Hey, check it out! It's an actual story! And it's not depressing or about death! (Of course this comment is directed to those that have read my other stories and/or poems.)

This story is quite random, yes, but a while ago I really wanted to write. So I asked my buddies, "What should I write about?" And my friend Savanna said something along the lines of, "Write about a man named mitch who loved cheese and pickles but hated potatoes, and somewhere along the way finds love." So I took her prompt and created this.

Now, keep in mind that this is not the entire thing. I'm not planning on making it a multi-chapter story, but I've wanted to upload an actual story and I don't feel like adding more to it just yet. So I will either add another chapter with the rest of the story, or just add it onto this chapter.

Anywho! Enough of the lengthy author's note!

Read and enjoy!

Mitch who Liked Pickles but Hated Potatoes

Mitch hated potatoes. Ever since he had the conscious ability to form an opinion, it had been one against potatoes. What was there to like about them? They tasted horrible uncooked, their peel felt like leather, and they grew underground. Underground! If something grew beneath the earth that humans walked upon, it should not be eaten by them. Even when they were cooked they tasted of the dirt they developed in— no matter how much minerals or dairy products were slathered on top of 'em.

However, Mitch did like pickles. In fact, he loved them. He loved them as chips, and he loved them as spears. He loved them on burgers, and he loved them in relish. He loved to drink the juice of pickles, and he loved to eat the seeds of pickles. He didn't eat ice cream if there wasn't a pickle to go with it. If there was such thing as a pickled pickle, Mitch would love that, too.

It was a pickle that he was enjoying on this day, as he walked to the local market to buy more pickles. It was a fine day to enjoy a pickle; the sun was shinning, but it wasn't too hot; a breeze was blowing, but Mitch still kept his hat. Children laughed as he passed the park, birds chirped as he strolled under the trees on the sidewalk, butterflies flitted in the wind, and bees floated from flower to flower, collecting the nectar that would feed their hive and please their queen.

Mitch rounded a corner as he finished off the crunchy, green delight, and there was the market; a plot of land with white tarps and gazebos sheltering various food stands. With a deep breath, he took in the glorious scents of the market; the crisp, pure fragrance of the leafy greens; the sweet, tongue tickling aroma of the sugary fruits; the warm, earthy scent of the freshly baked breads. And then there was the delicious, tangy perfume of the pickles that wafted in on the breeze that blew in from the back of the plot. With a smile on his face, and an akin for pickles on his tongue, Mitch headed into the market.

He paid no attention to the colorful fruit vendors offering free samples, or the pudgy pastry makers demonstrating how fresh their bread was; he went straight to the smallest booth, almost hidden away in the corner. As he walked, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, already knowing how much money he would have to trade for the scrumptious gherkins.

When Mitch reached the tiny stand in the corner, he paused and furrowed his brow. Standing behind the booth was a brown-haired woman, about his age, big-boned and friendly.

"Good day, sir," she greeted, sincerity in her voice.

Mitch didn't reply. He merely stared at the woman, his lips twisting. This woman had dangling green earrings that complemented her pale brown eyes, and went well with the thick brown headband that held back her vertical locks. Her face was oval, and her skin was peachy and flawless, clean of any make-up.

"Sir. . ?" she asked, her defined eyebrows raised in concern. "May I help you with something?"

"Ah, yes," Mitch replied, still confused. His eyebrows dropped even lower on his face. "This. . . This is the pickle stand, correct?"

"Indeed it is, sir," the woman replied. She splayed her hands, showing off the multiple jars on the counter. "The best pickles in town, actually." She took one of the jars between her black-nailed hands and gave it a gentle shake, making the dark green juice slosh against the side, the pickles making hollow, almost inaudible thuds against the glass.

Mitch put up a hand and looked at the ground in irritation. "I know how good they are," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have eaten many-a pickle from this booth." He looked up, his eyes almost frantic. "What I want to know," Mitch said, his voice rising an octave, "is where June Bug is."

The woman chuckled a bit, unaware of how dire this situation was. "June Bug," she said. "is on medical leave."

Slowly, Mitch's eyes widened, his pupils dilating, and his mouth slowly opened. "J-June Bug," he stammered. "isn't. . . here?" he squeaked.

"I'm afraid not. He had an accident involving a baby stroller and a basset hound," the woman who was not June Bug winced as she said the last words.

"B-b-but June Bug! He's been the vendor here for fifteen years! I've been eating his pickles for half of my life! How can he just abandon his post???" Mitch ran his hands through his thinning brown hair in distress, knocking his cap off in the process.

"Well, that baby stroller just came out of no where! And what are the odds that a short but sturdy hound would be standing right behind him when he stumbled!" The woman chuckled as she shook her head in disbelief.

"You're not June Bug!" Mitch exclaimed, drawing the attention of a few fellow shoppers.

"No. . ." the woman said. "I'm not. I'm Marigold." She smiled and held out a large, but feminine hand.

Mitch didn't take it. "You. Are not. June Bug," he said, his right eye twitching a bit.

"Sir," Marigold spoke gently and dropped her hands to the lid of a nearby pickle jar. "I can understand your distress, but I assure you," she unscrewed the lid and reached into the jar with a pair of tongs. "The pickles served at June Bug's booth are just as crunchy, and tangy, and delicious, as they have always been." She offered him a pickle, now wrapped in a white napkin. "I promise. Nothing has changed." Marigold stared into Mitch's frantic gray eyes reassuringly.

"But, you changed. I mean— June Bug changed. I mean. . ." Mitch searched for the right sentence. "You're not June Bug!"

"Just try a pickle, sir," Marigold said softly. "And you'll see that you've really nothing to worry about. I'll even pay for this one myself." She offered the pickle once more. But it just sat in the air between Mitch and the booth, his eyes staring at it as if it were an alien substance.

"N-no." Mitch set his jaw and looked at Marigold. "I only take pickles from June Bug, thank you, very much." With that, Mitch turned on his heal and stormed down the market, not looking back at the foreign pickle vendor.

As he trudged back down the path he had came, he steamed. Mitch couldn't believe this! How could June Bug just leave and not tell anyone about it? How rude was that? Sure, he probably wasn't expecting to be injured by a stroller and hound dog, but still! A little forewarning would have been nice!

Mitch passed the park and scoffed. "Yes," he grumbled to no on in particular. "You little rope jumpers just go on with your day because your pickle supplier didn't take a spontaneous leave of absence!"

When he reached his flat, he huffed up the stairs in irritation to his door. In anger, he retrieved his key and forced it into the lock, turning it with unneeded force. The door flew open as Mitch entered his home, and was thrown shut with the same force.

"Agh!" Mitch hollered as he collapsed into his favorite crimson arm chair. He didn't even bother feeding his aquarium full of fish. He just sat in his chair and brooded, until, eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

Knock, knock, knock!

Mitch's eyelids fluttered open. "Hmm?" he moaned.

Knock, knock, knock! He shook his head, and heaved himself out of his chair. How long had he been asleep? The sky outside of his windows was a subtle pink.

Without looking out the peep hole, Mitch slowly opened the door, and was surprised.

"Marigold?" he questioned.

"Hello," the woman said, smiling. Marigold seemed to always smile. She was dressed in a pair of simple blue jeans and a green blouse with large sleeves. She was holding something behind her back, and a brown hand bag was slung over her shoulder.

"What. . . what are you. . . what are you doing here?" Mitch asked, incredulous. Of all the people he never expected show up at his doorstep this evening, Marigold was the least expected.

"I came to return this to you." She brought her hand around to Mitch and presented him with his black hat. "You left it at the Market today; You must have forgotten it while you stormed away." Marigold grinned.

A slight color washed over Mitch's tan skin. "Uh, yes," he said slowly taking back the hat. "I suppose I did. . . How did you find my house?"

It was Marigolds turn to blush. "Well, I asked around. Many of the people knew who you were and could easily point me in the direction of your current residence. I had to knock on a few doors, but I found you." A triumphant smile lit up her face.

In the back of his mind, Mitch noted what a gorgeous smile she had. It made her eyes shine. "Well, thank you," he said awkwardly. His behavior from earlier that day seemed to be catching up with him as his face turned a deeper red. "I never properly introduced myself," Mitch said slowly. He tucked his hat under his arm and held out a hand. "My name is Mitch."

"Mitch," Marigold said, taking his hand. "I like that name. It reminds me of the word 'stitch' and I like to sew." She flashed her teeth in yet another grin, and this time Mitch himself couldn't help but smile back.

They released each others hands. "Well. . ." Marigold said, her eyes roaming over the doorway.

"Marigold, I should probably apologize for my actions earlier today," Mitch suddenly said. He didn't exactly plan on saying that, he just kind of did.

"Oh, Mitch," Marigold chuckled. "There's no need to apologize; you were just surprised, and I can understand that. You don't do well with change, do you?" she inquired.

"What? Well. . . I suppose you could say that I like certain things to always be a certain way. . ." His hand found the back of his head and began to scratch it nervously. Did Marigold think that disliking change was a bad thing? Why did he care what she thought?

"Consistency isn't really a bad thing,"she said to answer his question. "But. . ." she said rocking back on her heel. "if you really feel bad about it, maybe you can make it up to me?"

"Make it up to you?" Mitch's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and repeated, "Make it up to you? How?"

Marigold shrugged, innocently. "Maybe you could take me out to dinner?"

Mitch was speechless for a second. Out to dinner? Like a date? He raised an eyebrow. "Out to dinner? As in to a restaurant? The two of us?" he said, pointing between Marigold and himself.

"Well, it doesn't have to be dinner. Maybe breakfast? It could be fun. . ." she batted her lashes, an let the proposition hang in the air.

"Uhh. . " Mitch said, diverting his eyes. "I. . . I suppose. . . so?"

"Is that a yes, or a no, Mitch?" Marigold laughed.

"Uhm. A. . . yes." Mitch almost squeaked. "I. . . will take you to. . . breakfast."

Marigold giggled, then seemed to catch herself and stopped. "Ahem," she cleared her throat. "Okay, how about we meet at Tibby's Diner around. . Eight?"

"Eight will work." Mitch smiled nervously. "Eight will work just fine."

"Cool!" Marigold squealed, practically jumping up into the air. "err. . . I mean," she said, rubbing her arm. "I can't wait to see you there. Tootles." Marigold turned to leave. "Oh!" she exclaimed, turning back. "Here, I brought some of these for you." She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a plastic Ziploc filled with three pickles. "In case you change your mind," she said, handing them over.

Mitch took them, not really saying anything, just nodding, unsure. He still wasn't ready to devour any pickle not prepared by June Bug. Still, he didn't want to be rude, so he decided to take them and leave them in his refrigerator.

Marigold grinned. "See you tomorrow morning, Mitch." With a small wave, Marigold stepped away from the door and down the steps.

Mitch shut the door and turned to face his living room. Well, this was an interesting turn of events. He was just upset about June Bug being gone, but he ended up with a date. Mitch walked into his kitchen, over the black checkered tile, and to his refrigerator. He opened the door, and practically tossed the pickles into it, not really caring where they landed.

"Hmm. . ." he thought as he made his way to his fish tank. The aquarium sat on top of a brown dresser. Mitch pulled open the drawer, almost absentmindedly, and retrieved the bottle of "Aqua-Flakes". Still in deep thought, he lifted the thin black lid of the tank and sprinkled the dark, multicolored flakes onto the surface of the water. The colorful fish darted to the surface, not waiting for the lid to close. They were starving after missing their afternoon feeding.

Mitch replaced the bottle and closed the lid. He turned down the hallway and made his way down to his room. A wide smile spread across his face as he entered the room and closed the door. He had a date in the morning.

If you are awesome and review, I'd love for you to address the following:

1. How was the character development? Are they "fleshy" as my friend likes to say, or are they flat with no depth?

2. Should I add more general description? Of the characters, the setting?

3. And I always want to know how the flow of my stories are.

4. Finally, were their any HUGE typos that took away from the story that I should edit out immediatly?

Thanks for reading,

My Parakeet Has Issues