Chapter 3 Can I at least try?
I sat. In the pickle. In the moving pickle. Counting how many drops of juice could fall from the ceiling. Before I knew it, I realized that I'm gonna live in this pickle until I die. I can't bust outta here. Don't you remember what happened in Chapter 2? Yeah, think about that Missy. Should I at least try? No, no I shouldn't. I'll break my knuckle and the pickle juice will drop into the cuts and I'll die. The pickle slid, slid like how a baseball player does on a home plate. The pickle did the same. It slid on it's side and stopped. I sighed of relief. I was safe. Actually, not safe, I wasn't even sure what I was safe from. A bear? Hobo? Leaf? Hobo?
I fell into a deep slumber, well, it was deep until the pickle rumbled around. Then began being lifted into the air. Or I guess it was. I wasn't sure. But it sure did feel like it. I imagined that because of my weight, not saying I'm fat which I'm not, that the bottom of the pickle would burst like a balloon and I'd fall down and plummet to my death. So I did, did what I said I wouldn't in paragraph 1. I was going to punch the pickle.