“As someone who has worked a lot in comedy, I’m always on the lookout for a humorous take on a subject. This story was a funny and unexpected look at what home means… to a carrot. And it poses the question – does a carrot belong in the ground or in your belly?” Charlie Higson, author, comedy actor and Orwell Youth Prize 2024 judge
Warning: story may contain carrots and serious anger issues.
Deep in the magnificent highlands of Scotland, MacDuff the carrot was nestled contentedly in his braw field. The warm, moist soil soothed his tough carrot-hide. This was home. He felt the sudden urge to shout at somecarrot.
He yelled: “EH! Ross! Quit yer havering! Weesht!”
“Sorry, MacDuff”, mumbled Ross blately, used to his mindless blathering.
Abruptly and unexpectedly, MacDuff, Ross, and many of the other carrots were brutishly snatched out of the ground.
MacDuff shouted, “We have been tak’n by the conveyor belt of death and doom! Stand in your ground!”
As he watched ranks of carrots be robbed from the land, anger swelled inside him. “Not in the legions of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d in evils to top this machine!”
After being plunged through scores more machinery, he was dumped in a dreich skip full of his comrades. Distraught, he muttered, “All my pretty ones? All my pretty friends and their roots at one fell swoop?” Weary from being battered by belligerent belts, he closed his eyes and rested.
Once he awoke, he was travelling along another conveyor. This time, it was steadier. He was advancing with his orange counterparts toward a machine that grabbed multiple carrots, sprayed them with a water jet, vigorously shoved them into a bag, and chucked them onto a cemetery of similar packets. MacDuff roared to the others, “Have you heard the story of MacDuff the Orange?”
“Shut up.”
“No one cares”, came the muttered replies from the other vegetables.
Passionately, he bellowed, “The brave carrot was untimely ripp’d from Mother Nature’s womb and thrust upon this unexpected voyage!”
“So were we.”
“Weirdo.”
Satisfied that they were thoroughly convinced of his amazingness, he ended his speech.
Eventually, his feeble mind realised that he would also end up being harassed by the machine. He began to panic. Then he did what he always did when he panicked; in fact, what he always did anyway. Shout.
“Raaaaarrgh! You brainless rat spawn! Your mother was a fool, and your brain is full o’ frogspawn and you have slime for blood! You are a glaikit piece of mould who coories with your own oxter! You are a slack-jawed slug and a timorous coward!”
This string of abuse was not directed at anyone in particular, but it helped him overcome his fear. In reality, he could do nothing to escape the grabbing arms of the machine, but he paid no heed. Even with all the yelling, he could not escape the feeling of sorrow for his home. He missed the smell of the soil and its damp feel. He missed bellowing endless insults at his peers. But chiefly, he missed the mountains. Majestic beasts of stone, immovable and immortal.
When he reached the kleptomaniacal grabbers, he was bored out of his mind. Luckily, he was about to experience what some would call excitement. The metal claws squeezed him with brawn and the gruff carrot was spritzed with a foul substance. “Och!” he cried. Promptly afterward, he was shoved into a tight plastic bag.
Suffocation. Asphyxiation. “I CANNOT BREATHE!” spluttered MacDuff desperately. Aggressively, the steel monster threw him onto the pile of conical corpses. He landed with a thud.
“You couldn’t hit the ground if you tripped over!” His breath failing him, he resorted to anaerobic respiration.
He cursed weakly, “You manure-minded moron! You have maliciously mistreated me!” His energy exhausted, he collapsed into a slumber.
He stirred on a shelf, his eyelids fluttered open and then immediately shut, for the light was too bright. When his reluctant vision returned, he discovered himself in a supermarket. Many people passed, pausing for a moment and glancing at a piece of paper they held in their hand. They then took something from the surrounding shelves and hurriedly continued.
843 women, 356 men, 109 children and 7 dogs later, a family of 5 approached the shelf and a lass snatched MacDuff from the shelf. He was swiftly deposited in a basket with a multitude of other foodstuffs.
A mother said softly, “Gently Iona, don’t bruise it. That’s the last one, children, let’s pay.” He took the opportunity to squeeze in a few more heinous umbrages at the chicken, marmite and potatoes before a musty youth pressed MacDuff’s face against a surface, a beeping sound emitted from somewhere and he was dumped in a green bag. The bag was then carried into a car and the family drove home.
After they arrived at the house, the children went to their respective screens, the father ran to his office and the mother entered a cooking frenzy, occasionally murmuring things like, “Since when was Angela allergic to this?” and “That packet is almost half the size of what it used to be!” If MacDuff had a nose, he would be able to smell the succulent scent of Christmas dinner. When it was eventually his time to be peeled, cut and boiled, he was frightened. He turned to the other carrots for assistance. They told him t’was a carrot’s destiny to be eaten! MacDuff agreed and said with pride, “I have travelled this arduous journey for this very reason! I will be eaten!” They cheered! He replied, a smile of content painted on his face, “I will do so, but I must also feel it as a carrot.” He was cooked.
It was Christmas day; the table was laid. Everyone had opened their dissatisfactory presents and were sitting down. They all shouted a traditional Scottish grace and dug in! MacDuff was on a wee laddie’s plate. He was the child’s first victim. But the youngster hesitated. The sentimental carrot said, “Dear child, fear not to take upon you what is y-“ he was briskly swallowed.
According to MacDuff, it wasn’t so bad in the stomach, it was warm and moist, just like the Scottish soil. It was his destiny. It was his home. Or at least until the wave of bile swept over him.