Max Fowl
It all began the day I was extracted from my mum. A beautiful potato she was. I was placed in a bag with all the other seeds. We were sold in bulk for a low, low price.
Naturally appealing to Max Fowl. I liked to think it was my winning grin that got him to take us instead of ‘Mrs. Bongrove’s Discount Taters’.
I always thought her seeds were stuck up. I mean, they cost an extra two cents. Oh well.
It seemed I was only in that stuffy box for an hour, me and the other seeds were sharing life stories. Short ones, of course. Max Fowl had kept us in the original box, and simply paid for the whole thing.
Pretty soon we were in the back of his old red painted truck speeding down the highway. The wind was rushing past us, and we had to hold on with our little potato arms. It was a chilly day, the crisp air refreshing after being stuck in that old store. The prairie was stretched out flat and you could see forever. The sun was half up, slowly drying the blanket of dew covering everything.
The truck was sort of old, its paint peeling and wheels clanking. The floor of the truck outside of our box was pretty dented and covered in chips and flecks of paint.
We turned off the ‘busy’ highway (which had about 5 cars in eye-shot), onto a deserted dirt road. Mr. Fowl got out of his seat and folded up the box of seeds.
I was confused until we started moving again. The road was littered with potholes and mud pits, and Max Fowl wasn’t going to let them make him slow down. We could hear the box flumping and bumping all around, and us inside the box had given up on trying to stay still.
The younger seeds were pretending it was a trampoline type thing. I was petrified. It was like frozen animation- I couldn’t stop my head from shaking. I shut my eyes tightly and pretended that all was well. We parked, and got lifted into Max Fowl’s arms. Or so I assumed, it was so dark I couldn’t tell who was outside our little box.
We were set down outside, the lid of our box popping off. Mr. Fowl gazed at us, and made as if to close it again, but shrugged it off and walked away.
We were on a chair on a deck, slowly swinging in the strong prairie wind. I was shivering a little bit.
I woke up inside a gloved fist with a few other seeds. I got wedged into an uncomfortably muddy hole, and covered back. Stupid claustrophobia. It was nice and toasty, snug in there.
My days were only important because of the two waterings.
But finally I got sucked out of this monotonous, dark, frankly depressing part of my life by Max Fowl’s gloved muddy hand. I looked myself up and down. Now instead of being a little black seed, I was large and brown. Quite charming.
“Ah, quite the potato,” Mr. Fowl said, placing me in a separate bucket from the other potatoes.
“Jim is that you?” A familiar voice asked.
“Who’s asking?” I replied, a puzzled expression dawning my potato face.
“It’s me! Gerty!”
“Oh! Gerty! You’re a special potato too? Always knew you would be,”
“Oh yeah- I’m awesome.” Gerty said as if to start saying something else in a joking manner, but she stopped there.
There was around 7 of us, but the other ones were engulfed in a competitive game of potatoball. It was a childish game, I always thought; it involves rolling your friends and then avoiding them.
Pretty stupid, right?
