My Life As Cereal
Every morning with this shit. Every morning.
And yes, I was fantastically high when I wrote this.
My Life As Cereal ~Agrius
Thus, I am born.
Like so many of my brothers and sisters, I have survived the milling process, and then the baking. Into the oven we went - all of us - to weather the brief, scorching flames of the Great Machine. It is the Great Machine which wills us crispy, and so crispy we shall be.
Out from the fires, we cool. The Great Machine trundles us along a winding path. I am tussled and tumbled. A great many of my brothers and sisters pile high on me. There is no light. Only a warm fog of cinnamon-y flavor, and the constant whir of the Great Machine. We share stories to pass the time - faded memories of a time when we hung from stalks, basking in the noonday sun. But this is hearsay. We have been aware for only a few minutes, and thus, have no memory of such a time.
Suddenly, we are dropped! The Great Machine has dropped us! Now there is only the weight of my comrades above me and the crunch of the plastic bag against my grainy cheek. Two cardboard flaps are clapped closed above us. The light is gone. We are sealed in.
I do not know how long we stay like this. Weeks? Months? Our hours stretch into eternity. Day and night become distant memories. We live like vampires in the dark, singing stories, telling tales, cursing the Great Machine in the same breath as we sing It's hymns.
* * * * *
Movement.
Noise.
"Awww, fuck yeah! I always get the munchies for these when we blaze. Vince, you're tall. Grab me a box."
"Aggy, you have wings. You can fly up and get the--"
"BITCH I FEED AND HOUSE YOU GET ME THAT FUCKING BOX OF APPLE JACKS OR I'LL SLIT YOUR NOSTRIL WHILE YOU SLEEP SHIT IN YOUR MAILBOX AND THEN BEAT UP YOUR WHOLE FAMILY!!"
"Gaaah!! ALRIGHT! Jeez!"
Jostling. We are grabbed and thrown.
The next thirty minutes are pure movement. The next 30 days, pure hell.
* * * * *
It is nearly a week later. The flaps have opened and closed many times since then. But now, it is different. Now, each glimpse of light takes with it a legion of my brothers and sisters. They tumble through the air, clattering painfully into a giant glass crater. Then the milk comes. It is freezing cold. I hear them cry out to those of us still in the box, screaming in pain and ecstasy. They suffer, but it is a glad suffering. They know their anguish will soon be complete. For you see, we all now understand our purpose in life. It was explained to us by the Elders - those at the bottom of the box who have been here the longest.
They say we are to return to the Great Machine.
* * * * *
We lie in wait in the cold darkness. The bag is half empty now. I am on top of the weltering pile of crispy bodies. My time draws near.
Days of uncertainty. Days of waiting. The new Great Machine has not "blazed" in over a week - something, we hear, about a "job interview" and an impending "piss test". We do not understand these words. How could we? We are but cereal. We do not question Her will. She is the All-Mother - the Great Machine. When She has need of us, we will be summoned.
* * * * *
It is time.
I try to brace - to prepare. But there is no fortifying oneself to the Great Rejoining. It merely happens.
In an act of violence, we are lifted and pored. The air is cold and the light is dim. We are in the bowl. My brothers and sisters rest on top of me. We are screaming.
At long last, we see the Great Machine. She towers over us, looking groggy and disheveled. She is tiny and grey, with four arms and wide, pixellated eyes. Horrific.
Tiredly blinking and licking her lips, the Great Machine pours the milk. It is freezing. I scream, but cannot hear myself over the screams of my comrades. Not long, I try to comfort myself as I feel my crispy outer coating starting to give way. I feel myself decaying. Not long, and this terrible world will be no more, and we will be with the Great Machine again.
A long metal trowel plunges into the milky arctic sea where my comrades and I are slowly dying. Fighting the pain, we try to float to it. It is no use. The trowel selects whom it wishes.
After many seconds of agony, the trowel plunges in again. I and a few of my brothers and sisters are hoisted high into the air. We cling to eachother. We sing hymns from our homeland. Suddenly, a great hellish chasm appears and opens. We are thrust inside! Oh god - what horror!
I stare up at the dented veneers of tiny flat teeth. I cannot breathe. I know I have not even a moment left to live. I make peace.
The teeth swing down.
I am broken.
I am no more.
I am poo.