Sunrise bathed the villa in marmalade light. Pigeons cooed lullabies of postwar brunch regret. A lonely mimosa glass rolled across the courtyard, its tiny umbrella still valiantly spinning.
Inside, Zach awoke buried under a pile of croissants and mild existential confusion. He blinked.
"Did we… sign a treaty with popsicles?" he muttered, brushing powdered sugar off his eyebrow.
Lucien entered, wearing a robe made entirely of napkins from different global cuisines.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," he said, sipping tea brewed from truce petals. "Besides, the popsicles are excellent conversationalists. Frosticus is doing a TED Talk later. It's called 'Unmelting the Self: From Snack to Sovereign.'"
Zach: "Oh cool. Also, I think my toast is forming a political party."
---
Scene: The Rise of Toastria
Yes. The toast had organized.
Inside the pantry, beneath the shelf of passive-aggressive quinoa, an entire society of burnt and slightly emotional toasts had gathered.
