This story was originally going to be my entry for a writing content about bread. I ended up quitting after I lost motivation. I decided to post it here. Enjoy!



They were a few strands of wheat in a vast swaying sea. They were
small, seemingly insignificant, yet they made up the vast field, the
foundation of the farm. They had the year to grow, they had soaked up
the rain eagerly in the rainy season, struggled it through bravely
during the droughts, and thrived now that the tough growing from
seedling is over.


Alas, the time has come. The trees are letting go of their leaves, knowing that
after a season of slumber, new life may begin. Alas, despite their
struggles, the few strands of wheat in the vast field which supported
the farm, had come to the end of their journey. A tall “Planter”,
as the wheats knew him, walked towards them.


They were delighted to see him of course. Was this not the one who had planted them? Who
had given them water during the drought and had gently caressed their
grassy stems? Was this not the one of whom their lives’ purpose was
for?


The wheats could tell that something was different this day, for the Planter was
holding a large, sharp weapon. It had a dirt handle and a rock part
that curved, its sharp edge glistening in the sun. The calloused hand
that had once so gently caressed the wheats’ stems now gripped
their grain filled heads gruffly. One wheat let out a small cry of
surprise, but of course the Planter could not hear her.


The Planter’s large hand fit hundreds of wheats, and the wheats felt suffocated.
Heads bristling against heads, loose grains filling in the scarce air
pockets. A nightmare for any claustrophobic. The wheats were confused
and scared and mumbled their worries amongst themselves.


“Sisters, let us not speak ill against the Planter, nor feel betrayed nor frightened,”
a wise wheat spoke up, “We have had our share of laughter, of
toils, of tears. We have known since our beginning that we served
some sort of purpose for the Planters. Let us give cheer that the
time has come to repay them for all their good deeds.” The other
wheats agreed immediately and were excited of the prospect of a new
adventure.


The Planter pulled the wheat until their stems were strung tight, he then swung the
weapon and it cut cleanly through the wheats’ stems. The wheats
were delighted at this new feeling, free from their roots and the
ground, the wind allowed to truly sway their grassy strands. The
Planter quickly took a strand and used her to tie the rest in place,
knotting her head to her end. He then hoisted the bundle on his
shoulder and walked off to the barn.


I shall not bore you with the process of making flour or the long days of waiting before
then, since time is short and patience is limited.


After the wheats had been grounded into some sort of white powder and refined numerous
times, they were poured into bags that seemed to be made out of wheat
stems. The bag was tied, lifted, and placed in some sort of barn. The
wheats were excited for the next part of the adventure.


After nights and days of waiting, other bags of powder being brought in the mean time,
the wheats that were now flour felt themselves being lifted, then
placed on something, then moving forward at an alarming speed. They
ended up in a grocery store, a car, a table, and finally a kitchen.


They waited in the pantry for a few days, until finally they heard a voice. “Bring in
some flour.” The wheats were hoisted up and placed on the table
with a thud. The bag was opened and they saw the face of a Planter.
The Planter had long dirt stems falling down stylishly around their
face.


The wheats were scooped into a container and they saw below them many other
ingredients. The wheats were plopped into the bowl. “Hello,
cousins!” They were greeted by the yeast. “Hello, cousins!”
they responded. “It is finally time for our purpose!” they
chorused together excitedly. The blender was turned on and they felt
a violet mixing motion, binding together with the other ingredients.


No one knows exactly when the wheat and yeast are no longer grasses, when the milk is no
longer just a liquid; but when the wheat is gone, something new is
born. Bread. Not exactly bread yet, still in the beginning dough
form, but Bread was there. Bread was still bound together with his
siblings. Bread did not know where he was, nor where his siblings
were. Bread and Bread were one, one viscous batter.


Bread and Breads were plopped onto a table covered with flour. The wheats were
ecstatic to see what their sisters had created. The dough was split
into four pieces, but Bread was still bound to his siblings.


Bread and Bread felt the odd sensation of being pounded, kneaded, folded, and the process
being repeated. Bread and Bread were relieved to be set aside to
“rest” for an hour. After the hour had passed, they were put into
a hot box and blasted with scalding hot air until they had formed a
hard crust. They were put on a table with a red and white checkered
table cloth.

The sunlight that streamed from the windows, which had their own red and white
checkered curtains pulled aside, shone on the perfectly golden crust.
The wind lazily carried out the delicious sent of freshly baked
bread, letting anyone outside know of what was happening inside the
house.

Now that Bread had completed his journey, he was eager to break free from his siblings.
The other Breads however, did not care to be separated. Bread
struggled and pulled and twisted with all his might, but it was no
use. Bread was a slice, and this was a loaf. He would have to wait.

Suddenly, he felt the table shaking as heavy sounds filled the room. Something he had
never seen before came holding something that was the color of the
hot box. Somewhere in his bread mind, he acquired the knowledge that
this was an Eater, and that he had something do to with it.