A Prophecy Which Bears Fruit (Or Is It a Vegetable?)

“Last one to the monkey bars is a rotten tomato!” shouts Pete, flinging his bag to the ground.

The fateful words have been spoken, and 4th graders splinter like shards from a broken tamagotchi screen.

They probably think that they’re safe. That I, Sandra Sodwall, last pick for every sport, will be the rotten tomato.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

While my unsuspecting classmates were picking their noses in geography, I was in the playground setting a devilish series of boobytraps, pitfalls and snares. They’ll be like flies, tangled in my dastardly web.

I stroll towards the swings. Calm. Collected. Carefree. Bobby F dashes by, towards the rake I’ve buried beneath a pile of leaves. He leaps clear of it. Drat. 

Felix is at the foot of the slide. I jump onto the seesaw, sending a barrage of pebbles catapulting his way. That’ll teach you for pouring pencil sharpenings down my back in biology. The pebbles snag on a kink in the chute and fall harmlessly to the ground. Double drat.

Meanwhile, Amy and Lisa have evaded the super glue puddle on the hopscotch squares, and have reached the sacred safety of the monkey bars. Drat times infinity.

I pick up my pace, but the last stragglers are already home and dry. My race is run. I’ve been foiled. Outsmarted. Defeated. 

My skin softens and bloats. A vine-green stem sprouts from my head. A putrid odor erupts from my seed-ridden innards.

The prophecy has claimed me as its victim.