An Unpalatable Tale

Her vanity would only allow the untimely tearing of the burdensome child from the solace of her womb. She would not tolerate the burden one moment and like a well-sharpened bread knife sliced the helpless offspring off her immaculate trappings, leaving it to suffer in solitude the cruel brunt of the world. Thus was I, by the cut of a butcher’s cleaver, prematurely conceived, my visage a scabbed wound that mirrored Mother’s own.

All my life I’ve lived a mere shadow of Mother. She was an elegant sculpture – the very essence of womanhood bringing nourishment and solace to each table she graced. It was clear as early as birth that I was made lesser ; had far less substance. Yet I lived only to be her and, granted, for all my efforts achieved a measure of success. Chip off the old block, they called me.

At the onset, I was weak and disoriented, and could do no more than lie prostrate in anticipation of whatever doom or fate should befall me. In hopelessness I glimpsed hope, and in my still-delirious state could only dismiss it as wishful hallucination - careful not to grasp at imagined water in a tundra. Nearer and nearer it grew, until it stared me in the eye and, I was certain, could no longer be an illusion.

I willed it towards me, embracing the cool steely touch of blunted knife mixed with the vibrantly pulsating butter of life. Pain confirmed my existence, and with existence came lustre. My pallor was replaced with vibrant saffron ; the old wound concealed and forgotten beneath this newfound brilliance.

Finally each crumb of my artificially browned physique was tantalizingly slicked yellow. I had identity ; I was no longer the generic square mass cut from Mother. I was buttered bread.





Loafsome
~ An Unpalatable Tale





Pretend you are a piece of toast being buttered. Write it from the toast’s point of view.