Davide la Locomotive

Sometimes all it takes is one bite to change everything.

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The village Sunday Market was in full swing — or it should have been.

All stalls were set up and ready: the snail’s neatly stacked ginger nut biscuits, Patsy’s sprawling selection of exotic grasses, and the parrot’s perfectly aligned rows of seed bars.

By market rules, no animal could sell their food until another stallholder had tasted and approved it.
The idea was to keep everyone safe.
Instead, it mostly kept everyone staring at their own food, slowly getting hungrier.

The turtle, just there to browse, wandered the rows. Every table had the same little “Pending Approval” sign.

“I’d taste others,” said the lazy cat, “but if I stop stirring, this soup turns into soup-rock. Then I have to get the pneumatic drill out again.”
“My raspberry tarts are perfection,” gloated the rooster. “If I waste time on lesser food, the world gets fewer of my tarts. That would be cruel.”
“I’ll taste theirs once they’ve tasted my delicious platters of raw meat. Fair’s fair.” said the lion.

The turtle stopped halfway down the row.
The whole market seemed to freeze: paws folded, wings tucked, tails twitching in tiny loops of impatience.
No one moved. No one breathed.
A tableau of waiting.

Then, in the silence, an idea flicked its tail in his mind.

He walked over to the snail’s stall.
“I’ve got a plan,” he said quietly. “Go and taste food from a few stalls.”

The snail tilted her head. “How will that help me?”

“Trust me.”

She slowly hurried over to the parrot’s stall and bit into a seed bar.
“Nice. They’re approved.”

The parrot’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Didn’t you want them tested?”

A pause.
The parrot blinked.

“Well… yeah… but… um…”

“Okay, bye,” said the snail, already trundling off toward the lion’s raw meat platter.

The parrot watched her go, still suspicious.
Odd.
But now he could finally sell his bars — and relief washed over him.

Then another feeling crept in.
Gratitude.

He glanced at the snail’s stall. The ginger nut biscuits were still untested. Without being asked he walked over, took a bite, and declared them good.

On the way back, he tasted the lazy cat’s soup.

“Why did you do that?” the cat asked, scandalised.

And then it spread.

The first crack came like thunder: a goat vaulting a bread stall, loaves exploding into the air, sunlight catching every spinning crust like fireworks.
A beat later—ducks in a flapping dogfight over a single fritter, jars toppling in slow motion, corn scattering like glass beads across the cobbles.
Then the sprint: the rooster, head low, wings hammering, charging for the sloth’s twigs while the lion skidded sideways, claws scrabbling for grip.

Around them the market became a storm — frying smoke curling into the rafters, jars shattering like cymbals, voices rising in a roar that was half chaos, half laughter.

Through the chaos, the turtle caught the snail’s eye.
They both smiled— biscuit crumbs clinging to the snail’s mouth.

Somewhere behind them, the lazy cat was enthusiastically wading through Patsy’s entire grass display.

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