When life gives you lemons… vaporise them.
It was the day of the Summer Fête.
The teams from Yolotown and Dunwell had been tasked with creating a lemonade refreshment solution.
Dunwell went first. The snail pressed a brass button, and a clockwork mechanism whirred into life. A thin jet of lemonade squirted out the top, forming an elegant little fountain. The lemonade trickled into a carved wooden trough, which carried it gently through a polished spout that filled a glass with exactly the right amount.
Mayor Bear, guest of honour, picked up the glass and took a sip.
The snake nodded at the lion, snail, and monkey.
“It’s a wonderful lemonade fountain.”
Next, Yolotown wheeled forward a contraption labelled The Citrus Velocity Hydration Deployment Platform (aka The Lemon Cannon)
The rooster pulled a lever. A steam engine coughed, clanked, as it built up pressure. Pistons slammed up and down. Gears the size of cartwheels span in opposite directions.
Finally, a valve opened and a single lemon launched from the Lemon Cannon at near-supersonic speed. It whizzed past Mayor Bear’s ear, sailing several hundred metres across the field, before landing in a metal bucket with a deafening clang.
The impact practically vaporised the lemon, and the juice dribbled out a hole in the bottom into a waiting cup.
It had worked.
Dunwell were stunned.
The snake was stunned.
Even Yolotown were stunned.
The rooster fell to his knees, wings raised to the sky.
“Finally… it worked!”
The snake, smiling, nodded to the Yolotown team.
“It’s a wonderful lemon cannon.”
Suddenly, a low, angry buzzing filled the air. A honey badger beetle, drawn to the sweet smell, zipped towards the Dunwell fountain. It tangled itself in the clockwork gears and began chewing its way out, severing a copper pipe.
A pressurised jet of lemonade blasted into Mayor Bear’s best waistcoat.
The Dunwell team scrambled to help, but it was too late.
The snake slithered over, glaring at the turtle.
“This is all your fault. I’ll have to review your position.”
The turtle opened his mouth… but no words came.
None of the other Dunwell or Yolotown animals said a word.
The turtle walked home slowly, head down.
The sky dimmed.
He thought about the past. Every mistake, every time something had gone wrong.
Rain began to fall.
He wondered if he ever should have moved to Dunwell, or gone somewhere far away instead.
By the time he reached his cottage, the rain was pouring.
Inside, he shook himself dry and rubbed his red eyes.
He fetched his suitcase, placing inside his best shell, his favourite teapot, and a tin of biscuits.
Weary, he sat beside it, the sound of rain steadily tapping at the window, and let his eyelids fall shut.
When he awoke — or thought he did — he was no longer in his room.
A tiny hummingbird in a yellow waistcoat hovered before him.
With a blur of wings, the hummingbird took off and led him through the village — but it showed him a Dunwell where he’d never lived.
The post was delivered by rocket.
The railway to the mill had been replaced with a horse-and-catapult system.
Yolotown’s latest contraption was reduced to a smoking crater labelled DO NOT APPROACH.
He saw his friends — exhausted, frustrated, alone.
The hummingbird circled him once, then darted away into the light and was gone.
The light flared, he woke— and was back in his room.
The suitcase sat open on the bed.
He began unpacking it.
A knock sounded at the door.
It was the snail, holding a warm muffin.
“Baked too many muffins,” she said casually. “Thought you might want one.”
The turtle hesitated, then stepped aside to let her in.
As they sat at the kitchen table, the snail glanced at the suitcase.
“Going somewhere?”
The turtle shook his head. “No… not anymore.”
The snail smiled, took a bite of muffin, then said, “Good. I’m glad.”
They sat quietly and gazed out the window.
The rain eased, as dawn’s first light stroked the rooftops of Dunwell.
Each raindrop caught the newborn light and sparkled.
Davide la Locomotive 
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