The colony sprang to life almost overnight from just a few survivors. The structures they built swelled as the tribe expanded.
Just as their new world matured, a flood of salt water broke down their outer walls. They fought valiantly to maintain their position, but had to take refuge in the natural caves. The next onslaught came disguised as a warm, honey-drenched rain that stuck to them like glue. Their youngest quickly suffocated in the intoxicating sweetness coating every surface.
The scent of cherry filled the air, followed by a slippery film that loosened their grip. The cycle continued, with assault after assault.
The elders knew the salt water would eventually wash them all away. The strongest of the colony gathered at the edge of the mouth, waiting for a chance to escape to a new home.
It wasn’t long before the battle scars dissolved, and all signs of the colony disappeared from the tonsils and throat.
At least that’s how I hope the story ends. If the natives are forced to launch a full frontal attack, snot and phlegm will leave a wave of destruction – just like all wars do.
(Now, be honest – you started to root for the colony, just a little bit by the end, didn’t you? :D)