Over the tongue turned, three chews, then over once more. Effluent saliva sloshed against the staircase of molars, threatening slow dissolution of the starchy mush sliding slowly off the ridge of the tongue.
Life had been good on the cornstalk in Western Kansas, surrounded by family, basking in a quiet but friendly sun.
Later still, after the sacred rite of reaping, on the conveyor belt, pressed, baked, and seasoned into a perfect oval, replete with strengthening ridges. Never had the starchy mush felt such purpose, such power, as on that day.
And here it was, about to dissolve or be forced into darkness by the spasms of the larger tunnel ahead.
But low, another tunnel appeared, blocked by a giant, gyrating fleshdrop. A strong warm wind came from within – a way out – and the starchy mush leapt for it.