It is a world of disorder we live in.
Said the kettle to the pot, a look of certainty gleaming- eyes on a kettle?
Surely the kettle does not realize it was once within rock and that in the right light that rock was black.
But the pot was taken aback
We both are black, both are orderly.
Says the Pot to the kettle, eyes hovering two inches above its iron body.
Yes they have eyes, both command a very keen sense of vision.
Earlier an ant invaded their kitchen.
The pot saw it first, he was on the stove. The kettle in the sink could only hear the pot’s words.
There’s an ant, come for your chip, the one master dropped earlier.
Said the pot to the kettle.
And shall we let him have it?
Asked the kettle, now looking over the lip of the sink.
One might have noted a strange look in this kettle’s eyes.
Or perhaps familiar, like a mother’s stare into the eyes of a suckling child.
If the ant had its way, this piece of starch would be reclaimed and returned to the hill.
It would be digested, reorganized – eggs would be laid and ants would be birthed from the kettles work.
Yes this kettle had held oil, recently. Been heated and filled with sliced potatoes.
It served its master well, and in his satisfied complacency the single fallen chip was of no concern to the human, not until later when it would be time to clean.
The human surely intended to throw the chip out.
But the immediacy of this ant begged the question.
What else might we do?
Asked the pot in response, wondering just what the kettle was thinking.
I’ve eyes but no legs, no arms. I suppose there’s nothing we can do.
Stated the kettle.
So the ant made for the chip. Satisfied in its discovery it began to excrete pheromones and retreated to the hill. Sometime later the creature returned, accompanied by hundreds of its brothers.
The chip was cut up, each ant took a piece. The kettle looked on affectionately, happy in its knowledge that somewhere soon many an ant would be born and powered by its work.
Then came the human.
He saw the small black creatures, but with nowhere near the detail that the pot and kettle knew them. Or had viewed them, as their eyes disintegrated into a whisp of steam when their master entered the kitchen. They chose to hide their sentiency from their master, assuming work is easier when the human did not have to consider the suffering they endured each time he set them on the stove (who, by the way, is quite a kind stove. It apologizes contritely whenever it is made to scald the kettle and pot)
The human grabbed his vacuum.
The drone of the machine stressed the kettle immensely, he began to rust.
Mere minutes later the human stowed his vacuum, and left the kitchen.
The kettle began to cry.
It is a world of disorder we live in.
Said the kettle to the pot.
We both are black, both are orderly.
Says the Pot to the kettle, returning to its mind as before.
Written by Brian Litterell