(( I was bored and nobody had written about anthropomorphic brussels sprouts yet, I thought I'd start the sprout rolling myself. ))
The Brussell Sprout
My Brussels sprout spoke to me today, at least it seemed to whisper. 'Life winds round like a slow old clock, but metal is a rotten thing.' It stared at me without eyes, looking straight through, parts already in my stomach, are they staring too?
A cruel part of me wanted to finish the dirty deed, sprinkle it with pepper: send it on it's way. Another desperate part of me, needed to hear what else it would say...
For days and days it said nothing, growing crueler, little hairs and wrinkles, deepened with decay. The silence overwhelming, it became my little hell.
Perhaps if I ate it, I would consume its words as well...
I lit a single candle and prepared my vegetable treat. Set on fine china, began the funeral feast. I muttered words of apology to the little wrinkled shell. Then stuffed it down my throat, and bid it farewell.
A pain deep inside my stomach grew, I heard a strangled cry. My lower intestine seemed to twist, I felt I ought to die. And so revenge slow and sweet, I lay on the kitchen floor. The Brussels grew within my corpse, while I myself, no more.
Last Edit: Jul 8, 2013 0:56:29 GMT -8 by ∆§Indea§∆