Rapture Loaves

Even aliens love to eat bread, as revealed by the rainbow-hued broadcast that eclipsed Earth’s skies with their massive mother-ships. The anticipation built from decades of sci-fi predictions crumbled when faced with the straightforward announcement. We were expecting vaporising photon rays from invading forces, slobbering tentacled terrors with razor-sharp claws and murderous intent. But no, instead they brought toast. Earth’s militaries were prepared for war, but our skies opened on interstellar friendliness alone. We eagerly poised our cameras, desperate to see the almond-eyed, thin grey creatures we had expected. But what greeted us were little green, smiling bakers promising fluffy delights. Their cheerful and welcoming demeanour, a stark contrast to our expectations. Instead of bombs and destruction, they showered the sky with colourful drones, each carrying baskets filled with delicious treats. The mesmerising hum of their catchy tunes filled the air like an ice cream truck coming to our neighbourhood. These hovering machines delivered sugary goodness house to house with their winking tractor beams. Our new guests with cartoonish voices promising succulent sweets from their bakery beyond the stars.

They hadn’t come to dominate or enslave. They had literally come to break bread with us. The technicolour packaging of the gifts oddly comforting despite the shock waves rippling through the streets beneath the ships that loomed above. It is hard to fully panic when cartoon UFOs appear on all the packaging for the alien “Mother-bread.” Suddenly, the new treats filled our supermarket aisles. Adverts appeared throughout the world depicting our new guests with big rolling pins and chef hats promising fluffy goodness from pointy-eared little green cooks. Mother-bread ended famine ended in hours and countries across the world gave their undying thanks. Locally, things were no different. My neighbour Renata squealed and clapped at the promised treats to come, her braids bouncing. She tried tugging me outside too, but I held firm. Things were happening way too fast for me.

The drones hummed persistently, their sweet tunes embedding themselves like an everlasting earworm. Even during my slumber, the playful jingles echoed in the background. Each day, a new succulent treat delivered directly to your door. Still faintly steaming when discovered. They gave us baked goods with intricately braided glyphs pulsing within the crust. “Just a nibble.” They bade us. Each roll and bun, just waiting for us Earthlings to take that first tentative bite. So, we did. Of course, we did. It’s bread, after all. Renata and I were hesitant, but human curiosity was too much for us both. She went first, eagerly sinking her teeth into a crust that crackled like a candy shell, yet melted decadently over her tongue, eliciting a delighted cry of pleasure. I took my first bite.

My god, it was transcendent. Every loaf was perfectly textured with intricate braided patterns, flavoured as if it came straight from heaven. I watched as Renata devoured slice after slice, ignoring stray crumbs that sparked violet against her skin. The strange colour gave rise to a twinge of doubt. What if this was all just a ploy to lure us in? What were the true intentions behind these delectable treats? I shared these doubts with Renata and she summarily dismissed them. So, despite reservations, I gave in to my treacherous stomach as it grumbled. After all, nothing this good could be bad, right? The captivating fragrance alone was enough to sway the most steadfast sceptic. We were only human, after all. And so, we began gorging alongside everyone in sight. The skilled chefs above presented each loaf to us like a precious gift, infusing them with exotic spices and baking them to perfection. Despite our voracious appetites, we could not satiate our hunger. The flavours danced on our tongues and filled our senses, tempting us to continue feasting without pause. And why would we want to stop? Every bite was an angelic delight, satisfying both body and soul.

As I settled into this new way of life, a nagging voice in my head told me it was all too good to be true. My past struggles with depression and self-doubt made it hard for me to accept the sudden influx of positivity and happiness in my life. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The changes within us became apparent in a matter of weeks. Public smiles couldn’t mask subtle bodily changes. Our skin smoothed, youthfully glowing as we crashed from ceaseless energy highs. My stricken father now discarded his glasses and read with a perfect 20-20 vision. Our too-silky hair stirred itself, perking up as if freshly alive. The bread somehow made us all bright, glossy, and as energetic as puppies chasing their tails. Speaking of which, pets began fleeing their homes, their owners now appeared like strangers to them.

My reservations mounted over each strange new blessing.

Finally, I resolved to I force myself to refrain from the indulgent festivities, convinced that something sinister lurked beneath the surface. My mind filled with questions that seemed so innocuous like; Why did we never see our alien guests eat? What benefit did feeding us serve our alien saviours? The answers didn’t seem relevant, and I had my detox to deal with. It was a sweaty, abrupt and violent affair. I starved while watching the Earth gorge itself sick. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, I lay there in the aftermath of my rehabilitation. Life is a little darker without the sugary goodness. yet, a clear head made my doubts grow.

Odd rhymes echoed from the youngest mouths first, their little mouths forming playful words. They sang of the mystical “Baker-King” who granted wishes with rainbow sweets from his starry kingdom above. At first, we laughed and dismissed it as silly children’s imagination. But the catchy tune lingered in our minds, even without the constant buzz of delivery drones reciting it a hundred times a day. “We feed you, you feed us, in the starlit bakery we all trust.” It was like a secret incantation, weaving its way into our hearts.

It was more than just the songs. I noticed the children were always hungry. Gluttonous. Hoarding snacks under pillows despite their swollen bellies. My tiny niece once packed away four sandwiches without blinking, then promptly stuck her face into a bag of chocolates. I stared at her, troubled, as she nibbled a cookie. Were her fingers always that stubby? Probably my imagination, I told myself. She’s a good girl who simply loves the Baker-King’s bread, just like those TV jingles sing. Nothing at all to worry about. As for the adults, the world seemed cheerier. Crime and conflict tapered off as if both grew meaningless. No more protests or politics. After all, why argue when bread makes life so delectably sweet? People milled about smiling, greeting neighbours they’d ignored for years as they shared laughter and baked treats between long, satisfied naps on sunny park benches.

So why did I worry? Why did this all feel wrong? What was so wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just allow myself to be happy like everybody else?

I voiced my concerns to friends and family and they simply replied, “Even aliens love to eat bread.”

The enjoyment of soft sweet bread was the great universal uniter – baking brought about galactic peace. It is a silly notion and the more I heard it, the less my mind accepted it as the truth. I refused to let anyone lead me. I differed from the sheep I lived amongst. While they revelled in our destiny, I secretly intensified my research efforts. Examining tissue samples from strange wheat stalks and domesticated animals turned feral to uncover potential clues. I discovered that “Mother-bread” loaves defied Earth logic in disturbing ways.

Midnight greenhouse stakeouts revealed the wheat stalks themselves teemed with bioluminescent veins that writhed disconcertingly. One cold night, I broke in and pocketed a wiggling sample, ironically comforted by its odd squish against my fingers. There was more going on here, and it seemed it was down to me alone to pull back the curtains and unveil the truth.

Trying to recruit others had me labelled a conspiracy theorist. Society changed, but those happily consuming the baked treats remained oblivious. We hardly recognised our loud-mouthed bullies and brats once they mellowed after turning ten. When they serenely declared their intentions of joining our guests and stating they would “Feed them.” We shuddered at what that seemingly harmless phrase actually meant. Yet we had no comprehension why. Protesting seemed futile.

I sensed time slipping away as alien glyphs began appearing amidst the growing cornfields. Our newfound guests were on the verge of tainting all of Earth’s harvest. I collected and stored bio-specimens, hiding them safely away before my mother could burn them in fearful ignorance. No matter how fiercely the Baker-King’s subliminal lullabies beckoned, I refused to be bewitched. Two days later, the abductions became public. Our guests no longer acting in secrecy. The National Guard rolled in but did nothing when they discovered children by the grinning dozens boarding the glittering ships on their own accord. Lured by promises of cosmic merriments we could scarcely conceive. The soldiers hung their heads in failure and confusion, unable to sway those tiny minds from perceived celestial reward. Who were we to deny them now?

I retreated, some nagging light of reason flickering cautionary red behind a curtain of rising blood as my neighbours walked willingly to board the transport ships. They scowled at me. Our baking gods were so wondrous and welcoming. What kind of grouch refuses such sweet rulers? Shameful ingrate, they called me. But no, I wouldn’t rest while millions lost themselves in hypnotic chewing fervour. I refused to become the Baker-King’s plump interstellar disciple.

I obsessively studied scraped gelatinous leavings from leftover crusts in secret and examined that squirming alien biotech teeming below the glazed surfaces. Knowledge is power, and I believed it could still sway the situation in our favour. The unfurling loaves carried nano-spun neurotransmitters tailored to condition human pleasure centres upon ingestion. I marvelled at the simplicity of the baker’s plan. How ignorant and embarrassing susceptibility humans were to sugary propaganda. As if our DNA itself betrayed us. Mental subversion subtly but irreversibly rewriting allegiance through a delicious cellular conduit.

In the shadows of society, there were others like me. A group determined to resist and fight back against the forces that sought to control us. We communicated through secret channels on the dark web, our only lifeline in a world of deceit and manipulation. They called us the “Gluten-free,” a playful moniker that both mocked and celebrated our shared struggle. We termed all others “Bliss junkies.” Those complicit in the hijacking of the masses. I almost joined them myself, the siren songs calling out to me, tempting me to abandon all earthly troubles and frolic away in paradise among the fluffy Foronort clouds. Night after night, children with stomachs stretched tight as drums were boarding ships in merry single file, the rare hearts unaffected by shiny dreams of infinite galactic cake. But amidst the joy and excitement, there were still those few who remained unchanged by such extravagant promises, their eyes clear and their love for their families stronger than any desire for luxuries beyond Earth. And so they stood on the docks, forced to wave goodbye to their weeping loved ones as they departed for the promised cosmic bakery.

Forced to wave to weeping kin as they departed for the promised cosmic bakery.

The Gluten-Free stand as Earth’s last hope, anchored by science, perseverance, and a mnemonic rhythm aimed at countering the alien verses. Searching for answers by plunging anti-toxin needles into dough specimens. Praying to extract some unblemished fraction of mortal wheat’s ancient code. I sealed my laboratory doors once my family converted to the Baker-King’s call. I mourned privately. It was no longer safe to venture outside. There was precious little left uncontaminated by alien hands. Humans were now as round as our alien guests, except for those who resisted. We were easy to identify our stick thin figures stood out like sore thumbs amongst our fleshy compatriots.

My melancholy momentarily subsides as I watch my spores bloom, the knot in my stomach loosened and a sense of relief washes over me. The hours spent meticulously studying and experimenting paid off – my wheat strain had survived and thrived. With a determined glint in my eye, I imagined a future where my bread would conquer any other, too bitter for even the cosmic palate. A victory that seemed impossible now felt within reach, and it gave me hope. The smell of fresh baked baguettes and croissants filled my mind, driving out the bleakness and filling it with warmth. We would share my bread moonshine with everyone as we celebrated our triumph over the barren skies. Finally, a light shone at the end of the tunnel.

As the days dragged on, the dark forums grew quieter and quieter. Then, a game-changing revelation slammed into our midst like a lightning bolt. A glorious victory for the resistance as we captured visuals from the Starlit bakery above. Photos, in the highest definition, broadcast across the world for the tech savvy to peruse. The first showed our alien guests in formal wear entering a grand banquette thrown by the Baker-King himself. Text accompanied the photos, giving a horrifying breakdown of what this recent evidence proved. The celestial bakery wasn’t a bakery at all. It was an abattoir, and the Baker-King was a misnomer. Butcher would be a more accurate title. My hands shook as I scrolled through the gruesome images and read the horrifying captions. The blood seemed to drip off the screen, and my stomach twisted into knots. We were like newborn lambs that had gone skipping merrily to the slaughter, completely unprepared for the horrors that awaited on the ships above.

From the very beginning, they had deceived us. My heart plummeted into a pit of despair. Every ounce of energy I had put into saving Earth’s harvest was now pointless, for it was not grains or crops that the aliens desired. The realisation that aliens do not love to eat bread sent shivers down my spine as I pictured the friendly rotund aliens. Everything they had done made sense now we knew their true intentions. The sense of betrayal and fear angered me. We were just pawns in their twisted game. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs; I wanted the world to know the truth about our so-called guests. Their true love is meat. Aliens love to eat meat, human meat!