The gardener muttered to himself and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tomatoes aren’t supposed to get pregnant.” He’d tried some of those newfangled heritage varieties with that hippie fertilizer his son was always going on about. Organic – that’s what he called it. The gardener shook his head. “All-natural,” his son said. Yep, he bet. Lotsa things were natural, he reckoned, didn’t mean he wanted his tomatoes gettin’ knocked up.
The voice sounded small and far away. He looked around, seeing nothing but a forest of tomato plants and a few rows of carrots.
He knelt down. Something seemed familiar about one of green tomatoes: the way it bulged, the tilt of the wizard’s cap upon its head. He gasped. “Reginald, is that you?”
“Yes! That mean old hedge witch turned me into a tomato.”
“Reginald, what did you do to her?”
“It doesn’t matter! Just get me out of here!”
He thought it over. On the one hand, he loved a fried green tomato sandwich, and Reginald could be something of a bully. On the other hand, the idea of eating a friend, even a bad friend in tomato form, made his stomach twist in strange ways. “I’ll go get help.”