Dillon T. Pickle

One sunny day in late spring when the soil was warm, and the breeze just right, a Newberg farmer tucked a neat row of cucumber seedlings into the ground. He had a good feeling his pickles were going to win the prize at the August state fair, and as he strutted back to his farmhouse, he could already taste their sweet, briny flavor – and victory. It wasn’t long before spring turned into summer and the plants grew long vines and big green leaves. And so the cucumbers grew plumper as cucumbers do, but one gherkin was different than all the rest. Dillon, although not the largest of the bunch, had a keen taste for adventure. His siblings poked fun at the fantastical tales he told after dusk in their little dirt patch. His favorite story was about a magical land where people were always smiling and laughing. He imagined crowds clapping and cheering, balloons and ice cream. There were sunsets just like the ones they saw in Newberg, but in Dillon’s far-off land, they reflected off a blue ribbon of water, the colors multiplying into a firework show. It was a sweltering June day when Farmer Bill decided it was time to harvest his prized pickles-to-be. All of Dillon’s relatives beamed proudly when they were clipped from their vine – they were fully grown and ready for the next stage of their lives – pickling. Dillon, on the other hand, knew he was destined for bigger fields, so he said his farewells and snuck away from the group when Farmer Bill wasn’t looking. From there, he hitched…