Pickle Pete. Improv Story.

This is a story about a pickle named Pete and his life in his artists' loft in Dill, British Columbia.

A new day dawned and the weather was giving all the impressions of taking it easy. Sunlight poured over the city of Dill, igniting the sky and sprinkling a brilliant orange over the streets. The wind; which had spent the last few days wreaking havoc over a small town in Brazil, breezed lazily through the city, carrying with it scents from all the vendors setting up morning groceries and breakfast stands.

The sunlight seeped through Pete's window gently embracing everything within, lastly Pete. He squinted at the glare and rolled over, yanking the green silk sheets up over his head. But the day wasn't giving up that easily. Soon, the sun was heating up the sheets, and Pete started getting hot and uncomfortable.

He threw the sheets off in a huff, angry at the sunlight for disrupting his glorious dream. There were buxom tomatoes and flirty eggplants all over the place, each of them whispering naughty things in Pete's ear. It was one of the dreams that unleashed the cucumber deep down inside him.

Pete got up at eight in the morning, and made him self a people sandwhich.

Yeah, interesting. And the sun must be pretty evil for ruining his dream?

wow. its definitely unique. the part about buxom tomatoes put SUCH an odd picture in my head. ughh...

Pete lived the life of an artist. A life that many, hard-working, pride-drunk folks would look down upon. Or turn up their noses at, which ever you'd prefer. This life entailed that Pete, though sometimes accomplishing very little within a day, could still be proud of the effort put forth in arriving at that nothingness. This day, with its rude awakening, was no doubt going to be one of the ones that amounted to nothing.

Pete washed his sandwhich down with a tall glass of cold human blood. He downed it in one gulp and proceeded to wipe the crimson moustache off his face with a frail stemmy green arm. He then glanced over the paper - it contained nothing of any great importance, save for one headline which read THREE INNOCENT KIWI CAUGHT IN CROSSFIRE. "What's this world coming to." Pete mumbled to himself, and went to the bathroom to take his morning seed.

Twenty minutes later, Pete emerged looking slightly dishevelled and more than slightly shrivelled. The morning's (the last twenty minutes') events had taken a lot out of him, and he needed a pickling. He shuffled over to the kitchen, all five feet and a hundred and sixty pounds of him. His skin was beginning to dry up and he began to accomodate some unsighlty wrinkles which looked a lot more like deep canals of pickle skin.

Pete got to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It took both hands and a foot planted on the counter beside, but he got it open nontheless. The door opened up, revealing nothing but a big five foot tall pickle jar, and a few plastic bags labelled: O, A, AB, Black, White, Latino, Oriental.

Pete the artist pickle opened up a lower cupboard and pulled out a step stool, slimbed up the step stool, and lowered himself, with an eye-rolling look of ecstacy on his face, into the huge jar of pickle juice.

We'll just leave him there for a while and check back in an hour or so.

Oh my gosh, I like it. It's really funny. Human blood? Yeah it's really unique, I have to agree with that. I like it better than your other one too.

Its cool Very abstract, in the characters and I like it how you have switched everything around...good job

"He downed it in one gulp and proceeded to wipe the crimson moustache off his face with a frail stemmy green arm."
that line is awsome~! lol g
very imaginative and i can totally see his skinny green arm. very good picture.

Pete woke up after a nap and realized he had been submerged in the rind for over two hours. When he came to his senses, he leapt up suddenly and hit his head on the jar's rim. He shook it off and clammered out of the jar, slipping as he straddled the rim, and fell onto the linoleum.

He mumbled some curses under his breath as he gathered himself from the fall and checked himself for bruises. Upon a satisfactory examination, he cleaned up the spills, and pushed the jar back into the fridge. Just then there was a knock at the door.

"One second, please!" Pete yelled. He began running around the loft tidying up the messes which developed since the last flustered clean. The effort proved that whoever was behind the door was both anticipated, and forgotten-about.

Pete finshed the tidying in a record three seconds, got to the door, straightened out the robe he had just threw on and casually pushed the door aside. As he had expected it was the mail lady. She was a tall and pleasant looking zucchini who looked quite like Pete, only taller, and not nearly as moist.

"How are you today Mr. Pickle? Nice robe." She giggled and handed Pete a parcel and two white envelopes.
"I'm excellent, Zalia. Thank you. Would you like to come in today? I've got a few chilled bottles of blood wine. It's aged seventy years." Pete winked, and adjusted his lean on the door frame.
"Haha, well, thank you Mr. Pickle but-"
"Call me Pete."
"Right, Pete. Well, I'm sorry, but I've got loads more to deliver before lunch. Umm, another time?"
"Anytime, is fine with me." Pete smiled handsomely and watched Zalia wiggle down the hall. He sighed deeply and shut the door.

It's pretty cool the first paragraph seems too...repetetive, no, that's not the right word...anyway, I'm looking forward to the next bit. I like the last paragraph

I edited that installment. I figure I may as well edit all of them, since this isn'y like my other story and has structure, and deserves some editing. Anyhoo, glad your keen on it, more to come.

It's been weeks...I'll try for more regular installments.

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Pete shuffled away from the door, lazily sliding his slippers along the hardwood, and studying the mail he just got. The two envelopes looked like bills so he threw them into the garbage bin. The parcel on the other hand, was quite intriguing. The brown paper packaging and string was normal enough, but the entire thing was pocked in stickers with names from far off places. He read Moscow, Germany, Switzerland, Audi Arabia, America, and, freshly stuck, a glossy new sticker reading Canada.

Pete flopped down on one of his many green leather couches and plunked the package on the coffe table in front of him. He leaned back and bit his finger as he racked his brains for a cause to so such an abnormal delivery. Pete's only family lived in Canada, so that ruled out any gift from a relative. He tried to think of girls he may have had rows with, but he knew without a doubt he hadn't even visited any of those places. He shrugged it off and untied the string.

Within the wrapping was a book. A fairly raunchy, tattered, dusty, old book. Pete was taken aback by the smell and nearly dropped the book but he waved the air and recovered. He took the book out of the wrappings carefully, not wanting it to turn to dust in his hands.

Once out the paper the book proved sturdier, and in better condition than the layers of dust had led Pete to believe. It had a hard green snakeskin binding, and all the pages, though stained, were perfectly intact. Pete flipped to the title page and read aloud what was printed there.

"The Pickle Family Legacy."

Underneath the letter was a picture of two pickles; one male, one female. They were wearing very dirty leathers, and the male had a horse at his side.

This could be interesting - Pete thought to himself.

This was not as good as the other chapters. Even though you tried to make it mysterious with the book, it didn't have the right effect.
'Taken aback by the smell'.....well, I don't think that's the wright way to describe it. Maybe 'almost overcome by the smell' would be more appropriate.

I'd like to see the next chapter

I love it, it is brilliant. Kinda like terry Pratchett and hitchhikers guide mixed into fruit and vegetables, it sounds a little British are you English? It is hilarious. But the latest chapter loses it a bit, the last one is not funny, it is "mysterious" but it would be better funny. I can not wait for the next chapter.

Not English. Canadian. Close enough?

The afternoon, according to Pete, would have been a perfectly constructive one in which he accomplished a great deal and would likely have celebrated with a chilled glass of wine after it all. The way it actually turned out was far from constructive. He spent hours rifling through the hundreds of pages in his family's legacy, ignoring phone calls, and for the first time in years, missing the newest epsiode of The Salad Life.

Reality Television was a relatively new form of entertainment to Pete, and he quite enjoyed his show, which put fruits and vegtables who used to be famous in a big mansion together, mixing in some alochol, and sex, and seeing what develops. In its first week The Salad Life got rave reviews and was given the following praise: "A Tossed Salad of Entertainment With a Reality Flavoured Dressing. This is Truly a Winning Combination." The show's onstant success triggered a duplicating effect and soon there were three reality shows on each night, on each station. Some other fairly successfull programs were: Next Top Mango, The Condiments, and Extreme Makeover: Veggie Edition, and highly controversial show where vegetables would undergo strand changes, or in one case an elderly squash getting changed into a Sweet Yellow Pepper.

It was astounding to see how far back the Pickle family lineage had been recorded from. There were nearly five centuries worth of memerobilia, and journal entries, and there was still plenty of space left. By the appearance of the books binding, Pete figured that once the book got filled up, new pages were manually inserted into the book and then it was re-bound. It was clear the process had been repeated many many times.

After nearly six hours of reading, Pete finally snapped out of a daze, and realised he handt eaten anything, or done any work, or watched his show, or gone to the bathroom. His brain all of a sudden wanted to take care of it all at once and his body, incapable of such a feat, decided to simply hurl itself from the couch in a confused sort of jerk. It wasn't until Pete had stood back up, and burhsed himself off cooly, that he figured out it was a picture he saw which made him jump suddenly from his seat.

The picture was stuck in at the end of an entry. It was an artifact which symbolized the death of the present contributer, and the passage on to the next relative. It about halfway through the book, which meant it took place sometime roughly two centuries ago. The picture was of a dinner plate. Only something was wrong with the scale of it all. In the middle of the plate, nesteld between what looked lke dead asparaguses, was a clearly limp and deceased pickle. Underneath the picture was written: "Sir Willard Gerkin Pickle - 1756-1777. The firs of our kind to die at the hands of a human."

Pete stared blankly at the picture unable to comprehend a human killing a pickle. He also coudn't get over the size of the plate that his Great Great Great Great Great Uncle was laying dead on. He suddenly got a chill as his heart began to accept the fact that his life clearly going to be quite different from now on.

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Thanks for the input. I think I'm still trying to come to terms with finding a way to balance the humour with the rest of the story. This last addition, I hope, will be both humerous and interesting.
Thanks again.

You are getting better. Somehow remines me of certian parts in The Salmon of Doubt by Douglas Adams.
Interesting and funny easpeashally the reality show part.

(nothing to do with your story, but for Douglas Adams) Boo whoo!