The Fickle Pickle by Ariane Smith

It was quite a rainy night in the old kingdom.  Every now and then a rumble of thunder was followed by the sharp snap of lightening.  Gothel was warm and dry in his cozy hut.  He had built it himself at the base of a humongous ancient hemlock tree.  Green gargoyles, for that’s what Gothel is, prefer to be inside during a storm.  They dislike getting their scales wet, and find any sort of mud to be particularly distasteful if it happens to squish through their toes.  Yes, one is much better off inside, if you ask a gargoyle.

On this particular evening, Gothel was reclining in a comfortable wing-backed chair.  His claw-like feet were warming themselves in front of a roaring fire.  He had just cracked open one of his favorite books entitled, “Spooky Stories for a Stormy Night.”  Gothel loved a good story, especially if it was a little bit scary.  Not too scary mind you, or his imagination could run wild.  He had turned to the next page and was getting to the juicy part about a strangely mysterious stranger who knocks at the hero's door when suddenly Bang Bang,  came a loud pounding that rattled Gothel’s entire hut.  Startled, Gothel dropped his book and bolted out of his chair.  He stood for a second, listening, hoping it was a mistake and that whomever or whatever it was would just go away.  Then BANG BANG! came a second, even louder knock.  Apprehensive, Gothel crept over to the front door.  He peeped out of the peephole.

Nothing was there.  Relieved, he turned around and happily headed back to the invitingly toasty fire.  But just as he was about to settle in to enjoy the evening again a single, almost rude BANG!  "Perhaps it’s one of the Woodsy Wee-Folk?  Oh dear,” he thought.  "They’re always hungry, especially on a rainy, chilly night such as this."  Then, to make matters worse, he remembered that he was running quite low on provisions.  “Better check and see what I have to offer before opening the door,” he reasoned.  “I would not like to be thought of as an ungracious host.”  So he quickly walked over to the cupboard.  “Some brie and crackers would be perfect.  And a plate of crudité, I’m sure they would find delish. A little fresh pineapple would round out this festive meal.

Wouldn’t whomever was at the door be impressed?"  But when Gothel opened the cupboards, they were all completely bare.  Bare that is, with the exception of one single, solitary jar at the very back.  It appeared to have something in it. 

So Gothel tried to reach way up, stepping on his tippy-claws in order to gain a few needed inches.  Finally grasping the prize, he gingerly brought it down.  However, much to his dismay the jar contained only a single, solitary pickle.  What to do?  What to do?!  Not only that, but Gothel loved pickles.  And this lovely specimen would be his only food for dinner. 

BANG BANG, rattled the door once more.  Gothel rushed about the hut, clinging to his precious pickle jar.  Surely the Woodsy Wee-Folk, when they came bursting in, as they were want to do, would gobble it up!  Where would that leave Gothel?  “With a terribly empty stomach,” he thought.  “I need this for me,” he added as he went careening around the hut searching for a proper hiding place for his precious dinner. 

“In the fireplace? … No, too hot.  Behind the picture of great-grandmother Gothelina and great-grandfather Gryttie?”  He tried, but unfortunately, the jar was too tall and peeked out behind the frame.  “Oh, of course,” thought Gothel quickly, “under the pillows on my wing-backed chair!”  That way, if he sat down during their visit, he and only he would know why his butt felt so lumpy.  “Good.  Good decision.”

He placed the jar behind the pillow and was in the middle of giving it a good fluffing when a very weak tap, tap came from the door.  Gothel took a deep breath, briskly walked over and unbolted it. 

He had expected one of the Wee-Folk, but what he saw instead was a short delivery boy from his favorite fancy-food store.  The young man was with great difficulty balancing boxes one upon another.  “Delivery for Mr. Gothel the Vegetarian Gargoyle,” said the delivery boy rather weakly.  “Please sign here.” 

Gothel took the boxes from the tired young man, put them down and signed his slip of paper.  Being a generous sort, he felt compelled to give him a tip.  After all, he did deserve it.  But what would Gothel give him as a reward for all his troubles?  He had nothing.  Panicked, he motioned for the boy to hold on a moment before leaving.   Gothel turned, scratched his chin and took a moment to ponder.  This always produced the same thing, a great idea!  He walked over to his chair, grabbed his beloved pickle jar from it’s hiding place and proudly handed it to the delivery boy.  “A pickle,” said the boy.  “How did you know I liked pickles?  Why, they’re simply the best, they are.  Thank you!  Thank you so much!”  With a big grin he took the jar from Gothel, turned and headed back down the path from the hut.  Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, was the only sound Gothel heard as he closed the door and headed toward all the boxes of yummy food and his toasty fireplace.  Tonight he would not have a pickle, but instead he would feast on whole wheat pizzas and fresh raspberry pops!

Enjoy, Gothel!

The End