A pop and a crunch
Frozen babes, cold graves
All peas are babies.
All peas begin their journey in the soil. Like any life form, they bask in the sun's light and are nurtured by the remnants of dearly departed.
In days past, gentle hands would tenderly pluck them from their homes. Now, large machinations seize them from the earth with cold, calculated efficiency.
Yet, the peas remain safe in their little pods, nestled among their fellow pea brethren.
This sanctuary is fleeting, for the pod is soon cracked open. Silent screams echo unheard as each pea plunges into a vat of water. The initial cold chill is swiftly usurped by scalding heat.
As they envision their impending doom, they are frozen in a state of terror. The freezing that is meant to preserve their nutritional essence, also encapsulates their fear.
When the peas awaken, they find themselves separated, lost. Any illusion that it was all a bad dream is shattered. Perhaps they face the sizzling embrace of a frying pan, or the baking heat of an oven.
Or perhaps they are hurled about with such centrifugal force that they are torn apart from the inside out.
The humble pea, now mere morsels for our human young.
Sorry if you like peas. I do too. It’s a peadicament.