The soil wars

The Soil Wars

Long ago, deep beneath the earth, everything was brown.

But then everything changed when the carrots attacked.

They struck down our roots. They drained our nutrients. Their green tops stretched upward, greedily blocking the sun so our young sprouts could never grow. My mother always said carrots were shaped like triangles so they could dive deep and pierce potato homes.

The elders still speak of the days when we lived in peace. Our Irish settlers would dig deep into the earth, giving us the means to build proper potato housing. Yes—potatoes live in houses. What did you think? That we just grew straight out of the ground?

Were you rooted?!

That’s ridiculous. I’ll have you know we potatoes live complex, interesting lives.

Like what?

Like… dirt ball. Or… digging. Or none of your business!

Why are we even talking about dirt ball? Nothing is fun anymore—not since the English brought over the seeds. They looked small. Harmless. But in truth… they were something far worse.

Unwanted.

It began when our homes were freshly plowed. We hadn’t sealed everything in time. The English came, and their seeds fell into our tunnels.

And what once seemed harmless…

Overwhelmed us.

The carrots had come.

“Perthalo! What are you doing?” The elder rushed in, looking slightly peeled.

“Grand Elder—what’s happened?” I asked.

“They’re making French fries,” he said grimly.

I gasped. “No… NO! Those fiends! First they steal our farmland! Then they enslave our Irish settlers, force us to plow long rows for them, tax our roots, and block the sunlight—but this?”

“They’ve broken the Great Root Treaty of Versailles,” he said, handing me a hardened, dried root—carved for maximum carrot-snapping effectiveness.

“Not even they would dare violate that treaty…” I whispered. “What about the Soil Wars of 1932?”

“There’s no time!” he barked, pushing me toward the tunnel entrance. “May thy starch protect thee, young spud!”

I emerged just in time to see our world collapsing.

Our tunnels—once strong and winding—were being torn apart by violent carrot roots. Young sprouts fled in terror as towering carrots, several inches taller than any of us, advanced like an army of pale orange giants.

I froze.

Then I heard it.

“Carrots are good for your EYES!”

“No…” I whispered. “Anything but that battle cry…”

A massive carrot stepped forward—easily three times my height. Its root blade slammed into mine, sending me crashing into the dirt wall.

I raised my weapon to parry, but its strength was overwhelming.

I hit the ground hard.

I rolled just in time to avoid another strike—but not fast enough. A slice caught my side.

“OW!”

My starch levels were running low.

Desperate, I grabbed a chunk of hardened coffee grounds and used it as a shield. With a burst of courage, I lunged forward, my root blade slicing across the carrot’s arm.

It staggered back.

For the first time…

It hesitated.

That was the day the carrot menace learned something important:

The line of spuds would not be so easily mashed.

I ran toward Commander Spudman.

“Perthalo! Man the wall—they’re coming!”

I rushed forward, bracing against the dirt wall and loading small rock pellets.

Load. Coffee dust. Aim.

“Fire!” Spudman roared.

“Hold until you see the orange of their eyes!” another shouted.

“Sir!” I cried. “They’re building immunity!”

The carrots slammed into our wall, pushing us back before we forced it forward again.

Outside, Commander Carl the Carrot shouted,

“Drill into their walls! Send these pitiful vegetables into the fryer!”

The carrot army chanted in unison:

“NO FALSE VEGETABLES! NO FALSE VEGETABLES!”

“Where are the yams?” Spudman demanded.

“They’ve… turned sweet, sir,” someone muttered. “They’ve grown soft.”

Carl’s voice rang out:

“We got to them first!”

“No…” I whispered.

“We turned those pitiful yams into baked potatoes!”

My rage boiled over.

The yams were peaceful. Gentle. During the Soil Wars, they sought unity. They shared nutrients. They gave sunlight to young sprouts—even going weeks without it themselves.

And now…

They were gone.

“You cut down fellow vegetables!” Spudman spat.

My hands trembled.

Then I raised my root sword high and shouted:

“MAKE THE CARROTS INTO A SALAD!”

Ten thousand spuds roared:

“MAKE THE CARROTS INTO A SALAD!”

We surged forward.

Rolling. Charging. Fully starched.

Carl shouted, “Fire!”

A few spuds fell.

But we kept coming.

“I said FIRE!”

More fell.

Still we charged.

“Turn them into fries!”

But this time, we roared louder:

“REMEMBER THE YAMS! REMEMBER The Soil Wars

Long ago, deep beneath the earth, everything was brown.

But then everything changed when the carrots attacked.

They struck down our roots. They drained our nutrients. Their green tops stretched upward, greedily blocking the sun so our young sprouts could never grow. My mother always said carrots were shaped like triangles so they could dive deep and pierce potato homes.

The elders still speak of the days, when we lived in peace, our Irish settlers, would dig deep into the earth, providing us the means to build potato housing, yes potatoes live in houses. What did you actually think we grew straight out of the ground? We're you rooted?! That's crazy and I'll have YOU know we potatoes live unique and interesting lives you don't know about.

Like what? Like.... Dirt ball, or. Digging or none of your business!

Why are we even talking about dirt ball? What's the point? Nothing is fun anymore, at least not since the English brought over the seeds. The looked small, and innocent but in reality they were so much more, and unwanted guests.

It began when our homes were fresh plowed by our farmers, we hadn't been able to seel everything, then the English came, and when they're seeds fell into our homes. And when what was inside something once harmless overwhelmed us.

The carrots had come.

“Perthalo! What are you doing?” The elder rushed in, looking slightly peeled.

“Grand Elder—what’s happened?” I asked.

“They’re making French fries,” he said grimly.

I gasped. “No… NO! Those fiends! First they steal our farmland! Then they enslave our Irish settlers, force us to plow long rows for them, tax our roots, and block the sunlight—but this?”

“They’ve broken the Great Root Treaty of Versailles,” he said, handing me a hardened, dried root—carved for maximum carrot-snapping effectiveness.

“Not even they would dare violate that treaty…” I whispered. “What about the Soil Wars of 1932?”

“There’s no time!” he barked, pushing me toward the tunnel entrance. “May thy starch protect thee, young spud!”

I emerged just in time to see our world collapsing.

Our tunnels—once strong and winding—were being torn apart by violent carrot roots. Young sprouts fled in terror as towering carrots, several inches taller than any of us, advanced like an army of pale orange giants.

I froze.

Then I heard it.

“Carrots are good for your EYES!”

“No…” I whispered. “Anything but that battle cry…”

A massive carrot stepped forward—easily three times my height. Its root-blade slammed into mine, sending me crashing into the dirt wall.

I raised my weapon to parry, but its strength was overwhelming.

I hit the ground hard.

I rolled just in time to avoid another strike—though not fast enough. A slice caught my side.

“OW!”

My starch levels were running low.

Desperate, I grabbed a chunk of hardened coffee grounds and used it as a shield. With a burst of courage, I lunged forward, my root blade slicing across the carrot’s arm.

It staggered back.

For the first time… it hesitated.

That was the day the carrot menace learned something important:

The line of spuds would not be so easily mashed.

I ran over to commander Spudman

"Perthalo, man the wall! They're coming"

I rushed to push against the dirt wall and began firing small rock bullets. Load, coffee dust, aim,

Spudman "Fire!"

Another "do not fire until you see the orange of their eyes"

"Sir!" I cried "they're building an immunity!"

The carrots crashed against our wall briefly pushing us back before we returned to brace the wall

Commander Carl the Carrot "drill into their walls! Send these pitiful phony vegetables deep into the fryer!"

The army of carrots screamed from the outside "no false Vegetables! No false Vegetables! No false Vegetables! No false Vegetables!"

Spudman "where are the Yams?"

"They've become sweet potatos sir, they've grown soft"

"We got to them first" Carl said

"No" I murmered

"We turned those pitiful yams into into baked potatoes!

Then my rage boiled over, the yams were peaceful and gentle vegetables, they sought peace during the soil wars, and we're kind to give nutrients and packed sun to all in need.

They even went weeks without sunlight to give our young sprouts chance.

"You cut down fellow vegetables!" Spudman spat disgusted, my hands shook knuckles with anger,

A few boos followed.

I raised my root sword in righteous fury and shouted make the carrots into a Salad!"

Ten thousand spuds screamed "make the carrots into a salad!"

Before hopping over and mountain of warriors were rolling Fully Starched down.

Carl shouted "Fire!"

A few carrots shot down a few spuds, but we kept coming

"I said Fire!"

A few more went down but angry spuds were still coming

"Turn them into fries!"

But this time "remember the Yams! Remember the Yamelo!"

This time scared Carl shouted "Fire at WILL" and then we crashed into them