Sunday, April 5, 2009

bonsoir brioche

Among the many stories of Ed, I found the story of Alfred.

At 838 Albert Street in apartment 208 lived a piece of toast named Alfred.

Alfred was a rather interesting piece of toast. He used to be an everyday piece of rye bread, but one morning somone put him in the Black & Decker almond-coloured cool-sided wide-slot toaster, set it for medium, and about 3 minutes later Alfred was an altogether different individual.

Most pieces of toast have a rather brief existence. After their transformation, they're usually smothered with peanut butter. Or jam. Or cheez whiz. And then, they are... well... their spirits are on their way to the big bread box in the sky.

Alfred's journey was to be enitrely different.

The person who rented apartment 208 at 838 Albert Street was the same being who placed Alfred's former self in the toaster. This person witnessed Alfred's transformation, removed him from the toaster, and set him gently on a chilly china plate.

On opening the cabinet doors, the person discovered there was no peanut butter. So he went to the store to get some.

In a rush (so that Alfred did not get too cold), the person dashed to the stairs and started bounding down them. A step taken too quickly turned into a tumble, and swiftly, the person broke his neck and died.

Alfred remained on his plate, unfazed.

After two long periods of darkness, Alfred realised he was going to be around for a very long time. Two nights is a very, very long time for a piece of toast.

So he lied there. He observed. He learned.

And then, he started to get old.

Alfred really couldn't do much more than that as he was just, well, a piece of toast.

About a week later the door to the apartment opened.

The person who had begun Alfred's transformation from bread to toast had no next of kin. So the landlord came in, cleaned up, and threw Alfred out.


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