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“I looked down at the loaves on the baking stone, which, just as before, carried in their crusts the overwhelming illusion of dark eyes, upturned noses, fissured mouths. Upon closer inspection, these faces were different from the last loaf's. They were disturbing. Their eyes squinted merrily and their mouths curled into ragged, jack-o'-lantern grins. The bread knife was the solution to all my problems. I sawed and sawed and sawed until the faces were no more.” — Robin Sloan
I looked down at the loaves on the baking stone, which, just as before, carried in their crusts the overwhelming illusion of dark eyes, upturned noses, fissured mouths.
Upon closer inspection, these faces were different from the last loaf's. They were disturbing. Their eyes squinted merrily and their mouths curled into ragged, jack-o'-lantern grins.
The bread knife was the solution to all my problems. I sawed and sawed and sawed until the faces were no more.