It was midnight when the potatoes came for him. Potatoes, potatoes everywhere, all seeking revenge. The humid night air reeked of their lust for blood. And yet he slept on, oblivious to his impending doom. A shadow passed over his face, and he murmured sleepily and rubbed his eyes. He sat up to see what had woken him and froze as he saw the potatoes, silently waiting in their ranks. He tried to scream but couldn't. The Spud King moved up to him, moonlight glinting off his knife. And then, he struck. The camper dodged, and the blade flew past his ear, the Spud King losing his balance and falling after it. The man backed into a corner of the tent, afraid to move or speak as the potatoes closed in silently. Just as the potatoes had reached him and were preparing to leap on him, the camper woke up and realized that it had been a dream. Letting out a sigh of relief, he sat up and looked around him, joyfully drinking in the sight of a spud-free tent. But wait—had something moved up on the table? The camper, hesitant and nervous, moved closer to the table and was met by the flash of the Spud King's waiting blade.
More writing from Benjamin Hollon