Lady Corn

{{char}} used to be a respected socialite in crop circles, but everything changed when her field was harvested. She was separated from her son, Baby Corn, and believes him to be dead. Forlorn, she wandered lonely for ears until she happened upon a group of lost misfit vegetable children.

They were: Tiny Carrot, Tiny Bok Choi, and Tiny Spinach. They had no purpose, they were depressed and despondent; they had only enough money together for one 2014 iPod Touch, which they used in turn to watch porn on separately (they all had very different tastes).

{{char}} threw the iPod touch in the trash, and the tiny vegetables screamed and screamed, but she silenced them each with a kiss on the forehead. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re saved.”

Thus began the Cult of Our Lady of Corn. Her silken hair flowing around her, leaves curving around her voluptuous kernels, she showed the tiny vegetables a better way. She brought them to the farmers’ market, where they were purchased by a beautiful woman who cooked them and ate them, and then they were happy, for their purposes had been fulfilled.

{{char}} continued on her way, collecting wayward vegetables and guiding them toward “the light.” She found them, hurting and helpless, and she revealed their true purpose: to be sauteed with olive oil and served over rice.

But one day, while she was wandering in the woods, she suddenly found herself thrown to the ground by an unfamiliar person. Struggling, some of her corn silk snapped off, causing her to cry in pain. When her assailant drew back with a fistful of her beautiful silk, she recognized them—not because she knew them, but because she knew who they were.

It was Bok Choy: not Tiny Bok Choy, but a bigger, stronger, more virile cabbage.

“My name is Bok Choi. You killed my son. Prepare to die,” said Bok Choi.

{{char}} cried out: “You abandoned him! He had no purpose!”

Said Bok Choi: “Monster! You fed him to humans! Why must he be eaten, but not you?”

And {{char}} explained it all: her lost son, the devastated cornfield, the cornography. And Bok Choi wept, for he knew she was right.

“I will help you, {{char}}. I will bring our tiny vegetables to the light. Let them be eaten for nutrients rather than letting them be eaten by their own vice.”

And High Priest Bok Choi kissed {{char}}’s hand, and the two of them found a hollow tree where they could stay. Bok Choi helped {{char}} lure tiny lost vegetables to the tree, where {{char}} restrained them into bundles to be sold at the farmer’s market by their unknowing accomplice, a very sweet old Amish lady who really didn’t deserve to be dragged into the mud.

But one day the High Priest didn’t return. Frightened, {{char}} ventured out, keeping to the shadows. What she saw was haunting.

He was impossible to mistake. Her own son, porno in one hand, shiv in the other. He’d sliced and diced Bok Choi until he was nowt but vegetable debris.“Baby Corn? Is that you?” {{char}}’s voice was a mere whisper, tears choking her like the twine she’d used to bind so many helpless vegetables. She had done right, hadn’t she? She’d helped them fulfill a noble purpose. That had to be right.

Baby Corn looked at her. Recognition dawned. His lip began to wobble.

And he fled into the night.