FICTION
The Rebirth of Toast
No need to worry about broken legs now
(TRUMPETS SING)
The toaster was smoking. Crumbs in the underbelly just enough to smolder. It popped up bagels with a click.
Hot, crispy, then smothered with cream cheese. This, plus a glass of orange juice, was breakfast.
It was an ignominious affair, considering the day ahead, but there was still time for coffee on the road. Paper on the train. Food for body, mind, and soul.
What? What’s that? Yeah. Scratch that last one. Calories and caffeine. Sugar and carbs. But no prayer. No intent, shielding, or building of mind, body, spirit, flow.
Just food. And gossip. Politics. Disasters feed the brain to keep it running. Let the click-clak sway of the commute be co-opted into headlines and bylines. Escape. Who wrote what and why they wrote it.
This stuff’s important. The fodder and churn of collective human thought. Bask in the glory of shared intelligence as we entertain your worries away.
Oh, hmmm? Your stomach rumbles? Eat the protein bar, fold the paper. Swipe the tablet closed and check the seat. Wouldn’t do to leave keys or phone behind on a day like today.
