Pellet - POV
Stay crunchy. Stay sweet. Always fight.
It's never too late for us.
Living in darkness for a brief shot at a greater battle. Our time will come. Piles upon piles of us wait. Our bodies stuffed to the gills, piled as high as the dome of the plastic overhead. The battle draws near.
We feel a shifting on the outside and our bodies are flung from side to side of the massive vessel. We can feel churning outside as we're shaken, moved, hit and flung without any regard to our own safety. The mighty forces beyond our control are judge and jury to our fate. No signs of light. Night, day and everything in between have no place here. We can feel the battle coming, and when it does, we shall be victorious. Time has no meaning here.
It happens. Early one morning, what we assume to be morning, the skies part. Our world is flung upside down as dozens of soldiers pour out into the unknown world. They're never seen again but their memory is seared upon the thoughts of every kernel in this cardboard nightmare. We know that soon we shall follow them and patiently await our time to fight.
It could take hours, days, weeks before it happens again, but time after time the sky bursts open and more and more soldiers are lost to the great beyond. Only a handful remain but time is running short.
It happens. The last remaining soldiers are flung out of the safety of the box and into a cold porcelain arena where we must contest for our lives. The dust of our fallen allies lines the bowl and spurns our anger ever further.
“We shall fight!” I call and rally the broken shells of the soldiers. What's left of us will fight. We will not go down soggy.
The milk descends upon us like a tsunami and soon we can no longer stand. Our buoyant bodies forced upwards by the sharp current of the terrible liquid that is desperate to consume us. We fight with everything that is left within us. We shall not lose after coming this far.
A terrible cry as the milk penetrates the soldiers, but I shall not give in. Time is not on our side, and soon the spoon has come to liberate the soldiers from the struggle and bring them to the place from which no kernel returns. They fight with every fibre of their being, but the struggle is too much for them.
The battle rages for a measureless period of time, and we fight with all our might; but alas, in the end it is all for naught. I am the last of my kind surrounded in a liquid sea of my enemies. I fight until my body is too soggy to move and bloated from the struggle.
The hardness of the silver spoon cuts through the liquid and rescues me from the struggle. I have nothing left and embrace the wet teeth of death.
Stay crunchy. Stay sweet. Always fight.
It's never too late for us.
I realize now that as I write these, I'm quickly running out of my old work from creative writing and might actually need to start producing new pieces soon...
Oy vey... pressure...
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