Gala The Bananas

The kitchen floor eats children and everyone knows it. Though the elderly fruit try to dismiss the rumblings as ludicrous tales, mere “gossip the grapes spread to pass the time,” I see no other sensible explanation for why once the blueberries tumbled off the endless countertops, and hurtled to the linoleum, they were never seen again.
How I wish I was being devoured down there with them. At the very least, it’d be less torturous than suffering through Gala the Apple’s self-assured soliloquy of his health benefits for the fifth day in a row.
“Have I mentioned,” he boasts to the bananas, “how healthy I am? The lady was just telling her children the other day that I keep away doctors! It’s true! And did you know,” he puffs out his chest pridefully, “that when I ripen, I’ll be the sweetest fruit of
I flop once more. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t quite literally explode at this rate.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAkkkkk---”
All three of us watch in horror as the meaty fingers snatch away the watercress at Gala’s heel and tear a knife through its puckered belly.
“Why doesn’t he stop?” I cry, enraged, “A deaf asparagus could tell he’s causing that poor grandmother pain!”
“Maybe he can’t hear her,” Gala mutters between grumbles of “doltish water ruining my beautiful red skin.” Then he pauses his fussing and furrows his brows in reconsideration. “No, he’s defintely a sadist. Only a sadist would dare maim my impeccable rubicund hue.”
Now, deafness is an admittedly smart deduction, but because it was Gala’s deduction I roll my eyes. Besides me, Roma swallows, wrinkling fearfully.
“Look on the bright side,” I console, “At least we’ll be mixed together!” “Oh, Fish,” Roma mourns, “I’m afraid not even that is true. Didn’t you hear the floor monster? You’re--” he lowers his voice with a wince, “you’re to be made into a salad with Gala.” I jolt backwards as if slapped. Breath refuses to