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
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
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
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 canít we all be so happy; so
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.