Terry The Onion

Terry the onion moults. He moults flakes of dry brown skin that drift to the floor like mouldy confetti. His legs are like roots and his arms weak twigs. Since falling from a rickety bicycle basket into a child’s push chair, then being discovered by a hysterical mother who threw him into the pig farm that was her back garden, Terry has been on a search for a frying pan. As his skin slowly fades into patches of black and his layers begin to crepe, Terry knows he would rather be cooked than rot alive.

The pigs do their best to thwart his journey, pushing and shoving, clumsily forcing their snouts onto the poor onion. Despite the knocks and the scratches, Terry knows each push and shove moves him nearer to his goal.

One pig in particular, however, Terry cannot abide. Obnoxious, fat and with a hairy snout, Porker (as he is imaginatively named) enjoys goading Terry. He stomps, he snorts, he drools, he trumps and always-in Terry’s direction. Pigs don’t take very kindly to onions as, when cooked, they suffocate hot dogs on buns with their grease. Porker doesn’t like being made to cry in front of the other pigs either because of the onions toxic fumes. And so it goes, a battle between pork and onion. The pigs that share Porkers pen are too busy scratching their bums and bellies to pay much attention to Terry. Porker wants out of the pen instead of into the frying pan and doesn’t like to see this onion making better escape attempts.

One morning Terry awoke in the mud, a pig clumsily nudged him nearer to the edge of the pen and he started his daily slow journey of wading his root legs in and out of the thick, wet ground. Each heavy movement caused more flakes to fall and as he looked down at his round stomach he noticed a slightly concaved black patch. Cautiously running his twigs over this unwelcome sign of aging, Terry prodded slightly and to his horror the twig pierced all the way through. In panic, Terry knew he needed a frying pan, and it would have to be today.

Familiar sounds began to ring out, violent snorts and grumps followed by steady sighs. Porker was awaking from his slumber and Terry didn’t have much time. He lifted his weak roots as fast as he could; risking damage each time he took a new step forward. The edge of the pen was in sight, as were the beginnings of a hill, which would roll him directly towards the house at the top of the garden. Just. One. More. Step. Terry began to edge forward and immersed himself into a full roly-poly. Upon his descent he heard the snort and the clumsy galloping. Porker was on his way. As Terry rolled he bashed against stones and sticks, his twig arms slowly chipped away and his roots disjointed. Even at this speed, he could make out the kitchen window and the familiar sight of a fresh pie cooling on the windowsill. The sound of galloping was edging closer, the pigpen gate flew past as porker huffed and wheezed as he chased aggressively after Terry. The end was in sight and Terry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the layers of skin fast ripping away and the heavy breathing of Porker getting nearer and nearer. A bounce off a rock and flying into a back door was followed by a blackout.

Terry slowly opened his eyes, trying to make out the blurry shapes in the room. He felt warm and calm; was this the frying pan?! He could sense a strong fire emitting heat from the corner of the room and the sensation of being hugged. Maybe this was onion heaven Terry wondered, the thought bringing on a small but contented smile. As his eyes began to focus a sight directly in front of him made him jump. Was he hallucinating? There appeared to be another onion staring straight back at him…and what was that holding him? As his vision became clear and a true horror began to dawn, his stomach dropped.

Directly in front of Terry there was a large ornate mirror, framed by pearls and diamonds. In the reflection was Terry, a smaller, bruised and naked onion in the mouth of Porker. Porker was quiet, still and smelt a lot better than normal. Then came the next realisation, Porker had been roasted and Terry was merely the raw accompaniment, flavouring for this lavish meal. There was no frying pan, no sign of any heaven, not even a hot dog. After everything he had gone through, Terry was destined to slowly fade and rot away after all.