Crumbs

by A. Molotkov, S.B. Reda, Pamela Zero

It would have been different of course, had they been ordinary crumbs. These however were crumbs of an alternate sort. They were crumbs with purpose and commitment to a cause - crumbs that cared about the future - crumbs with intentions of influencing the world as we know it. Curling and spiraling into subtle corkscrew shapes, tiny drills of matter await poised and breathless in the carpet just past the front door (as if to greet with a great gust of affection anyone who happened into the room). Burrowed into the thick nap of the carpet just below the surface, they swam about, dreaming of another life and another world where they were one and large and toasted. 
It would also have been quite another story had he been an ordinary man. He, however, was a silent type fraught with indecision and torn by the thought of all the cells from his body left on stair rails and public benches. He never entered the apartment slowly - he swarmed through the front door and embraced the familiar smells of his home, breathing deeply, taking energetic strides about the rooms. Day after day, he stepped over the patient, patient crumbs as they held their collective crumb breath and counseled themselves to stillness.
Finally, one day he stepped on a crumb. A slight pinch, a nuance of pressure, he lifted his foot to peer at the bottom, balancing with effort and noticing with pride that he still could raise it to the level of his waist. A hint of discomfort, perhaps even a flash of pain, and it was over. For the lucky crumb, it was just beginning. From the moment of contact, the crumb sprang into action, utilizing a crumb lifetime of preparation. "Deep", it sang to itself, "Full and rich and deep and brown and in and in and in!" And it drilled into the soft flesh of his foot and headed for bone.
Bone, now there is a subject of worth! Cold fierce eternal bone, soft malleable mutating bone, bone to roll through and distort and twist and flatten, bone tasting like icy too sweet crunchiness. Once in bone, the crumb was home and free. Once in bone, the crumb lost all caution and danced in small concentric circles of glee. Once in bone, the crumb began the endless task of retraining the host body to its new, glorious shape. An impeccable shape, a shape both elegant and unstudied! Simple, yet refined, versatile and always striking no matter the vaguaries of fashion. A shape to pay homage to The Beginning - to the time of fierce and fiery birth when pain and existence swirled together with such intensity that bits and pieces of The One fell off. Of course, only one shape could work, and that without a doubt is the exquisite shape of a large piece of toast.
However, to be a piece of toast, it had to be toasted first. Yes, it had to be toasted in the heat of steamy crumb bread love-action, as it would transcend into another capacity next to its lover who will undergo a similar transformation. But for now, it was to become bread! CRUMB. WE SEE CRUMB ON ITS WAY TO THE BREAD FUTURE! This crumb was patient, too! Very patient!
Still, the crumb knew what would transpire in the nearest and furthest future, as the distinction between the two collapsed, swept away by the notion of fierce love fire. As toast, the crumb and its pre-assigned lover would transcend into another reality, where habitual definitions of time are eradicated. The existence of toast would be timeless, saturated with overwhelming happiness and unsurpassed uninterrupted bliss. CRUMB ON ITS WAY TO THE TOAST BLISS - this is all we can see!
Inspired by this dream that was more than realistic, the crumb continued its magnificentical dance inside the bony bone. (And indeed, why would this dream be less than truth-oriented if it was so easily dreamt? What could prevent the crumb from achieving its ultimate goal? Could there be anything this strong?) Drill through flesh, it had done so. Drill through blood, it had done so. Sink deep into the bone, it had done so. Now dancy rest was in order, dancy dancy rest! Once in bone, the crumb was home and free. Once in bone, the crumb lost all caution and danced in small concentric circles of glee. "My crumby lover," it said, "come and toast with me!" Dancing in bone, everything okay! Dancing okay, everything in bone. Bone new home, let's reconfigure and be bread! Preparation had started preparation had started preparation had started. No turning around in relentless pursuit in comfy bone suit! No turning away from glorious goal, nothing else matters at all!
And finally, the room for dancy dancy rest had been filled, and the crumb concentrated its inner momentum to start the transformation. The crumb was ready, and so was the host body. IT HAD BEEN READY FROM THE VERY START!
Change arms and legs into particles of bread, this was the first thing to do. Change arms and legs into particles of bread, this was the second thing to do. Change arms and legs into particles of bread, this was the third thing to do. The crumb concentrated its toast-seeking impulse into one powerful mental command that flashed through the host body as an electric impulse of prevalent physiological structure. Without its knowing it, the body began to change . . .
Drop off in flaky crouton flesh scales, dusting the carpet, inseminating a hungry colony of crumbs buried in the nappy forest of gray. Sourdough arms protrude from biscuit shoulders, white stuffy joints crisped, wafting human death aroma in the air, like a bakery. Internal bakers trapped in the arteries, employed by insurgent crumb (white stove hats dripping in blood), shove more information into their portable transformation kilns, establishing doughy genetic codes. They pass supplies, lowering material by string down the esophagus, into the gizzard. Young men haul fifty pound bags of water bound for the Grand Mixing Machines (having taken over the lungs - just the right amount of space!) Bread sticks dangle from limp wafer wrists, extrusionary digits of confectionery delight tipped with dabs of butter for effect only, I assure you! Croissant elbows swivel, pivot, and rotate, fluffy guts spilling and rebuilding themselves for reinforcement.
The bread stick digits carve curious lines into muffin head, dinner roll legs dancy in fright, the sound of impatient crumbs, carpet crickets whistling locust in bunches. A voluminous symphony waiting to be avenged, liberated from stained fibers and padding. They are in a feeding frenzy, the taste of blood and yeast an intoxicating combination. Bouncing over each other, leaning to one side and the next, watching future toast in biscuit spasms, jumping, jumping to avoid landing, perhaps forever.
And how long is forever to a man who is a consolidation of a million crumbs, a savory union of particles and the like? Oh you know, everything is interesting now, a real pip, a real man about town! A man of crumbs will be summoned to the major events, elaborate balls, diplomatic missions, book signings, etc. Gravy dogs bark and lick at your window, wishing to dip you into their salisbury entrails. They leap off soup boats in single file, wagging tails splattering muddy thickness against the walls.
Oh, a man of bread can only be coveted, what else could such a fate behold! And through this fate shall lifespans remain unfulfilled. And yet, with this in mind, one still cannot diminish the love of another. Above all, it will dictate the path by which events unfold and transpire.
The plan had been developed. The way to Salvation was the path of love and love could only be found in the warm embrace of the toaster. But how was the question, how to fulfill such an obvious destiny? How to lure a hapless female to the carpet lush and forgiving; how to place the naked sole upon the small splinter of steel? It may have been difficult for the crumb to fathom exactly how it knew about its destination, its predetermined future; and yet, this knowledge filled its entire soul like warm welcoming milkwater, incorporating sense and meaning into every aspect of crumbliness and non-crumbliness encountered on the way to the bone. This route had become a road to Salvation and Higher Understanding. Nothing else could possibly justify the toastless loveless existence of a crumb!
And the dream continues, with the altercation internal and divine. She will know, my only and one, she will know and shift matter to moments. Toast, toast, the creation of the charred lives only in her eyes, and her form must shift to match her destiny. She must square her soul, she must embrace the steel and swallow the silver. I am The Toast- she must be The Toaster. I am the baked - she must glow and heat and burn. How to seduce her to the searing coils? What will lure her to the love of crumbs?
Sow the seeds of silver thickly. Spread the glistening gleam of metallic transformation. Smear the carpet with the slivers of my own true love. A knock! Her pitiful form hesitates in the doorway - come closer closer . . . Step down hard with unshod feet, stomp, step, stutter. Transform to toaster heaven! Release your frail shell of a body and be saved! She moves, floats, and smash down thunders a foot. Again and again! Smash and thunder! Her steps grind like a fork in my crust. I grimace in my hiding place, twist and strain with the effort of withholding my crumbs.

The sweet contortion of the arch of her foot impaled.

The transformation has begun, the sweet liberty of the one true shape manifests itself in the sharp snapping of her limbs. Soft my sweet, soft, and soon you will be one with me and our destiny realized. See your skin sleek and silver? See your handle hard and powerful: your slots mysterious and alluring with the promise of heat! Hear your new screaming silence; sense the lithe coil of your cord. We are together now, forever, Toast and Toaster and the world is our kitchen!
It trembles in reflections cast, element drooling electronic salivation. Its coils spark in amorous visions, black serpentine cord-tail snapping from porcelain tiled walls, blue flash glitter. The Toaster spreads its metal orifices, burning air rising from its deep cavities. Hot buttons illuminate in red glow, a soft pallor warming the ceiling with the faint hope of pending joy. Other appliances become enamored in the bliss which is now being shared by all. Coffeemakers mate with blenders who immediately spawn baffling hybrids content with self-discovery. Garbage disposals gurgle juicer semen, laughing mechanical orgy in the kitchen love-in.
Pseudo-eyes meet, The Toaster exchanges crusty glances with The Crumb. Dancy, dancy onto the living room floor, the contradictory couple waltz all night, red glow atmosphere; a sweet ambience! Whispers and permutations of tragic love are overheard, even as the chair mounts the refrigerator. Oh, why can’t we all be so happy; so fortunate?
But what is this? Why are you crowding me so? Why do you aim your slots at me? I am already toasted, my love. To toast me further would burn me, even destroy me. Yes, of course I care for you, but you go too far. Why must I prove my love? Back off, I say!



The chase was lengthy, as all pre-destined chases are. She caught up with him in the forests outside the city after he tripped over an exposed root and lay cracked and sobbing in the dirt. He was toasted, and toasted again - she was insatiable. He died horribly, begging and spitting dry crumbs, his overheated surface split, dissected in the glow of her metal flesh, tender insides crisp, shriveling before the red rage of her love.

His last words were a plea for jam.