Devin Spuddleton

Devin Spuddleton was born under very strange circumstances indeed. Unlike you or I, Devin did not have fingers. Nor did he have hands, feet, or even a head. Devin was made of potatoes. He was special.

Every night he would lay in his makeshift bed of leaves and his mind would be consumed by somewhat spuddy thoughts, yet tonight was different. Swimming around his mind, thoughts of school attacked what remained of his sanity. The other children were going to laugh at him. They would mock his battered, bruised, and yellow skin. They would laugh at his juices. Everything that could possibly go wrong was almost definitely without question going to go wrong. There was absolutely no doubt about it.

As the sun rose above his small cardboard den, Devin pulled up his broken suspenders and began his journey to school. He crossed through countless fields and trekked up through the valley to a small school on the edge of town. ST PETER’S SCHOOL FOR THE SPECIAL was written in huge gold lettering across the top. The door left ajar, he slipped in and fumbled his way into a classroom. He dripped juice as he went.

That was when he saw her. Bright orange, a long, thin and pointy body, she was beautiful. A green tuft exploded from her top and perfectly framed her face. It was as though he had been punched in the face by a man with a fast made entirely of love and happiness. 

Devin hid. There was absolutely no way that he could talk to her. He’d spoken to many vegetables in his field yet none ever replied. Now was his chance to talk to one with a mouth, yet he sat behind a box, hidden from all except for a small rubbish model of a shark that a child had discarded.

Weeks went by and Devin eventually gained the confidence to stand up and walk over to the girl. He stumbled forwards - his spud legs barely holding his weight and he whispered in the faintest voice possible.

“Hello, My name is Devin Spuddleton. What is your name?” 

He glanced briefly at the ground with his huge eyes.

“My name is Mary” she replied with a grin that somehow appeared to extend beyond her head like a creepy old fashioned cartoon.

They stared into each others’ eyes for what felt like hours yet was only about 20 seconds because as swiftly as it began, it had ended. Clint shuffled along and punched Devin right in his face. This was not a punch of love, it was a punch of rage. 

Clint was a hefty young lad with a massive nose. His nose was suspiciously big. If you saw him in the street you’d feel the need to point out the size of the nose. Think of Mr Nosy from the Mister Men, it was that kind of nose - absolutely humongous. 

“DON’T EVER SPEAK TO MARY AGAIN YOU LITTLE FREAKY SPUD THING! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU ARE! ARE YOU WEARING A COSTUME? IS THAT YOUR SKIN? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’VE GOT A FIFTH DEGREE BURN! I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF THAT IS A THING BUT IT LOOKS LIKE YOU HAVE GOT IT ALL OVER YOUR DUMB BODY! YOU WEIRDO!”

Devin stood up. It was as though his potato juice had suddenly been replaced by a mixture of courage and excessive desire to kick someone. Nothing could stop him.

Without realising it his yellow foot smacked Clint right in his balls. He collapsed to the ground but swiftly rose to counter-attack. Devin stood still. He did not have testicles. No matter how hard Clint kicked, Devin was invulnerable. All his life he’d been ashamed of his potato body but now it was working to his advantage. Not seconds later, Clint lay on the floor clutching his privates after a final swift swing.

“CHEW ON THAT” Devin shouted. It made absolutely no sense but he didn’t care; he was ecstatic. He’d defeated Clint in the most ancient of arts: kicking each other in the gonads. This was his day. 

Devin turned to look at Mary, his eyes more joyous than a small child that has experienced eight Christmases simultaneously. Mary didn’t look best pleased.

“You’ve hurt him! Why did you do that?” she meagerly asked.

“He hurt me first” Devin smugly retorted. “I had a reason!”

“That’s no reason to repeatedly kick him in the testicles whilst shouting ‘DIE IDIOT’ is it?”, she looked angry now. Her smile had collapsed into an angrily clenched jaw.

Words wouldn’t leave his mouth. They were trapped at the back of his throat. All he could do was stare at the ground and mope. He didn’t understand. He’d defended himself the only way he knew how - excessive testicle kicking. Now he seemed to be in deeper trouble than before.

That night he lay in his makeshift bed and cried. Devin didn’t know he could cry. He’d never tried it before. Everything was disappointing. He was disappointed. Devin didn’t return to school for weeks. He just sat amongst the compost, composting himself into nothingness. 

Devin was sad. He smashed his way out of the building and ran for the hills. He ran as far and as fast as he could. He disappeared off into the distance and he never returned. 

Some say he still roams the earth, finding potatoes trapped in farms, sheds, kitchens or stores and setting them free. They don’t actually escape anything of course. They’re not actually sentient.

Some say he was eaten by birds after about a week and died. That sounds like a pretty likely event to have taken place because he’s pretty weak in all honesty.

Some say that this entire story was completely meaningless and that it was just an excuse to repeatedly use the word “testicles” in a piece of writing that would be actually read by someone. 

Regardless of what happened, it’s certainly a mystery. A mystery which will never be uncovered. It’s like the Mary Celeste of potato themed creative writing.