The croissant opened what could have easily been mistaken for eyes. Although it had no organs, nerves or neurons, somehow it found that it could see the world from the two flaky sockets.

The first thing it saw through cabinets glass was a large poster of a famous pastry chef by the name of 'Gaston Lenôtre'. The man was smiling while holding a mixing bowl in one hand and vigorously stirring its contents with a wooden spoon in the other.

Gas...ton. The name slowly formed inside the croissant's consciousness as it found itself more and more aware of its surroundings. Had it a face, the little pastry would have made a puzzled expression as it re-read the name.

Gas...ton... Gaston. Zat shall be my name.

A small pastry mouth began forming as Gaston slowly and quietly repeated his new name. The fresh croissant had no idea what an accent was, let alone that his was French.

Ms Cream sat in the cream puff section, as other cream puffs were being picked out for a treat. She hated human kind. As some young kids ran around the pastry shop, Ms Cream sighed and quietly shoved herself into the back row.

Pastry sat there. He just sat there. Of all the colors it had to be pink. Pink.

William sees James walking to him. "Hello, James. Don't worry, I got some ideas on how to get us all out of here."

Pastry was very relaxed as he had his frosting put on. He looked up at the baker when he noticed something in the bakers hand...oh god, not today-pink frosting.

James came out of the freezer. "William, is that you?" he asked
"I don't want to get eaten alive! I want to get out of here!" He said

It was around 11 o'clock in the morning and the Pastry Shop was open for breakfast. William was a waffle. He was being brought on a tray tobe eaten. However William didn't want to be eaten. He was planning his escape. If they go for the fork or knife, run he thought. If they go for the syrup kick it in their face and run. The waiter brought the plate to the table. A young man, mid twenties, picked up the syrup cup and went to go pour. He was in for a surprise when his breakfast kicked it causing syrup to go in his hair. "MY HAIR" he screamed. In the ensuing confusion William hopped off the p[late and ran into the kitchens to do some mischief.

((Damnit Fang, beat me to it XD))

It was about midday, and a fresh batch of pastries had just come out of the oven. The baker, a pudgy and jovial man by the name of Percy placed the new tray in the pastry cabinet, whistling a tune to himself. Closing the glass cabinet, he went out the back to cook up another lot of bread.

The average life expectancy of a pastry was about six to eight hours. If you were lucky, you could last for up to three days. Not that pastries ever counted themselves 'lucky' - they didn't have feelings. In fact, they didn't have anything - no eyes, no mouths, no brains, no hearts, no muscles, nothing that could make them characteristically alive.

Except for one pastry.

An enticing croissant on the top shelf.

Slowly but surely, the croissant began to... move.

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