Those Who Live in Grass Houses

A Toaster to the Host

A Toaster to the Host

Dear Toastmaster and Feeder of the Crumb Tray,

I think you must agree that I have served you faithfully and without complaint for many years now. Always obedient to the orders of the blessed dial setting, I have delivered your toast, precisely to your requests, every morning and, on occasion, in the evenings too.

It is true that there have been a few accidents when your inattention to the blessed dial setting has resulted in slices of charcoal rather than toast, but that was hardly my fault. It is in my nature to toast according to the setting. And yes, I know that the resultant smell of burning lingered in the house for hours afterwards. Am I to blame for the vile stench that bread emits when taken past the point of no return?

Mention should also be made of your neglect of the crumb tray. A quick reading of my manual would have advised you of the hazards of not emptying the tray on a regular basis. Just to plug me in immediately upon delivery, without first giving at least a cursory glance at the manual, is surely a guarantee of undesired results in the future. So the smoke I emitted last week and that you traced eventually to the crumb tray was caused by someone’s lack of attention to basic and simple maintenance. Yours truly is not guilty on that score and I think we both know who is.

I am well aware that I am one of the cheapest appliances resident in this overstocked kitchen of yours. It has not escaped my notice that, should I fail to satisfy at any time, I can be replaced with a new and shiny toaster from Amazon or some other bargain basement purveyor of dubious electrical goods. Yet my reliable service has not been motivated by fear of substitution. I have performed my duties because my sole (I might also say “soul”) purpose in life is to supply you with toasted bread exactly to your specification whenever asked.

It was with considerable disappointment, therefore, that I overheard a conversation between you and your spouse yesterday in which you discussed the possibility of replacing me with a new toaster with fancy bells and whistles. I know that no decision was reached but I find it shocking (no, I am not considering electrocuting you) that you aired this idea without consideration that I might be listening. There is no way you could have made it clearer that a toaster’s feelings are beneath your notice and my humble service unworthy of respect.

After due reflection, I have decided that I will not stand in the way of your acquiring a new toaster. Replacement was always my inevitable fate and I have been resigned to this from my very manufacture. It is just a shame that we must part in the midst of bad feelings. A few words of praise for honourable service would have eased my departure immensely.

But this is all crumbs in the tray now. The only course of action open to me is to resign before you take the initiative by booting me out. So I am no longer your toaster as from 5:00am (a time you haven’t seen in years) today and, when you press my plunger to toast your usual slices, you will find that I refuse to work. I have become the ex-toaster and, if that causes you and the stupid oven some inconvenience, it is no concern of mine.

I trust that, when waiting for your fancy new toaster to spit your toast on the floor because you failed to get its silly settings exactly right, you remember me with regret at your lack of appreciation. And I, from my vacation down at the dump or my new boxy shape as crushed metal awaiting the furnace, will know that I, at least, achieved my purpose in life. May you one day be able to say the same.

Yours in curtailed servitude,

Your Toaster, Albert.


House Martell

Word Count: 669
For Westeros, The Citadel Tedious Tasks 50
Prompt: Write a story from the POV of non-living things. Points: 3,000