Life

(A Festive Error in Several Acts) The Universe, Briefly Explained and Immediately Misunderstood In the beginning, there was dirt. Not metaphorical dirt. Not symbolic dirt. Real dirt. Moist, granular, and proud of its minerals. Inside this dirt lived a potato. The potato had no name because names require witnesses, and none cared enough to perform

The potato woke up screaming, which was alarming because potatoes do not have lungs, throats, or permission. The scream occurred anyway. It echoed through the kitchen in a way that suggested time itself had stubbed its toe. A zucchini fell off the counter in shock. Somewhere inside a drawer, a radish fainted politely. “I’M HAVING

The potato is almost thirty years old when the silence stops feeling temporary and starts feeling intentional, which matters because silence has always existed in the cellar, but has never before seemed to be paying attention. He rolls slightly, expecting the familiar resistance of another body, and instead meets air, which feels rude only because

After years of enduring a toxic workplace filled with unreasonable deadlines, micromanaging bosses, and colleagues who thrived on gossip, Potato finally did it—Potato quit. The decision wasn’t easy; it never is when you’ve been stuck in one place for so long, even if that place made you miserable. But one day, something snapped after yet

Days passed, seasons changed, and one afternoon, Potato found himself back at the farmer’s market. The same market where they had met. He hadn’t meant to go there—it just happened. And then, just as he was about to leave, he saw her. Tomato stood by a small café, her fingers tracing the rim of a