The Tale of the Sleepy Radish
March 6th, 2007
The last radish sat in the soil, blood oozing from a great wound in its belly. Aphids clogged up the gash, sucking at it.
“No one’s ever going to harvest me,” said the radish, bitterly, “not with this wound, and these aphids gorging on my guts. Who would ever cut me for their soup?”
“Stop complaining,” called out an aphid, through mouthfuls. “Instead of a cook’s blade, you have our soft mouths. Either way you’re eaten. Sleep and count yourself lucky.”
The radish, relieved, fell to dreaming.
