The Tomato and the Moon

by Preston Ferguson

Preface

This is not a story about logic. Or salad. Or even astronomy, really.

It’s a story about the quiet rebellion of being something more than what the world expects you to be.

It’s for anyone who’s ever felt out of place in their bowl,

anyone who’s stared at the sky and whispered, “Maybe I don’t belong here—maybe I belong there.”

This tale belongs to the dreamers, the oddballs, the round red impossibilities

who dare to roll uphill toward the stars.

So suspend your disbelief (and your salad tongs),

and let’s follow one brave tomato on its utterly unreasonable, entirely wonderful quest.

One time, there was a tomato that didn’t want to be a tomato.

It wanted to be a moon. Not like the moon. Not a metaphor. The real deal.

So it rolled away from the salad bowl (avoiding a rogue crouton ambush),

slipped past the fork battalion, and launched itself out of the kitchen window using a spoon catapult.

As one does.

The tomato soared through the sky, whispering to passing clouds,

“Am I glowing yet?”

The clouds said, “No, but you’ve got potential.”

When it finally reached space (thank you, spoon science),

it wobbled into orbit, just beside the actual moon.

The moon, sleepy and ancient, cracked open one eye and said,

“You’re a fruit.”

The tomato replied,

“I’m an idea.”

And the moon, not used to philosophy before coffee,

nodded and scooted over just a little.

Enough space for one red, squishy moonlet.

Back on Earth, people looked up and said,

“Wait… has the moon always been… juicy?”

But nobody really questioned it for long.

Because, after all, the universe is a weird place.

And sometimes, if you roll hard enough and dream weird enough,

you can be whatever you want.

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