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Spring
Loaded: A Message from the Editor top
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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
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.
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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
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"With
great Pez comes great responsibility."
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