Short Story: The War of the Pickles (aka… wait, they are only pickles….)

The village had always been united by pickles.

Some preferred dill.

Some preferred sweet.

Some preferred garlic.

Some preferred spicy.

There were disagreements, naturally, but they were the ordinary disagreements of civilized people. The sort that could be settled with a potluck, a handshake, or a strongly worded newsletter.

Occasionally a letter to the editor was penned. But the reply was always on the front page by the Editor himself.

Dear sir or madam, your strong worded letter was published. Along with your address. Do I dare say more? Yours truly. The Mayor’s Son, the Nephew of the Judge, the father of the cable news network anchor.

For generations, this arrangement worked reasonably well.

When it didn’t, well, there was always shoot the hostage.

And then one day a traveler arrived.

Opportunity as some might have it. They hadn’t had a hostage in a fortnight.

The villagers welcomed her politely enough. They offered her a chair (not that one) a meal (you eat pickles, right?) and eventually the question that all newcomers were asked.

"What kind of pickle do you prefer?"

The traveler considered this carefully.

"Oh," she said, "I have different pickles."

The village fell silent.

A child dropped a cucumber.

An old woman gasped.

The mayor blinked twice.

"Different... pickles?" he asked. But there was a hint of judgement. But just a hint. Not enough to be … problematic with the boys upstairs.

"Yes."

The traveler smiled.

"They're just different pickles."

No one slept well that night.

Within a week, the Committee for Proper Pickles had been formed.

Within two weeks, the Society for the Preservation of Traditional Pickles published a pamphlet titled Questions We Should Be Asking About These New Pickles.

Within a month, several villagers who had never met the traveler were speaking publicly about the dangers of her pickles.

"I heard they're not even real pickles."

"I heard they lead to cucumber confusion."

"I heard nobody can define them."

"I heard they are trying to replace our pickles."

“I heard they use the same bathroom.”

“I heard they refuse to define their genre of music!”

The traveler attempted several times to clarify.

"No," she explained. "They largely have not done much of anything… and they have not asked anyone to change their pickles either. They are just all …just… pickles. Pickling?"

This only made matters worse.

"Did you hear that?" said a councilman.

"She refuses to explain her pickles."

“Her pickles are not taking sides!”

“Her pickles are the problem!”

“Well if she didn’t pick our pickles, then she is against us all!”

Meetings were held.

Panels were convened.

Experts were consulted.

People began identifying themselves primarily by pickle affiliation.

Families stopped speaking.

Friendships ended.

There were affairs and divorces, all because her pickles existed and refused to take the right side.

Several citizens became professional pickle commentators with podcasts.

Some made celebrity endorsements.

They all had Youtube and TickyTok channels … pages… feeds? subscriptions? (psst.. what do they call it now?)

Identifying with pickles became paramount. It became business!

Green hats arise!

The traveler watched all of this with increasing confusion.

She tried using the word consternation. She was called a communist. She gave up.

One afternoon she attended a public forum.

Because she was bad at giving up.

The hall was packed like a pickle jar. Ironic.

The moderator stood and addressed the crowd sourly.

"We are here today to discuss the Pickle Threat."

The traveler raised her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said. "What exactly is the threat?"

The crowd erupted.

"See?"

"Classic pickle behavior."

"Exactly what someone with those types of pickles would say."

“They aren’t even pickles! they may be … some kind of .. slaw… or ??? kimchee?!”

The traveler sat back down. Her chest hurt. Her stomach flipped. Her head started to ache.

Things continued in this fashion for some time.

New committees appeared.

Old committees split into rival committees.

A man who sold cucumbers became the wealthiest person in the village.

The traveler developed… hives. And IBS.

Nobody seemed particularly interested in actual pickles anymore.

The arguments had become far more important.

Years later, when tempers had cooled and the village had mostly forgotten why everyone had been upset, a historian reviewed the records.

After months of study, she produced a report.

Its conclusion was brief.

The villagers gathered anxiously as she read it aloud.

"After extensive research," she said, "I have determined that the traveler never attempted to force her pickles on anyone."

The crowd murmured.

The historian continued.

"Furthermore, I have found no evidence that her pickles posed any danger."

The crowd grew quieter.

"And finally..."

She adjusted her glasses.

"...it appears that nobody ever asked what her pickles actually were."

Silence filled the square.

At last, an elderly villager raised a trembling hand.

"What were they?"

The historian looked down at her notes.

"Beets. Also, okra. And some purple onions."

“I like purple onions.”

“Harriette hush!”

“Well, that doesn’t seem so bad.”

“I thought, they were radioactive pickles.”

“I thought they were socialist pickles”

The historian shrugged.

"Nobody ever listened long enough to find out."

The square remained silent.

Somewhere in the distance, a cucumber continued becoming a pickle. And a hard boiled egg… well, guess we better not talk about those…. Eggs. They are $5 each.