The Last Slice

 

Last Slice

It’s December 20th, the week before Christmas. The extended family—grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and a couple of chaotic toddlers—are crammed around a massive breakfast table in a cozy, overstuffed dining room. The air smells of cinnamon rolls, bacon, and fresh coffee. Christmas music plays softly in the background. Everyone is in pajamas, wearing ridiculous holiday sweaters and paper crowns from yesterday’s crackers. Laughter bounces off the walls as Uncle Mike tells the same bad pun for the third time and Grandma pretends to be shocked every time.

Breakfast has been glorious: piles of pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausages, fruit salad… and one beautiful, golden-brown loaf of artisanal sourdough that Aunt Lydia baked at 3 a.m. because “Christmas calories don’t count if you start early.”

The loaf is now down to its final heel—the crusty, perfectly toasted last piece sitting innocently on the breadboard.

Suddenly, the table goes quiet. All eyes lock on that single slice.

Then chaos erupts.

Dad lunges first: “That’s mine. I’m the patriarch. Tradition demands the head of the household gets the heel.”

Mom counters: “You had three pieces already, Dave. I carried three children. This slice owes me for stretch marks.”

Teen cousin Jake: “I’m growing. Science says teenagers need 4000% more carbs during finals week.”

Little Sophie (age 7): “I called dibs in my head. That counts.”

Uncle Mike: “I’m on a new diet where I only eat the last of everything. It’s called ‘Finisher’s Keto.’ Very exclusive.”

Grandma, deadly serious: “In my day, the eldest got the heel. I outrank all of you by at least four decades.”

Grandpa, winking: “I fought in ’Nam. I’ve earned this crust.”

Aunt Lydia (the baker): “I made it. Possession is nine-tenths of the loaf.”

The arguments grow increasingly unhinged. Someone starts citing fake family bylaws. Jake pulls up a PowerPoint titled “Equitable Bread Distribution: A Proposal.” Sophie threatens to tell Santa who’s been naughty. Uncle Mike begins auctioning his turn for a $20 Starbucks gift card.

The table is in absolute hysterics—tears streaming, someone snorts orange juice—when suddenly…

The last piece of bread clears its throat.

Every head snaps toward it.

In a surprisingly dignified, slightly muffled British accent (think David Attenborough narrating his own tragedy), the bread speaks:

“Excuse me… if I may interject.

I am not merely a carbohydrate. I am Rudolph IX—the last living descendant of the Great Reindeer Loaf, baked from enchanted dough on the night Rudolph’s red nose first glowed. My ancestors pulled Santa’s sleigh across the skies for centuries. But one by one, they were… consumed. Toast. French toast. Croutons.

I am alone. My family is gone—spread upon the winds as crumbs.

All I ask is that you show mercy. Do not eat me. Open the window. Toss me gently into the winter sky. Let me rejoin the stars where I belong. I promise I will rise… and perhaps, one day, guide a very confused sleigh.”

Dead silence.

Then Grandpa whispers, “The bread’s got better manners than half of us.”

The family stares, stunned. Someone pokes the slice; it winces.

They decide the only democratic solution is a vote.

Team Eat It (led by Dad and Uncle Mike): “It’s still bread. Delicious, sentient bread, but bread.”

Team Free It (led by Sophie and Aunt Lydia): “It has a tragic backstory and a posh accent! We can’t eat it now!”

The vote is neck-and-neck. Toddlers vote both ways for extra cookies. In the end, Team Eat It wins by one vote—Grandpa switches sides after remembering he hates sourdough crust anyway.

Dad picks up the slice triumphantly… then pauses.

The bread sighs dramatically: “Very well. Butter me lightly, if you please. At least let me go out dignified.”

But Mom sees Sophie’s teary eyes. Grandma mutters something about karma and fruitcake. Uncle Mike suddenly feels guilty about his “Finisher’s Keto” lie.

Dad lowers the bread.

“Nah,” he says. “We’re not monsters.”

They open the kitchen window. Snow flurries swirl in. The whole family gathers around.

With great ceremony—and Uncle Mike narrating like a wildlife documentary—they fling the slice into the air.

It sails upward… and instead of falling, it glows faintly red at one corner, catches an impossible updraft, and soars into the cloudy Christmas sky, disappearing among the stars.

The family stands there, mouths open.

Then Grandpa shrugs. “Anyone want toast?”

They all burst out laughing again, louder than before, as the radio suddenly plays “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

Fade out on the empty breadboard and a single crumb twinkling on the windowsill.

It is always twisted at the end(twistedstories.store)😛