Night of the Living Veg
By Gary Hewitt


The delivery manager glanced at his watch before turning his gaze back to the shuffling bag.
“Cyril, open the bag.”
Cyril shook his head.
“Why ask me?”
“Just do it.”
Cyril tugged the strings apart. Steffan tapped his foot.
“Well, empty it then.”
Cyril inched his fingers inside.
“C’mon get on with it.”
He removed some brown paper, several fine specimens of yellow cucumbers and some peculiar stems of vegetation.
“I’ve never seen celery look like that before.” said Steffan.
The four foot long white celery betrayed not a hint of green and swayed from side to side.
“There must be some insects inside causing that.”
Steffan prodded a small opening. The stalk groaned. He continued to push his finger.
“Help me,” he screamed
Cyril looked at his manager in bewilderment.
“Get this thing off me.”
Cyril grabbed Steffan’s arm. The celery stick made a strange sucking sound and Steffan’s hand had disappeared into the mushy mouth.
Steffan’s face paled. His elbow was ready to vanish.
“Get a knife.”
Cyril scampered to the butcher’s counter and selected a wicked blade. He scampered back into the delivery area to discover Steffan’s feet protruding from the growing aperture. The mutated celery stick had grown to over six feet.
Cyril sprung at the mutant stalk. His blow struck sticky flesh and the knife held fast. The celery stick turned its gaze upon him before embracing him in a gooey embrace. The door swung open and Ted the van man stared in astonishment.
“Ted, you must get help quick.”
Ted sprinted back to the exit. His failed to spot the slimy antenna snaking towards his ankle.
Ted was lifted upside down. He screamed when he headed towards the creatures furry fanged maw. The creature began to speak in a vegetarian voice in the manner of Steffan.
“Your kind think nothing of serving us up in sandwiches and salads. Your days of feasting are over. My kind will take over your world.”
Another antenna had grabbed the sack and deposited the contents onto the floor. Starving sticks of celery awaited a new meal.
“Feast my children.”
The sprouts jumped onto Ted’s flesh. His protests were drowned out by the celebratory celery. Mother celery turned her thoughts to what was inside the store.
“Come, let’s find our brethren inside this store and breathe life into them. We will first liberate our allies, the spring onions.”
***
Janet was ravenous. She’d been on her feet all day and she fancied a celery and mushroom sandwich. She never ate meat, not since Ethel had told her about the evils of the abattoir. Stonefields always offered a good selection of vegan food.
She enjoyed nibbling her celery. She also liked cucumber sandwiches and the beautiful way the green circles were cut out. She remembered with relish the four cucumber sandwiches with mayonnaise she devoured on Monday. Janet didn’t want cucumber today, this was celery time.
She paid little attention green glow from the back of the store. She made her way to the checkout and removed her purse.
“Murderer, monkey she bitch who feasts on our children.”
Janet rubbed her eyes before casting her eyes on the rude checkout girl. In front of her sat a stick of celery in a Stonefield uniform.
She tried to speak. A tendril grabbed her neck and forced her into silence.
“Your kind are the worst. Why don’t you just stick to beef sandwiches.”
The celery absorbed her thoughts.
“So you think of abattoirs as cruel. What about farmers who cut us down? What about us poor saplings who never make it to sprout hood?”
The tendril tugged tighter. The celery embraced her before giving her a fatal sapling kiss. Mother celery watched approvingly from her vantage point at the back of the store. She had grown to the size of a small tree. She called the newly liberated produce to her attention.
“Find more fleshy ones. I’ve read their literature and their local paper. There is a nightclub nearby. They will be leaving very soon, let us go on the offensive.”
The mass of celery, cucumbers, spring onions and banks of greenery nodded their stalks in approval. Beetroots, cabbages, cauliflowers and even tomatoes had flocked to mother celery’s banner. The night of the long leaves was at last at hand.


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Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. He has had his work published in many places including Linguistic Erosion, Dark Futures and Morpheus Tales.