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Pezhead Monthly
December 2002

Cover and Table of Contents | Page 2 | Page 3

Spring Loaded: A Message from the Editor top of page | cover page

I have to say that this issue of Pezhead Monthly is one that I am very proud of. I am honored to feature a submission titled "A Rooster's Journey," as told to Pez DeFree. Also in this issue is a Pezzified twist on a classic, titled "The Night before Christmas Pez." Rounding out the issue is some Pez Poetry, the Pez Almost-Quote, and, because it must be asked, One Simple Question for the Elf Pez dispenser.

"A Rooster's Journey," I think you'll agree, is a wonderful submission. And I know that there are many others out there just waiting to be sent in. So please, don't hesitate to send me, via the below e-mail address, any submission ideas you may have. I'm counting on you to send in your best Pez essays, humor, fiction, and poetry, because while I very much enjoy putting this newsletter together, I know it will be infinitely more enjoyable to hear from you and to showcase the creativity and talent of Pezheads everywhere.

I hope that you enjoy this issue, and that you have a safe and fulfilling holiday season. See you next year!

Joe Durrant
Editor, Pezhead Monthly
joe@pezheadmonthly.com

 

A Rooster's Journey top of page | cover page
As told to Pez De Free

Rooster Pez
This Rooster Pez comes to realize that it is worthwhile after all.

My name is… actually, I don't think I have a name. I don't remember. I know that I'm a green rooster. This is my story.

It starts in the 1970s, in a Christmas stocking. It was a good time, and my bright colors seemed right in place with the rest of the world. I was a gift to a young boy staying with his grandparents, and I became a daily companion.

We had grand games. I took my place among the fire engines, sports cars, and soldiers in a complex fantasy world that spilled over chairs, under beds, and across the floor. My candy could knock over battalions or robbers and then be eaten.

After the candy was gone I was still there as a masthead on a ship, or a dragon in the forest.

Then the boy went home, and I went into a toy box with the fire engines and sports cars, the soldiers and building blocks, and all kinds of things. Every time he came for a visit, though, the box was emptied onto the floor, and the games resumed as if they had never stopped. Every time he left, we all went back into the box… well, almost all of us. Our numbers would diminish little by little.

I don't know if the rest were lost, or discarded, or went home with the boy for hours of more play. I just know that for those that were left, the time in between visits were dark and quiet. When our numbers got smaller we went from a toy box to a desk drawer to a shoebox. The time between visits grew longer.

Maybe he stopped visiting, or maybe he stopped playing with us when he visited. I don't know. A lot of time must have passed. This was a very confusing time for me. I was lodged next to a Skittle's Cowboy and a Matchbox convertible. Every now and then somebody moved the box and we shuffled around a little. I spent the longest time looking at the back of that Skittle's Cowboy's head, with my own head resting in the cockpit of a strange blue sports car.

The rooms grew quieter. The Cowboy became extremely depressed, and wanted us to "take him from this hoosegow and hang him from the highest tree." I pointed out that he had no neck, and I had no rope or hands. He talked less and less, and when he did it made little sense. The two cars used to rev their engines at each other, but that became an occasional sputter, and those were less and less frequent.

There was one time I can remember when there was a lot of shaking and moving, with our box open to sunlight, and we were each touched by a hand. Then the box was put down someplace that seemed even darker, and this time a little more damp. I don't know how long we were there.

I knew, deep in my heart, that I would spend the rest of my days in this dark damp place, with a depressed cowboy and two sputtering cars as my only companions. Then we would all end up in a dump somewhere.

Then it happened. No children this time. The box was opened and I was held, looked at, and held some more. The guy that picked me up flicked my head and brought me into the sunlight for a closer look. He put me down, and one by one picked up my companions. Then picked me up again. What could this mean? Then we were all put back in the box and the cover was closed and it was quiet again.

Oh, my! How long would this last this time? We were cast off toys with no value to anyone. We were all in despair.

One day later, I'm sure it was no longer than a day, our box was opened again. The four of us were moved and put into a display case, oak and clear glass, and we were outside in the sun. Around us, on the lawn, were the chairs, the bed, and the carpet that we had been on so many years before. I suddenly understood. It was an auction.

You know how difficult it is for me to preen, but I did my best. I struggled to catch the rays of the sun and reflect them back off of my green and orange.

I heard them come close. Oh my. A box full of those soldiers I used to knock down. A box full! Where had they been? Bidding started at a dollar. A dollar? And went up to three dollars. For a box full. Oh. That didn't sound like much, but maybe the dollar is worth more now than it used to be.

Then it was our turn. Pick of our box. Start at a dollar. Two. Then five, ten dollars. Then fifteen. It reached seventy-five dollars… and he picked me. Wow. I guess I am worthwhile after all.



Pez Almost-Quote of the Month top of page | cover page

"With great Pez comes great responsibility."


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