a little easier, and seemed to be mumbling something.

“Ohhhh, never shoulda, never shoulda … never shoulda tasted ‘em … worst tastin’ things I’ve ever hadddd …” He drifted into incoherent muttering, and then was silent. He seemed to be in a fitful sleep.

“Maybe we should try one of the pickles,” I said.

“We can’t do that,” said Pierre. “If we open the jar, the pickles won’t stay fresh.”

The Great Aurore knows when she’s right. Before Pierre could think, I snatched the jar out of his hands, and began running with it over the snow. Pierre was close on my heels, but as I said, he’s only an average runner, and I run like the wind. I had soon outdistanced him. I knelt down and opened the jar. Pierre didn’t tackle me—he was scared to knock over the jar. He just stood there and scowled. I produced a pickle and put it to my mouth. I took a tiny bite—and chewed.

It was like chewing on a dead worm covered in moldy slime.

“Eeeeeeeewwwww!” I shrieked. “This is groooooossssssss!”

I spit out the revolting excuse for a pickle onto the snow.

Pierre was flabbergasted. I handed him the jar. “Here, you try,” I said.

Pierre slowly took the jar and extracted another pickle. “They look like my grandfather’s pickles,” he said. He sniffed it. “They smell like my grandfather’s pickles.”

He put it in his mouth. And closed it.

Then he began to chew.

That’s when he spat out the whole thing directly in my face.

“Oops, sorry,” he said. “Yup—definitely not my grandfather’s.”

I had pieces of the disgusting pickle in my hair and all over my face.

“Why, you!” I picked up a clump of snow and threw it at Pierre. It got him square in the neck.

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