On Sundays

It was just a packet of crisps. And it didn’t even have the crisps in it any more. Its function served, it lay in the gutter after it had been thrown there by a careless creature. The crisps chewed and made into a sluggy pulp not yet in the stomach and here it was, in the gutter, now in the road, now whipped into the air. It was just a packet of crisps. In time to be jabbed by gull beak and eventually buried forever. Maybe uncovered by an alien race when the other creatures die out (which, it seemed, they were well overdue for) who would treat the packet of crisps like a precious thing. Perhaps found a religion on it. And it would be the image of the God Head. The new creatures, the aliens, would wear small versions of it around their necks and each eat a crisp on Sundays. But then, it was just a packet of crisps, without even the crisps.

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