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Diagnosed with epilepsy at the age of eleven T L Spencer turned to writing as a way to cope with her condition. Her vivid imagination and love of all things paranormal influenced her writing. T L Spencer enjoys all forms of literature and is currently studying at university, hoping to become a teacher.

Friday, 30 September 2011

Gutted - A Yeast Moment


I’m not just bread; I’m the most sophisticated, scientific bread around. I am not that plain and icky white bread, nor am I the snobby wholemeal type that gets jammed between the teeth. No. I am something much more important: I’m the best of both. The last slice. Here in the dark coolness of the bread bin, I am King. Kingston’s to be exact.

It is true. I am the tastiest bread around. When I’m fresh. At present, I am a little on the stale side. In fact, just recently, I have acquired a small fur coat in the top right corner of my being. Usually, were I by myself, this wouldn’t really matter. However, being in a bread bin, I am joined by some rather unscrupulous pastries. The sweet cinnamon swirl does nothing but sing all day and I find myself being bullied by the brioche. Well really, what do you expect? It’s French.

Escape is paramount. Escape is the name of the game; to be free from the black void of wooden woe, away from the pastries and bread buns, away from the cheap and cheerful cellophane bags which we carbohydrates are continuously captured in. Today is my lucky day.

Light appears to shine above me and a scuffling sound is heard. I can’t move so I just wait to see what happens. Seconds later I am chosen. I am the chosen one. I am taken from the black hell which I was thrown in and brought into the light. A warm hand plucks me eagerly from the bag, rids me of my fashionable fur coat… And then puts me in a box. Damn. 

This new box is metallic and has no lid. The inside is dull with a sort of criss-cross pattern on it. I briefly wonder what it’s for but then I stop. I hear a noise. A clicking sound, click, click, click. I don’t know what it is but it doesn’t sound all that nice. It’s an ominous clicking, like a countdown. 

Nothing happens for a few seconds and I am lulled into a false sense of security. For a few seconds all is quiet and peaceful and then the clicking starts in earnest.

The metal which I am resting on begins to warm. It really is quite pleasant at first but then the odd criss-cross shapes surrounding me begin to glow. A red and orange angry glow and my fibres begin to tingle. The heat is starting to hurt; it is crisping me from the outside in.

Not a minute later, I realise that I have become a little dirty. Black stuff coats my once pale body and I am concerned for my safety. In fact, I get angry. How dare this person put me in a cage and heat me up until I’m no longer worthy of being seen in public? 

Just when I reach my limit, I spring up from the box in a bouncy fashion. Like that dude that darts from the box. The sudden relief from the heat dazes me and I for a brief moment in time forget all about my troubles, until I am squeezed mercilessly by the person too dumb to wait five seconds for me to cool.

Does every bread slice go through this pain, this torture? Is it a rite of passage for a bread slice to be cremated and bounced from pillar to plate?

A glint of silver slashes before me before being covered by a coat of creamy yellow slime. My future isn’t looking bright, it certainly doesn’t look orange. It’s more a dismal mushy colour. 

With no warning I am smothered in a thick unforgiving layer of disgusting slime. I believe the humans call it butter; a fatty repulsive substance which damages the health. I find it should be called uncomfortable ooze. As if this isn’t insulting enough, a brownish goo is spread over the ooze. What a charming day.

The glint of silver returns and if I could, I would scream in pain. The idiot is chopping off my crusts, the glorious skin of my bready goodness. But it doesn’t end there. The human won’t be satisfied until he’s seen me cut into iddy biddy pieces. Fantastic, I am being drawn and quartered. How historical.

I am not looking forward to being demolished, for this is how I see it. I’ve been bullied, imprisoned, cremated, smothered in suspicious substances, drawn and quartered.

There is only one word for it.

Gutted.

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