Two short stories, preferably for children, but potentially also for mildly sentient vegetables:

1. It was a bright, clear, sunny Alaskan night. The birds were swimming in the frozen rivers and the dogs were chirping from the trees. But I, oh, I was eating dirt. Don't look at me like that; it was cold, and the only way I could keep warm was to fill myself with soil. I had hoped to grow a vegetable garden in my chest cavity, but nothing would take root because I didn't have good enough taste in music. All the seeds traveled to the cooler pots on the roofs of crafty old apartments. All I got was a sad little milkweed in cargo shorts and an ugly dandelion chick who kept confessing her love for the soft supple nature of my silt. Its a good thing I've forgotten about all of that a long time ago.

2. As she dismounted the Merry-Go-Round, swinging her legs over the horse's white vinyl face and leaping to the wooden planks below, her dress caught the wind and blew up over her knees. She quickly quelled the rebellion of her garments with her pale hammy fist and flashed a sloppy grin at her friends, but it was too late. Everyone had seen it. And from that day on, she was known as "Eletra, Queen of the Damned." She had no recourse but to murder the whole town, change her name, and move to Tunisia, where she quickly was impregnated by the bastard progeny of William S. Burrows (of which there are many). After birth, the children rapidly developed a fuzzy crown of seed pods, from which burst forth a thousand tiny white vegetable embryos, which contemplated seeding a sad little plant in the corner but decided to go to the really happening grape vine down on the Avenue instead.