March of the Mallows

You might have memories of marching marshmallows, many of which had unmemorable names. Much like Marsha or Matthew, Milo or Minnie, Michael or Maude. But many don’t recall a most magical mallow who started it all.

He was perfectly mushy and modestly rounded, but wasn’t as plump as most other mallows.

His name was Richard.

When the mighty flames grew large, the other mallows started to mewl. They shook in their boots and huddled in a mass, but Richard marched forward, ready to fight.

One foot in front of the other, he led his fellow mallows across the flame laden marshes.

The mallows murmured amongst themselves: who marches toward the maelstrom? Only Richard, it seemed. Only Richard, mundane and modest, marching where the mightier mallows would melt away.

The heat was monstrous, but Richard’s march never slowed. With his momentum, the marshmallows found themselves marching, magnetized by nothing more than his refusal to run.

They made it through. Marshmallows were singed but mostly intact as they stumbled out the other side of the molten blaze. They were a little more golden, but much more magnificent for it.