On The Degradation Of a slice of Bread.

The slice of bread sits, with rich cream interior, cloaked and protected by a thick, crispy crust as it rests upon the plate. The bread is soft and exudes warm homely smells from its creamy white surface; still warm and moist from the fires of the oven.
This slice is one of many, and yet unlike its siblings which were devoured in an ecstasy of gastronomic fulfilment with cheese, or jam or on their own, it was left to rest softly pressing on a plate at one end of the long wooden table; the fine grain of the oak picked out in the golden sunlight which oozed over the wood like molten butter, a mocking parallel to what could never happen to this desolate tranche du pain.
All alone this slice lies as the sun and moon spin around it in an endless dance depicting the power of time to change all things- even night into day and day into night.
It is the same with this slice, once a perfect role model for all bread, it now begins to harden and crumble, its crust peeling away from the once soft interior, and as it degenerates its odour once voluptuous fades at first into nothing, and then beyond nothing into a toxic (eggy fart) smell which fills all vertebrate life within 50 paces with an agonising decision- to suffocate or to smell this abomination of all smells, this solid wall of odour which throttles its surroundings with serpentine fingers which reach and grasp into every space. Most animals survived in a semi delirious state for many months.
While this was happening an incipient forest began to smother the once quilted surface of that ill fated slice, green hills of mould seemingly trying like mice before a tempest to hold back the seemingly omnipotent smell.
The bread is now an old man, (refrence to that guy who wrote that poem about men its joyous youth is wasted and now it sits uselessly becoming slowly smothered in a fluffy green veil of death. In despair it struggles against the fatal decay to remain edible and beadlike, but its youth has passed and can never return, and it slowly degrades into a pool of slime, wanted by nobody and left to ooze in hopeless panic.
Irrevocably now the mould has the bread in its primal grasp, and insects buzz down to it like German aircraft ready to mutilate the virgin soil of Britain. They leave behind, however not death, but tiny white bombs of life ready to break out and wriggle through the deplorable slime, devouring it like children buried in marshmallows guzzling on the aerated delight of pink and white.
Outside a pigeon gracefully soars, casting a shadow over the slice, which is now completely broken and coloured like British racing green which has been splattered lavishly by red and pink, the avian creature dives towards the breads remains, but suddenly it stops, accosted by the crystal clear glass in the plastic framed window of a moderate size. The bird falls leaving a greasy stain across that crystal sea.
In destitute agony the bread continues to writhe.

The family returns home to a rather unwelcome smell, because in addition to the nasally abrasive smell which the bread still exuded and which was for the nose the equivalent of staring into the sun on a hot day on the equator through a telescope; another smell was also just beginning to take flight from the carcass of the now inanimate pigeon which unfortunately became mangled in the air conditioning system after its brief encounter with the window.  
Suffice to say the family’s pet dog ate the bread and had to go to the vet and have its stomach amputated.