Anya the Onion — A Funny and Sweet Kids Tale About Smells, Friendship, and Self-Worth | TaleTreasury

Once upon a time, in the fertile beds of a bustling garden, there grew a rather peculiar onion named Anya. She had tall, green leaves that swayed like banners and a plump, round belly that sat comfortably in the soil—a proper trait for an onion, no doubt. But poor Anya had grown wrinkled and worn, not from age, but from endless crying.

You see, Anya was not just any onion—she was the smelliest onion the garden had ever known.

Of course, all onions carry a bit of a whiff. It’s their nature. But Anya’s scent was so intense, so pungently powerful, that even her own parents shed tears the moment they laid eyes—or rather, noses—on her. Her smell was like a hundred chopped onions weeping in a confined kitchen, a scent so commanding that even gnomes retreated holding their noses.

Her loneliness began when she was but a small seedling. One day, her parents took her to visit her Aunt Shona, a chic and rather snobbish Shallot who prided herself on her delicate pink hue and her refined patch of expensive, loamy soil.

Anya didn’t care for her Aunt Shona—nor did Aunt Shona care for her. The moment Anya approached, her aunt wrinkled her skin in distaste.

“Such an overpowering bouquet,” Aunt Shona had sneered. “You must air yourself out, dear. Try growing farther away from polite vegetables.”

The visit was torturous. While her parents sipped tea and discussed important grown-up matters like the decline of compost quality and the dreariness of recent summers, Anya sat alone among garden gnomes. Even they shuffled away, pinching their tiny noses.

Worms, drawn by curiosity—and perhaps the knowledge that birds avoided the stench—slithered over to keep her company. But Anya found worms to be rather dull conversationalists. They merely wriggled and blinked their eyeless faces, making her feel even lonelier.

By the time her parents collected her, the sky was dark, the drizzle steady, and even the worms had fallen asleep. It was then that Anya made a vow to herself:

“If no one can stand to be around me, I shan’t be around anyone. I will be a Lone Onion.”

And so, she grew up lonely, rounder, and even more wrinkly—crying about being lonely, then angry about crying, then crying about being angry. A vicious circle of oniony woes.

But deep in her layered heart, Anya harbored a secret affection. There was a certain French garlic bulb named Gaston who lived several rows down, renowned for his sophisticated scent—a subtle, savory aroma with just a hint of rebellion. His green shoots stood tall and proud, and he often whispered poetry to the French Lavender patch nearby.

Anya adored Gaston from afar but dared not approach. “If even my parents cry when they see me,” she thought, “what would someone as elegant as Gaston think?”

But fate, as always, had its own plans.

One gloomy afternoon, while wandering alone through the weeds, Anya heard a strange, snuffling sound coming from behind a stand of rhubarb. Curious, she crept under a drooping leaf—and gasped.

There, with hooves caked in mud and snout rooting greedily, was a huge pig, chomping through Gaston’s green shoots! Gaston struggled, his tiny roots gripping the soil with all his might, but against such a beast, he stood no chance.

Without thinking, Anya darted from her hiding place, the wind at her back and her smell—like a fragrant warning bell—rushing ahead of her.

“Stop that at once!” she shouted. “Leave him be, you filthy hog!”

The pig paused, sniffed the air, and visibly recoiled.

“Good heavens!” the pig muttered, his snout crinkling. “What in the world is that ghastly smell?”

Still, he was too distracted to continue his meal. Anya rushed to Gaston, helping him upright.

“Are you hurt?” she asked breathlessly.

“Non, non, ay am fine, mademoiselle. Ay…oh, sacré bleu, what iz zat ztench!”

Anya’s leaves drooped. “It’s me. I’m very…oniony.”

Gaston grimaced but composed himself.

“Well, merci for saving moi, but I must go recover among ze Lavender girls. Zere, ay can forget zis…how you say…overwhelming experience.”

Anya watched him hobble away, disappointment wilting her heart. Just like everyone else, he could not bear her presence.

But then, a voice behind her spoke.

“Excuse me… I don’t think you smell horrible at all.”

She turned. It was the pig. His eyes were kind and his snout, though muddy, was warm with admiration.

“I think you smell wonderful. In fact, I’ve never smelled anything like it. Will you come back with me to my sty? I promise I won’t eat you. You smell too delightful for that. I’d rather just… sniff you.”

For the first time in her life, Anya felt seen—not as a nuisance, but as someone…special.

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

And so, Anya the Onion went off with the pig. Together, they shared many happy days wallowing under shady trees and basking in puddles, where the pig would contentedly inhale her aroma like one might a rare perfume.

Gaston? He soon forgot her entirely, too busy reciting limericks to the Lavender girls until his bulbs shriveled from age.

Moral of the Story

No matter how peculiar, odd, or even stinky you feel, there is always someone out there who will think your uniqueness is the sweetest thing in the world.