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"The Egg" (the sixty-eighth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Egg" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), April 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Egg By Kimber Lee Cole Morgana260@aol.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| I hated Easter and I was prepared to
hate it forever. It started when I was six years old. I am the eldest child,
Michael was Five, Dante was three and my little sister Kelly was two years old.
My mother had four children in five years and I'm pretty sure she should be
canonized. We would eventually be six children, but the Easter from hell came
when we were four children, which I was convinced was quite enough. That year my mother and all of us kids got Pink Eye on Holy Thursday. Easter was only three days away. At this point, I liked Easter. I liked the candy, the Silly Putty, the jelly beans—all of it. All that was about to change. Easter 1966—a nightmare! The doctor prescribed a tube of salve for our sore and very Pink eyes. My father worked eighteen hours a day and couldn't take off from work, though he also couldn’t abide sickness, so he kept his distance—he kept his distance by working even more hours and perhaps he was right, in his line of work, Pink Eye would put him out of work long enough that we'd all starve. So my mother nursed us and herself as best she could. Mom applied the first application of salve and turned off all the lights in the house. The light hurt our eyes so much that we were happy to sit in the dark. We spent our time watching television, huddled on the couch in the glow of the pulsing blue light from the black and white Television and bemoaning and our miserable eyes that stung and burned and ached. Mom went to apply the medicine for the second time and was appalled to find that someone had eaten the tube of salve. She thought it was our dog, Wendy, but my money was on my brother Dante. It was his M.O. all the way. We couldn’t afford another tube of salve, so we suffered through Easter and beyond. That's when I started hating Easter. Maybe that’s why my dad tried to make the following Easter special. We colored eggs, dying two dozen of them. Most were just dyed and decorated but each of us had an egg with our names inscribed in wax crayon. My brothers and sister still believed in the Easter Bunny (I knew better of course, being much more mature and worldly, but I would never ruin their fun) so the kids left the Easter Bunny carrots and lettuce and milk. We went to bed that night too excited to sleep. We couldn’t wait to tear into our Easter Baskets the next day and hunt for the eggs that the ‘bunny’ had hidden. That was the year that the tradition of the Black Marble Egg began. My father told us all that the eggs we’d colored had been hidden by the Easter Bunny, but that he had a special egg, a magic egg, and the child that found that Egg would win a special prize. He showed us the shiny silver dollar, promising it to whoever found the Black Egg. I let my siblings find most of the Easter eggs. I was old enough to be magnanimous, except for the egg with my name on it. I ALWAYS found that one. It was a matter of pride, and pride of place. I was, after all, the oldest child and entitled to certain rights. The Black Egg however, was special, and I knew my father wouldn’t make it easy to find. He wouldn’t hide it in a place that my younger siblings couldn’t reach, and he wouldn’t hide it in our shoes or any of the other usual places, nor would he make it easy for the older children to find. He is a clever man, my father. I knew my parents stayed up late into the night hiding eggs. I knew they stayed up almost all the rest of that night filling Easter Baskets. And I knew that my father hid the Black Egg. My mother didn’t know where it was hidden. Mom has always been a horrible liar so dad didn’t tell her. If you asked mom a direct question like 'Mom? Do you know where daddy hid the black egg?' She'd get this silly grin on her face as she said 'no! I have no idea!' We all knew she was hiding something and we always got it out of her. Mom’s very ticklish. So this was the first time my father hid the Black Marble Egg and I was determined to find it. Easter morning rolled in bright and early as usual and Kelly was up and raring to go. “Kimma! Wake up! Da eesa bunny come’d!” She was jumping up and down on the floor trying to reach me in the top bunk. “Kelly if you don’t go back to bed right now I’m gonna KILL you!” This threat was uttered from deep under my pillow, avoiding the miserable sunshine pouring through the window. I was a late sleeper and the kids were always up at the crack of dawn, so I yelled and threatened and they went back to bed until Mom, Dad and I were ready to get up. “But Kimma! Da BUNNY! Pleeeez get up Kimma? Pleeeze? Kelly had resorted to whining and pleading. She was a cute enough to pull it off, but cute meant nothing to me before Eleven in the morning. And it was nowhere near Eleven. I pulled my head out from under my pillow, leaned over my bed and glared at her chubby little upturned face. Her cherubic face was lit up with anticipation. It didn’t move me in the least. “Kelly, I’m only gonna tell you one more time. GO BACK TO BED!” This last delivered in a deadly whisper that Kelly understood and obeyed. Dante was next to come pester me. “Kimba, you havta get UP! The Easta Bunny came’d and I saw my Easta Baket! There’s a BIG GIANT BUNNY in it! I wanna eat that bunny! Kimba! Pleeze?” Dante was clever, he rarely begged outright, preferring to use his considerable charm. This morning he was desperate. “Dante, I’m trying to sleep. If you’re still here when I count to three—then I’ll throw your Easter Basket in the garbage and you’ll NEVER get to see what the Bunny brought you! Go BACK TO BED RIGHT NOW!” That last was shouted in my most threatening voice. “Oh awight! I going now. I don’ like you Kimba. You’re mean!” Dante stomped out of my room and went back to his own. Michael, didn’t even bother to try and wake me up. He knew better and was the better for it. I was the 'queen bee' and my siblings were perfectly behaved for me. Mom never knew how I managed that. She later thought it was bribery—and sometimes it was, mostly it was the threat of bodily harm. I never beat them up, (mostly never), but they were very sure I would if they didn't listen. The biggest reason they listened so well, was that I played with them, I took care of them, I was the cool big sister and they looked up to me and respected me. I didn't deserve that from them, but they gave it to me anyway. So on that morning, after shouting down their excited squeals and their begging, they went back to bed for an hour or so. When I finally did get out of bed, Michael, Dante and Kelly were sitting on the floor staring up at my bunk-bed. I sighed jumped down to cheers and squeals. The kids knew the hunt was on! I told Kelly to check her shoes—sure enough there was an egg hidden in the toe. I let her check mine too and when she found the expected (at least I expected it) egg, I told her she could keep it. “Can I weally Kimma? For me? I can have it forever?” Kelly was two and she was thrilled. “Yes Kelly-belly, its yours forever.” I caught her in my arms as she said; “I WUV you Kimma! You’re my bestest fwend!” She ran into the living room, the rest of us right behind her. I led them around the house and the yard, hinting at hiding places, finding the eggs easily and pointing them in the right direction. But the Black Egg was something special, my father had hidden it and I wanted to make him proud of me—I also wanted that silver dollar. Amid the squeals of delight as the kids found more and more eggs, I concentrated on the big prize. I’d already helped the kids find the ‘bunny eggs’ and now it was time to search for the Magic Egg. I searched high and low. I looked outside under bushes and trees, I looked inside under furniture, in the kitchen cabinets, (I knew he wouldn’t hide it in a high place, but not too low a place either), Daddy made it a puzzle to solve and I was sure I could solve it. After an hour and a half of searching, I had an inspiration. I ran to my parents bedroom, flung his pillows off the bed and searched the bed itself. I liked to sleep in my parents bed after daddy left for work. I'd snuggle his pillow, because it smelled like him—‘the daddy smell', and I loved it. It wasn’t there though. Then I thought, the pillows! The pillows I snuggle when daddy goes to work! I grabbed them off the floor and pulled the pillow case off—and there it was! Hidden in the pillow case, cushioned in soft feathers. Thrilled, I ran to my father and showed him the shinny, Black Marble Egg. My face must have been lit up with joy and pride. Daddy hugged me hard and told me how clever I was. Then, he and my mom gathered the rest of the kids, counted the eggs and declared the Easter Egg Hunt a success. Michael, my five year old brother, wanted to know if anyone found the special Black Egg and my father said “Yes! Kim found it!” “I thought so. She always finds the goodest stuff’ He didn’t pout though, he knew I’d let him hold the Marble Egg AND the Silver dollar. Daddy took me by the hand and walked over to the secretary desk he’d built. He opened one of the secret drawers and picked up the shinny, beautiful, silver dollar. He told us all what a good job we’d done and sent the younger kids into the dining room to open their Easter Baskets. He held me back, “Kim, you deserve this—I hid that egg in a really hard place and, well, I really didn’t expect you—or anyone else—to find it.” “But daddy! If you didn’t think we could find it, why did you hide it in such a hard place?” “Because I wanted it to be special. If no one found it this year, then you'd all have tried harder next year. But you DID find it and your brothers and sister will work much harder next year to win that silver dollar.” “Okay, I think I understand.” I said. I hugged my dad hard and ran to join my noisy siblings as they tore into their Baskets and gorged themselves on chocolate and jelly beans and those awful yellow chicks. At the end of the day, my father came and collected the precious Black Egg from me. The rule was, the one who found the egg could keep it for the day, and then give it back for next year. I got to keep my silver dollar though and I still have it. Last year I hid my own Marble Egg for the twenty-third time. My children and I adopted this family tradition and love it as much as I and my brothers and sisters did. The problem is, silver dollars are hard to find and my kids have to make due with paper money—which is not nearly as special as that silver dollar. Maybe it was because I knew my father took time off work to go to the bank and get the silver dollar. Maybe it was because that heavy, impressive coin was just so . . . special. I don’t know. What I do know is that my father made Easter a fun for me, and I stopped hating it. I raised my own boys with the same Marble Egg tradition and its as wonderful now as it was then. A few years after the first Black Egg Hunt, my Godfather sent me a beautiful blue marble egg in a tiny gilded wooden chest in which to hold it. I use that Blue Marble Egg every year and when I can find silver dollars, I give them out to my children as their reward. At the age of twenty, my middle son hunts just as hard for that Egg now as he did when he was five. Its not often in this hectic world of chaos and two income families that traditions survive in tact. Most families just don’t have the time. They take their kids to community sponsored egg hunts. But its not the same as checking the toes of your slippers. It is certainly NOT as special as finding the great prize, the Black Egg, the silver dollar egg and knowing that now you reign supreme for the whole year, until the following Easter, when someone else might find it. I was so proud of myself every time I found the Black Egg because I knew it made my father proud of me—and I so craved his attention and I so needed him to be proud of me. In a way, it taught me to be proud of myself, and be content in that pride. I hope my boys will carry on the tradition. The Black Egg—or the Blue Egg. The Silver Dollar. The special hunt that allows the child who finds the Egg to be King or Queen for a day, and feel special all year. Every one of us that found that egg, remembers every year that we found it. I’m forty-seven now, and I look forward to hunting for my father’s Black Egg. And if my young nieces and nephews get in my way, they better watch out. I STILL need to find that Egg. I still want my father to tell me he’s proud of me. And I WANT that Silver Dollar. So, thank you dad, for creating a family tradition that has passed from one generation to the next, but most of all, for teaching me to be proud of myself for myself. Though, to be honest, I still want to make you proud of me too. |
| The Egg By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| "Dammit, John, turn off the alarm."
Carolyn wakes easily at the slightest of sounds. I suspect it is a motherly thing that I do not share with her. My hand claws its way through the darkness, seeking out the intruder who has destroyed my dream. The alarm silenced, I swing my feet out from under the covers and sit on the edge of the bed. It is 4:30 and the world is dark. "Johnny, don't go," she says, her hand gentle upon my back. Her touch implores me to return to the warmth of the bed and the softness of her body. She does not understand the bond of the hunter. "The guys are counting on me, Hon. I can't not go." I speak to her over my shoulder as I shuffle half-eyed across the cold hardwood floor to the bathroom. There is no room for discussion. When I come downstairs to the kitchen, she is there, standing by the stove. "You want breakfast?" she asks. "Bacon and eggs?" "Just coffee," I tell her. "Hunger heightens the senses, you know." "Johnny, I'm scared," she says and wraps her arms around me. Her head nuzzles against my chest, and she presses her breasts hard against me. "Aw, Peanut, it'll be okay. There's nothing to be scared about. Besides, I'll be back by tonight," I tell her as I kiss the top of her head. We are seven months into our marriage. The lies come easily now. I take down the Remington from its place above the mantle and walk toward the door. The old floor creaks beneath the weight of my boots. It is a hollow and empty sound. Carolyn has gone back upstairs. She will not linger in the doorway as I load the Jeep. She will not wave as I back out of the drive. She will not say good-bye. I have let her down again, and that, too, comes easily now. Driving through the town, I can not tell if Wiscasset is dead or asleep, nor do I know if it makes any difference. Her streets, like her soul - if she ever had one - are deserted, her store fronts dark. The traffic lights cycle through their green-yellow-red routine, the hum and click of their timers like a slow-motion heartbeat as they regulate the flow of traffic that is not there. I don't know what it is that the summer tourists find so appealing about the place. Perhaps they would feel differently about it if they lived here. Or died here. We meet at the parking lot beside Bert's Barber Shop: Bert, Tom and Jesse the kid, except Jesse isn't there yet. "Where's the kid?" I ask. "Dunno." "Has he called or anything?" "Nothin'." Bert's tone is surly, impatient. It is he who has invited the boy. "Okay, I say we give him five more minutes, then we're outta here. Agreed?" No one answers. No one protests. It is understood that we'll wait the five minutes. Marriage should be so simple. We stand around sniffling our noses and rubbing the sides of our arms to keep our bodies warm. Tom wants to know just what it is that Bert said to the kid. "Nothin' special. Just the usual," he says between draws on his Dr. Grabow pipe. By this he means he told the kid about the eggs - the gator eggs - and how a zoologist in Bangor, at the University, is willing to pay ten thousand a piece for them on account of how rare Maine gator eggs are. "Maybe he didn't buy it," says Tom. "Maybe he wasn't as dumb as you thought." "He was plenty dumb, all right. Don't you worry about that," Bert tells him. Over the years, Bert's been the best picker we've had. The distant squeal of tires on pavement interrupts their conversation. "Damn kid," says Tom. "Next time I get to pick." He turns and gets into the Jeep. Jesse's Mustang kicks up gravel as he pulls it into the parking lot. He is full of exuberance and energy, the curses of youth. "Hey, Pops," he says with a laugh, "ready to go rustle up some eggs?" He is no one's son, leastwise no one in this group. It is his way of reminding us that we are old. We take the state highway north of town to where the mill used to be before it burned down. Then we turn left on to the Jeep Trail and follow that to the far side of Gardiner Pond. It is where we tell the kids like Jesse that the gator is supposed to be. Jesse is wired, pumped up, maybe even on something. He keeps up a running conversation with himself all the way there about some woman or other he met last night at The Towne Pump. The love of his life, the woman of his dreams, the answer to his prayers, something like that. No one cares, probably not even Jesse. The morning sun is just beginning to filter through the trees when I pull into the clearing. We groan and stumble our way out of the Jeep. Winter's leftover snow, ice-crusted and dirty and not yet melted by the spring thaw that came late this year, crunches beneath our boots. "Hey, Pops," says Jesse, his breath visible in the cold morning air, "If'n we find the nest, how many eggs you figure there'll be?" The kid actually believes there's a gator living in the back woods of Maine. Tom and I look at one another. I can tell he agrees with me that Bert has picked a good candidate to cull from the herd. "Well, I dunno for sure about no Maine gator, but I hear tell that in Florida, a dozen or more is right typical of the species," says Bert. "A dozen! Damn, Pops. Damn, that's a wicked lot of eggs, ain't it? Let's see, at ten thousand a piece ... how much would that be?" Bert shakes his head in disbelief as he empties the ashes from his pipe. He takes his time putting it away before he answers the kid. "Well, at the moment, the total would be zero, seein' as how we don't exactly have no eggs yet, now do we?" "Well then damn, Pops, let's quit fartin' around out here in the cold and get some." At this point, according to plan, I interrupt and tell Bert how he should quit teasing the kid, how he's right and that we should get our eggs and get out of here. I explain to the kid how he should make his way around the edge of the pond looking for the eggs while the three of us, with our guns, keep him covered on account of how dangerous a Maine gator can be when it comes to protecting its eggs. The kid looks nervous, scared. We're all crack shots I tell him, he's got nothing to worry about. In all the years we've been coming here, we haven't lost anyone to a gator yet. If that gator's stupid enough to poke his head up out of the pond, we'll blast him. To emphasize my point, I chamber a round in the Remington. Tom and Bert follow my lead. Jesse gets down on all fours. His back to us, he begins crawling around the pond. "There, that little outcropping. Feel around in there," shouts Tom. "That's just the kind of place gators like to lay their eggs." Jesse rolls up his sleeve and pushes his hand into the icy water. Tom pokes me in the ribs. I find it hard not to laugh out loud. Bert joins in the fun. "Check that rock," he says, "the big one. Turn it over. One year we found some gator eggs underneath a rock just like that." Jesse struggles to move the rock. The moss along the shoreline is slippery. The kid loses his footing and comes close to falling into the pond. "Geez, Jesse, be careful," Bert screams out. "Gators are sensitive to any kind of movement in the water, you know. Believe me, kid, you don't want to fall in." It goes on this way for several minutes more. We entertain ourselves shouting ridiculous instructions and meaningless warnings while Jesse slowly gropes his way around the perimeter of Gardiner Pond looking for an egg from a non-existent gator. It's all good-natured fun. Then Bert taps Tom and me on the shoulder, and we become quiet. The kid was Bert's find. It's his call. "Gator!" he shouts at the top of his lungs. "Where?!" Jesse's voice cracks with fear. "Right behind you, Jesse, right behind you!" The kid stands up and starts to run. "Shoot 'im," he screams, "for God's sake, shoot 'im!" The sharp report of our rifles echoes through the dense, cool air of the woods. We are indeed the crack shots I said we were. Thump-thump-thump. In quick succession like that, our bullets find their mark. What I said to the kid remains true: we have never lost anyone to a gator. I feel good about that, that I did not lie to the boy. It is late afternoon by the time we are done with our tidying up, with our "housekeeping," as we like to call it when we are speaking euphemistically to one another. The sun's rays no longer have any warmth to them, and I am hungry. I have not eaten all day. I drop Bert and Tom off at the barbershop and swing by the Pizza Barn on Route 1 on my way home. I order a pepperoni pizza to go. When I get home, I set the pizza box down on the kitchen table. I'm careful to place a dish towel underneath it so the heat doesn't warp the veneer. Carolyn comes in from the living room. Her gaze shifts back and forth between me and the box. "I swear," she says, shaking her head and fighting back a laugh, "I don't know why you guys keep doing that hunting thing of yours. You never bag anything." We sit down at the table and begin to eat. We don't bother to pretend to have a conversation. There's no point in trying to explain anything to her. There are some people who will just never understand the bond of the hunter. Maybe one of these days, when it's my turn to pick, I'll invite Carolyn to join us out at Gardiner Pond. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #6 Third place: #3 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Egg lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 10 |
| 231 words | |
| Supermarket muzak echoed down the aisle. She ran her
hand along the bottles and could almost feel the bubbles fighting to escape
through the glass. “£25”, she read. “That’ll do me.” She reached out again. “Dumping that loser is worth two bottles, I think.” She needed something to go with the champagne and walked purposefully through the store. Her heels clicked on the hard floor in time to a pop song that was being played. She didn’t know the words but hummed along anyway, delighting in her new-found freedom. The delicious scent of hot-cross buns, warm and spicy, diverted her to the bread counter. She squeezed some buns through their packaging. They were soft. She popped them in her basket. “Now chocolate,” she grinned. Grey-haired people were busy, snatching Easter Eggs in red, blue, yellow and green boxes from the shelves, almost as fast as a tall, spotty-faced youth could stack them. Huge, yellow cardboard chicks and brown, floppy-eared bunnies hung over the cheerfully-gaudy fixtures. A man was helping his small boy choose an Egg. She hadn’t any children or grandchildren to buy for but chose the biggest, pink-bowed, crackly-plastic wrapped Easter Egg on display. Just for herself and she felt good doing it. At the checkout she was quite happy to wait in the queue, chatting with the man she’d seen in the Easter Egg aisle. She could see that his son was comparing his Thomas the Tank Engine Egg with the one in her basket. She smiled at him but didn’t suggest a swop. |
|
| The Egg Roger Haller www.cowboylogic.net |
#2 of 10 |
| 1817 words | |
| Easter weekend and Sam had the kids for a change. This
was going to be the first Easter he got to take the kids to Grandma and
Grandpa’s for their famous Egg hunt. This holiday was a lot different on
the ranch than it was in the city. For Tracy, this holiday was for a couple of her six yearly visits to her church, an egg hunt on the church lawn and drop the kids with her parents while she ran off to a resort for the weekend with her boyfriend. This year, the kids were going to be surrounded in family fun with cousins and friends they had not seen for two years. Sam was going to make sure they would remember this year and pester their mother for future holidays on the ranch. Tim and Candy were ecstatic the night before the egg hunt. So far Sam’s plans were bang on. Now he just had to get the tykes settled in so they could be up and around for tomorrow’s festivities. It was nearly 10 when they drifted off. Tim was six now and Candy five. They couldn’t last too long. Sam stepped down the stairs and joined his Mom and Dad on the back deck. After dinner coffee was passed around and he felt comfort in the fact that the routine was identical to the way it was when he left for college years ago. A half hour of small talk, consciously devoid of reference to Tracy and he excused himself for bed as well. *** Morning came crisp and clear as it usually did during spring in the hills and it was no surprise to find his mom and dad again on the deck with their morning coffee, for all the world just as if they had not moved since he went to bed last night. Sam poured his coffee and joined them. “Morning Mom, Dad, you two are up early as usual. Does he Easter Bunny need some help?” “He’s come and gone Sam, you snooze you loose.” His dad chuckled at Sam’s raised eyebrows. “Wow, you two never change.” A doorbell chimed in to announce Sam’s sister, Brother in Law and their three kids. By the time they reached the front door, the family was in the house and Tim and Candy were peering down from the top of the stairs. “Looks like it’s about breakfast time family”, Sam’s mom was in her glory. Family to fuss over was her favorite part of any holiday. “Joe and Elsie will be here about 10:30; they are doing an early breakfast with Elsie’s family and will be right over when done for the egg hunt.” Sharon pointed out that Joe and his brood made this hunt a fixture every year. “Sam, it’s sure awesome you and your kids could be here for this.” Breakfast went quick and the kids settled into the family room with Saturday morning cartoons while waiting for the rest of the family, but it wasn’t too long and the driveway sounded with the horn of Joe’s Avalanche. The kids went nuts with excitement. The count down was on. *** “Dad, I want to hunt with Brian.” “No problem Son, Candy can come with me.” Grandpa pulled out his old trumpet and prepared for the send off. “As soon as this trumpet hits my lips, you kids hit the back yard. That pesky rabbit did all his work right here in the yard. I sure hope I don’t end up mowing Easter Eggs when I cut the grass tomorrow.” The horn blasted and the family it the lawn running. Quickly shouts of glee sounded as all the kids started gathering treasures. The older boys were hauled in with a half dozen each so the playing field evened out for the younger kids. Sam struggled to find a first for Candy, but it was her little finger that pointed out the egg sticking out from under the old washing machine flower planter. “Honey, that’s not an e…” Candy had already captured the treasure and cupped it excitedly in her cupped hands. “Daddy, look a shiny one!” “Well, I… I guess it is.” What she held was a perfectly shaped egg, but it was metal. It seemed like it was Stainless Steel or some other non corrosive alloy. Candy was thrilled and packed it in. She had her egg and that was all that mattered. Following her up into the house and past his mother, Sam shrugged his shoulders and gave her a “What’s this” look. She simply smiled and shrugged back. “Daddy, I want to take this home to show Mommy.” “Of course Sweet Heart. No problem.” She ran up stairs saying she was going to save it in her Dora the Explorer back pack. The day progressed like all family holidays do so it was with relief when Sam’s sister and Brother left for home with their assorted families and Sam got to sit again with his parents. He finally got a chance to ask about the egg. “What’s with the steel egg Dad” “Darned if I know. I guess the rabbit’s getting creative.” “You don’t know where it’s from?” “Nope, probably a decoration that was lost in the yard over the years. Maybe it’s off the old washing machine.” “Well one thing I’m very sure of, that egg did not come from that 1955 washing machine. I’ll take a closer look at it in the morning when we pack up for home.” *** The next morning Sam had coffee with his folks again, then went up to wake up the kids. He shook a tussle headed Tim awake. “Morning Big Guy. Where’s your sister?” “I dunno, you just woke me up.” “Hmmm.” Sam checked the bathrooms and the spare bedroom he slept in, but there was no sign of Candy. Worried now, he went back to his confused son who was pulling on socks. “Timmy, did you wake up at all last night? Did Candy get up? Do you know?” “Dunno Dad, I had a cool dream about Disney Land, but I didn’t wake up last night.” Sam rushed won the stairs now, back out on the deck. “Mom, Dad, I can’t find Candy. She’s not in her bed or anywhere else in the house.” “She can’t be far Sam; she’s too little to have gotten into too much trouble. Let’s fan out and find her. I know she was talking about the baby chickens yesterday, maybe she has made her way out to the hen house.” Sam followed his father out to the sheds and barns, but there was no sign of Candy. Not even footprints in the soft dirt. “Candy! …Candy!” Sam called over and over but to no reply. Sam’s Mother was waiting in the living room when they returned, but something was strange. It seemed Sam was the only one worried. “I looked all through the house Sam, I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Tim appeared to look worried now too, but Sam’s father just refilled his coffee and headed back to the back deck. “She’ll turn up Son. Give her a few minutes.” “Dad! Mom! Come on! Candy is only five. We have to find her.” They just looked at him sadly as though they were patronizing his paranoia. “I’m calling the cops, then I’m going to start a spiral search beginning at the couch and ending with Candy in my arms.” They didn’t stir as he went to the phone. The line was dead. Back on the deck, he didn’t even have to ask. “Sorry Son, I forgot to tell you, the phone company was going to be working on the line today.” “It’s Easter Monday! Who is going to be working on Easter Monday!” Sam felt his cool slipping. He ran back up the stairs to look through the bedroom again. There was Candy’s back pack and there was the egg, tucked in an open pocket. He picked it out and hefted its weight in his hand. The thing was warm as though it had been sitting in the sun. The room was shaded. *** Tom gathered Tim and their luggage and drove to town. “Officer, I need you and a crew out at the Benson ranch. My little girl has gone missing and we have searched everywhere. We need dogs and a search party.” “How long has she been missing son?” Ralph was trying to ease the guy’s stress by sounding calm and family friendly. He had just got back from a seminar that taught him how to defuse high stress situations. “Last night I tucked her in. This morning her bed was empty and she was no where around.” “OK, fill out this form so we have all her details and information. Where is her Mom?” “She’s in Los Vegas with her boyfriend. We are divorced.” “Well, son, normally we suggest 24 hours before reporting a missing person, but she is pretty young to be missing that long. Do the kids live with you?” “They live with their mother most of the time, but I have generous visiting rights and this year I have them for the holiday.” Sam finished filling out the form. “Now can we get back to the ranch and find my little girl?” “Ok, son, we’ll meet you there. Just going to call in our canine officer and his dog. We will be right there. Say, why didn’t you phone this in?” “Mom and Dad are having their phone lines worked on and I left my cell phone at home to keep from having to put up with my ex checking in every couple of hours.” “Hmm, OK. We will be right there.” Sam was pretty much a basket case by the time the police got to the ranch, then they couldn’t get the dog interested in anything but the Dora the Explorer back pack in the back seat of his car. Tim was sitting next to it, playing with the metal egg. Now the dog turned its attention to Tim and Sam had to pull the poor kid out of the way. The dog simply followed out of the car and concentrated on the egg. Suddenly there was a yelp and the dog jumped as it had been shot and landed splayed out sideways. It never moved again. Tim bent to pick up the egg and a bright light flared out blinding everyone in the group. When it died out, Tim was gone. “No! It’s he egg! What is that thing?” Sam ran in the house to find his parents. All he found was a note on the kitchen table. The cop leaned over his shoulder and read it aloud. “Don’t worry son, we are taking Candy and Timmy to Disney Land. We will be back in a week or so. Love Mom and Dad.” |
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| The Egg RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#3 of 10 |
| 201 words | |
| "What to do with the egg?" my two siblings asked me one day as we peered into the fridge. There was only one egg left in it, not enough for three. Who'd get to eat it? Mom was still out for a shop, while our spirits almost dropped. Our rumbling stomachs --- a sign of hunger. "I am the eldest, so I get to eat it," my sister said confidently. But my little brother disagreed: "Why do you always have to win? You are very selfish!" Then they started bickering. I couldn't stand their loud voices Our house was now filled with noise so I decided to make my choice. I snatched the egg from the fridge, rushing to the kitchen and screaming: "It's mine! All mine!" The stopped fighting and started chasing me all with their blazing fury. My taller sister caught my hand It was the one holding the egg, the only egg that now slipped from my fingers. The three of us gasped in terror as the egg crashed to the floor. Now, none of us could eat it anymore. We remained hungry until Mom finally came home. |
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| The Egg Carol Kloskowski cklos@jamadots.com |
#4 of 10 | |
| 1312 words | ||
| Mrs. Williamson stood in front of her 8th period
English class and gave the weekend homework assignment. “With Easter
coming, class, I want you all to write something about an egg. And it had
better be at least six hundred words,” she added with a smile that
crinkled her face confirming every one of her sixty-seven years. Two years ago,
if she had retired, she would be living quite comfortably with a nice pension,
but teaching had become her life. She was a good teacher who loved working with
kids. Besides that, she had no close family and most of her friends were fellow
teachers. So here she was giving her class a writing assignment that most of
them, she knew, thought was dumb. She knew it would spark some creative
thinking. She always had good luck with this type of assignment, especially
with Sandra Magnari, but then Sandra had a gift—she was a born writer.
The bell rang confirming the end of the school day. Her class of juniors, along with most of Central High School’s students, filled the halls, rushing out to the school buses, cars, or the street. A few headed for the bike rack. Sandra Magnari wasn’t one of them. She remained sitting quietly at her desk. Unaware of the girl’s presence, Mrs. Williamson searched through the drawers of her desk, wondering where she had put next week’s lesson plans. Once her fellow students were gone, Sandra rose and approached the teacher. She was nervous. “Mrs. Williamson,” she began her voice weak and shaky. The teacher looked up, surprised to see her. “Yes, Sandra?” she asked, still rummaging. “I need to tell you something.” The sound of the girl’s voice begged for attention. Lesson plans now forgotten, Mrs. Williamson looked into Sandra’s troubled eyes. “What is it, dear?” she asked. “I won’t be here on Monday,” Sandra was almost crying. “Sandra, you can turn in your assignment on Tuesday if you won’t be here on Monday. You know that.” Something was very wrong. “What’s the problem, Sandra?” she asked, now concerned. “I’m moving to my aunt’s in California,” Sandra whispered. .“That’s not a death sentence,” a relieved smile emerged on Mrs. Williamson’s face. “Yes, it is. I won’t be here anymore,” “Sandra, you’ll make new friends, don’t worry.” Teenagers are so dramatic, Mrs. Williamson was thinking. “It’s you. I’m won’t have you for a teacher anymore.” “There are a few students who I’m sure would be very happy if I weren’t their teacher anymore,” she chuckled. Then, seriously, she told Sandra, “You’re probably the most gifted writer I’ve ever had the pleasure to teach, but, dear, I’m sure California has some very good teachers. Give them a chance.” Mrs. Williamson got up from her chair and put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you very much though, and you’d better keep writing, no matter what. You’ve got a gift,” she said ruffling the girl’s lovely brown hair. As Sandra left, she called after her. “Send some of what you write to me, if you want to. I’d love to critique it for you.” “Okay, I will,” Sandra promised. She was crying. Monday came and so did 29 essays about eggs. Some included recipes using eggs. Of course there were a few about Easter eggs and the Easter Bunny. Two were about: people who were “good eggs,” and there was a true one about a street gang that got caught egging the house that a family from India had just moved into. Mrs. Williamson remembered reading about it in the local newspaper. There was even one about egg timers reliability (written by a boy who loved mechanical science), and another about L’eggs hosiery written by a cheerleader. The class’s problem boy picked eggs in beer as his subject. (No surprise there.) As Mrs. Williamson graded the papers (not one A paper in the bunch), she thought of Sandra and wondered what she would have written. Sadly, she’d never know. At least that’s what she thought. A week later she received a letter, addressed to her at the school. It was from Sandra.
Mrs. Williamson picked up her marking pen, and put a huge red A at the top of the letter. Under Sandra’s name at the bottom, she wrote “The A is for doing the right thing. Of course I want to you to send me your writing. Love, Mrs. Williamson.” She found an envelope, copied the return address, and put the letter in. On the way home she bought stamps and dropped the letter in a mail box. She hadn’t written anything about the faceless child in her own past. Her baby’s father had been the love of her life, but he disappeared immediately after receiving what should have been good news. Part of her died with his leaving and her giving up the baby she never saw. She was left with tears and the vow never to love again. Teaching had finally stopped the tears. As she drove the rest of the way home, she thought about all the young people whose lives she had touched and was still touching as a teacher. They had changed her tears into smiles. Sandra would be alright too, somehow she just knew. |
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| The Egg Loraine.Lindsey@piedmont.org |
#5 of 10 |
| 1592 words | |
| She picked up the painted egg and pulled the strip of
wire around the limb of the flowering dogwood tree. So many memories flooded
through her causing her eyes to tear and her heart to grow heavy. She had been twelve when her mother had started the tradition of putting up the Easter Egg Tree. Mother had blown out all the fragile eggs by placing a tiny hole in each end of the fragile shell. Then, by blowing on one end, the contents of the shell would evacuate into a bowl. After running water into the hollow shell, rinsing out all the residual yolk and goo, she would paint each delicate surface with the bright and cheery colors of the rainbow. She had done this every year about two weeks before Easter, hanging hundreds - sometimes up to a thousand - brilliantly painted shells with wire onto the limb of the blooming dogwood. It made such a beautiful picture, white blooms mixed with the multitude of colors. As Marie gently tied another egg's wire onto one of the many branches, she remembered the first year the tree had gone up. - - - "Girls, come help me with these," Mother had yelled to Marie and her two sisters as she carried an armful of cartons out the kitchen door, down the back steps and headed for the front yard where the dogwood waited. Marie, the oldest, distributed the cartons to her younger sisters; Joyce who was ten took six cartons stacked atop each other while she only handed Valerie three. "Why can't I have as many as Joyce?" Valerie whined. "Because, Joyce is older and bigger than you," Marie told her youngest sister of five. "But I want the same as Joyce. I'm a big girl and I can hold them." Valerie continued to protest. "Sorry, bug. I tell you what. You take those and you don't drop any and next trip I'll give you more." " Okay, I'll show you I'm bigger." Valerie said as she ran through the back door, the screen banging as it slammed behind her. Marie watched and knew that it would be a miracle if Valerie made it to her mother's side without tripping and crashing at least once. After they had made several trips, Valerie only dropping one carton and breaking half of its contents, Marie carefully helped her mother remove the eggs from their safe storage and hung each one on the tree. Once the cartons were empty and the tree sagging from the weight of the hundreds of colorful eggs, Marie and Mother stepped back and smiled, the two younger girls losing interest long before. "It's beautiful," Marie said in awe. "Yes it is, isn't it?" Mother wrapped an arm around Marie's shoulder and pulled her close. "We're going to do this every year to celebrate Jesus' resurrection." Mother had always been a religious person, carrying the girls to church and Sunday school, regularly. And, Easter was a joyous occasion for them; they all dressed in their matching dresses which Mother had made, white gloves and shiny white shoes. "Then one day, when I've gone to Heaven to be with Jesus, you'll inherit this and I hope you'll carry on the tradition." - - - Marie lifted a bright yellow egg from the Styrofoam carton and thought about how Mother had carried on the tradition of putting up the egg tree every year, adding more eggs each year. There had been seasons when the southern Spring had blown in with a vengeance, tossing around the limbs of the old dogwood, destroying many of the eggs. But, Mother had simply blown out more to replace the destroyed ones. Some of the eggs in the cartons were probably from the first tree, more than fifty years ago. As the warm sun caressed her bare shoulders, Marie gathered two full cartons and began her climb up the ladder to reach the higher limbs. Once at the fourth step from the top, she laid the Styrofoam cartons atop the paint tray attached to the ladder. Before she could open one of the cartons, a yellow jacket buzzed by her left ear. Since she was highly allergic she cautiously watched the flying predator, hoping it would leave her alone. It had different plans and once it was within eyesight, it took an about face, turned and headed straight for her. Panic stricken, Marie began to descend the ladder a little too quickly and her foot missed a step, sending her awkwardly backward. Arms flailing, she fell the remaining few feet to lay sprawled on the thick cool grass. She wasn't hurt and she hadn't been stung. But one of the cartons was not as lucky. It crashed down atop the hard ground closest to the tree where little grass grew, and several of the eggs found their way out of their nestled, safe home cracking into several colorful pieces. Marie began to cry. Not from pain. Not from the fact she had broken the replaceable eggs. But from the memory that attacked her. - - - Mother had been in the kitchen painting the new Easter eggs to add to the tree when Marie's father had come home. She had quickly gathered the three girls into one of the two bedrooms of their tiny mill house, and locked the door. "Be quiet girls." She had said softly as Joyce, Valerie and Marie sat on the bed, knowing what was about to happen. "It's going to be just fine." Marie heard doors slamming in the other parts of the house as Father drunkenly searched for his family. "Where are you, Mattie? Where are my girls?" Father yelled, slurring his words. Suddenly a loud bang vibrated the solid wood door and Father yelled, "Open this door Mattie." A hesitation and what sounded like stumbling feet on the hardwood floors of the hall outside, then "Open it right now!" Mother drew her girls in securely to her body as Marie heard her say, "Bob, go to bed and sleep it off." "You don't tell me what to do." He yelled through the locked door. "Open this damn door right now or I'll break it down!" The girls clung to Mother as they heard a loud crash against the door. Then another. Then quiet. Marie waited, shaking and crying. Her sisters did the same. Mother didn't cry. Marie supposed that Mother had been through this far too many times for it to hurt any longer. Then there were loud bangs and crashes coming from the room next to the bedroom - the kitchen. After a couple minutes of what surely was the chairs being slung about the room and maybe even the table overturned, there was silence. Then one more bang as the screen door slammed shut followed by the loud roar of the old Chevy pick up truck as Father sped away. Mother pulled herself away from the frightened children saying, "Now, now. Everything is all right. He's gone and probably won't be back until morning." After unlocking the door and motioning for the sisters to stay where they were, Mother left the room. Marie could hear her righting chairs and moving about the kitchen. Then she remembered - the eggs. The cartons of painted eggs were all on the kitchen table. Marie ran down the short hall and saw Mother bent over, picking up an armful of crushed containers. Tiny, colorful specks of eggshells littered the linoleum like party confetti. Mother lifted her head toward Marie and she could see tears flooding down her mother's face. The tree had gone up that year though it was sparse with eggs. Marie could not remember an Easter without it. One year the town newspaper had done an article about the tradition her mother had started and Mother's picture had been on the front page of the paper. She had been so proud. When her mother had gotten too old to climb and reach, Marie had gone out to help with the tree. Mother had died five years ago, the month before Easter. And, though the three sisters had fought over the estate, one thing was for certain - the eggs belonged to Marie. No one could argue that point. The tree went up that year with a sign next to it stating "In Memory of Mattie - Mother". The newspaper had done a second article about the continued tradition and Marie had stood proudly by the tree with the sign clearly visible for the picture. - - - As Marie continued to add the eggs to the tree, she saw her daughter, Dolores, pull down the driveway in her little red Honda. With the baby in her seat, Dolores walked up to Marie, sat the baby in the shade of the tree and picked up a carton of eggs. Without words the two women filled the dogwood with colorful eggs and Marie knew that the tradition would continue with her daughter and granddaughter. |
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| The Egg Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#6 of 10 Runner-up |
| 1655 words | |
| "Dammit, John, turn off the alarm." Carolyn wakes easily at the slightest of sounds. I suspect it is a motherly thing that I do not share with her. My hand claws its way through the darkness, seeking out the intruder who has destroyed my dream. The alarm silenced, I swing my feet out from under the covers and sit on the edge of the bed. It is 4:30 and the world is dark. "Johnny, don't go," she says, her hand gentle upon my back. Her touch implores me to return to the warmth of the bed and the softness of her body. She does not understand the bond of the hunter. "The guys are counting on me, Hon. I can't not go." I speak to her over my shoulder as I shuffle half-eyed across the cold hardwood floor to the bathroom. There is no room for discussion. When I come downstairs to the kitchen, she is there, standing by the stove. "You want breakfast?" she asks. "Bacon and eggs?" "Just coffee," I tell her. "Hunger heightens the senses, you know." "Johnny, I'm scared," she says and wraps her arms around me. Her head nuzzles against my chest, and she presses her breasts hard against me. "Aw, Peanut, it'll be okay. There's nothing to be scared about. Besides, I'll be back by tonight," I tell her as I kiss the top of her head. We are seven months into our marriage. The lies come easily now. I take down the Remington from its place above the mantle and walk toward the door. The old floor creaks beneath the weight of my boots. It is a hollow and empty sound. Carolyn has gone back upstairs. She will not linger in the doorway as I load the Jeep. She will not wave as I back out of the drive. She will not say good-bye. I have let her down again, and that, too, comes easily now. Driving through the town, I can not tell if Wiscasset is dead or asleep, nor do I know if it makes any difference. Her streets, like her soul - if she ever had one - are deserted, her store fronts dark. The traffic lights cycle through their green-yellow-red routine, the hum and click of their timers like a slow-motion heartbeat as they regulate the flow of traffic that is not there. I don't know what it is that the summer tourists find so appealing about the place. Perhaps they would feel differently about it if they lived here. Or died here. We meet at the parking lot beside Bert's Barber Shop: Bert, Tom and Jesse the kid, except Jesse isn't there yet. "Where's the kid?" I ask. "Dunno." "Has he called or anything?" "Nothin'." Bert's tone is surly, impatient. It is he who has invited the boy. "Okay, I say we give him five more minutes, then we're outta here. Agreed?" No one answers. No one protests. It is understood that we'll wait the five minutes. Marriage should be so simple. We stand around sniffling our noses and rubbing the sides of our arms to keep our bodies warm. Tom wants to know just what it is that Bert said to the kid. "Nothin' special. Just the usual," he says between draws on his Dr. Grabow pipe. By this he means he told the kid about the eggs - the gator eggs - and how a zoologist in Bangor, at the University, is willing to pay ten thousand a piece for them on account of how rare Maine gator eggs are. "Maybe he didn't buy it," says Tom. "Maybe he wasn't as dumb as you thought." "He was plenty dumb, all right. Don't you worry about that," Bert tells him. Over the years, Bert's been the best picker we've had. The distant squeal of tires on pavement interrupts their conversation. "Damn kid," says Tom. "Next time I get to pick." He turns and gets into the Jeep. Jesse's Mustang kicks up gravel as he pulls it into the parking lot. He is full of exuberance and energy, the curses of youth. "Hey, Pops," he says with a laugh, "ready to go rustle up some eggs?" He is no one's son, leastwise no one in this group. It is his way of reminding us that we are old. We take the state highway north of town to where the mill used to be before it burned down. Then we turn left on to the Jeep Trail and follow that to the far side of Gardiner Pond. It is where we tell the kids like Jesse that the gator is supposed to be. Jesse is wired, pumped up, maybe even on something. He keeps up a running conversation with himself all the way there about some woman or other he met last night at The Towne Pump. The love of his life, the woman of his dreams, the answer to his prayers, something like that. No one cares, probably not even Jesse. The morning sun is just beginning to filter through the trees when I pull into the clearing. We groan and stumble our way out of the Jeep. Winter's leftover snow, ice-crusted and dirty and not yet melted by the spring thaw that came late this year, crunches beneath our boots. "Hey, Pops," says Jesse, his breath visible in the cold morning air, "If'n we find the nest, how many eggs you figure there'll be?" The kid actually believes there's a gator living in the back woods of Maine. Tom and I look at one another. I can tell he agrees with me that Bert has picked a good candidate to cull from the herd. "Well, I dunno for sure about no Maine gator, but I hear tell that in Florida, a dozen or more is right typical of the species," says Bert. "A dozen! Damn, Pops. Damn, that's a wicked lot of eggs, ain't it? Let's see, at ten thousand a piece ... how much would that be?" Bert shakes his head in disbelief as he empties the ashes from his pipe. He takes his time putting it away before he answers the kid. "Well, at the moment, the total would be zero, seein' as how we don't exactly have no eggs yet, now do we?" "Well then damn, Pops, let's quit fartin' around out here in the cold and get some." At this point, according to plan, I interrupt and tell Bert how he should quit teasing the kid, how he's right and that we should get our eggs and get out of here. I explain to the kid how he should make his way around the edge of the pond looking for the eggs while the three of us, with our guns, keep him covered on account of how dangerous a Maine gator can be when it comes to protecting its eggs. The kid looks nervous, scared. We're all crack shots I tell him, he's got nothing to worry about. In all the years we've been coming here, we haven't lost anyone to a gator yet. If that gator's stupid enough to poke his head up out of the pond, we'll blast him. To emphasize my point, I chamber a round in the Remington. Tom and Bert follow my lead. Jesse gets down on all fours. His back to us, he begins crawling around the pond. "There, that little outcropping. Feel around in there," shouts Tom. "That's just the kind of place gators like to lay their eggs." Jesse rolls up his sleeve and pushes his hand into the icy water. Tom pokes me in the ribs. I find it hard not to laugh out loud. Bert joins in the fun. "Check that rock," he says, "the big one. Turn it over. One year we found some gator eggs underneath a rock just like that." Jesse struggles to move the rock. The moss along the shoreline is slippery. The kid loses his footing and comes close to falling into the pond. "Geez, Jesse, be careful," Bert screams out. "Gators are sensitive to any kind of movement in the water, you know. Believe me, kid, you don't want to fall in." It goes on this way for several minutes more. We entertain ourselves shouting ridiculous instructions and meaningless warnings while Jesse slowly gropes his way around the perimeter of Gardiner Pond looking for an egg from a non-existent gator. It's all good-natured fun. Then Bert taps Tom and me on the shoulder, and we become quiet. The kid was Bert's find. It's his call. "Gator!" he shouts at the top of his lungs. "Where?!" Jesse's voice cracks with fear. "Right behind you, Jesse, right behind you!" The kid stands up and starts to run. "Shoot 'im," he screams, "for God's sake, shoot 'im!" The sharp report of our rifles echoes through the dense, cool air of the woods. We are indeed the crack shots I said we were. Thump-thump-thump. In quick succession like that, our bullets find their mark. What I said to the kid remains true: we have never lost anyone to a gator. I feel good about that, that I did not lie to the boy. It is late afternoon by the time we are done with our tidying up, with our "housekeeping," as we like to call it when we are speaking euphemistically to one another. The sun's rays no longer have any warmth to them, and I am hungry. I have not eaten all day. I drop Bert and Tom off at the barbershop and swing by the Pizza Barn on Route 1 on my way home. I order a pepperoni pizza to go. When I get home, I set the pizza box down on the kitchen table. I'm careful to place a dish towel underneath it so the heat doesn't warp the veneer. Carolyn comes in from the living room. Her gaze shifts back and forth between me and the box. "I swear," she says, shaking her head and fighting back a laugh, "I don't know why you guys keep doing that hunting thing of yours. You never bag anything." We sit down at the table and begin to eat. We don't bother to pretend to have a conversation. There's no point in trying to explain anything to her. There are some people who will just never understand the bond of the hunter. Maybe one of these days, when it's my turn to pick, I'll invite Carolyn to join us out at Gardiner Pond. |
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| The Egg Ron McCandlish ron.mccandlish@sympatico.ca |
#7 of 10 |
| 79 words | |
| Tried to write a story before the deadline date Sat here at my keyboard But, God... it’s getting late Wanted words upon the page Each reader would admire Carry them to places Set their hearts afire Hold them, captivate them In some very special way A tale they’d keep forever Forever...and a day The title had been chosen Before the task began I cannot think... I’m lost A most unhappy man A ship without a rudder A horse with a broken leg A chicken... yes...a chicken That couldn’t lay “THE EGG!” |
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| The Egg Kimber Lee Cole Morgana260@aol.com |
#8 of 10 Winner |
| 2477 words | |
| I hated Easter and I was prepared to hate it forever.
It started when I was six years old. I am the eldest child, Michael was Five,
Dante was three and my little sister Kelly was two years old. My mother had
four children in five years and I'm pretty sure she should be canonized. We
would eventually be six children, but the Easter from hell came when we were
four children, which I was convinced was quite enough. That year my mother and all of us kids got Pink Eye on Holy Thursday. Easter was only three days away. At this point, I liked Easter. I liked the candy, the Silly Putty, the jelly beans—all of it. All that was about to change. Easter 1966—a nightmare! The doctor prescribed a tube of salve for our sore and very Pink eyes. My father worked eighteen hours a day and couldn't take off from work, though he also couldn’t abide sickness, so he kept his distance—he kept his distance by working even more hours and perhaps he was right, in his line of work, Pink Eye would put him out of work long enough that we'd all starve. So my mother nursed us and herself as best she could. Mom applied the first application of salve and turned off all the lights in the house. The light hurt our eyes so much that we were happy to sit in the dark. We spent our time watching television, huddled on the couch in the glow of the pulsing blue light from the black and white Television and bemoaning and our miserable eyes that stung and burned and ached. Mom went to apply the medicine for the second time and was appalled to find that someone had eaten the tube of salve. She thought it was our dog, Wendy, but my money was on my brother Dante. It was his M.O. all the way. We couldn’t afford another tube of salve, so we suffered through Easter and beyond. That's when I started hating Easter. Maybe that’s why my dad tried to make the following Easter special. We colored eggs, dying two dozen of them. Most were just dyed and decorated but each of us had an egg with our names inscribed in wax crayon. My brothers and sister still believed in the Easter Bunny (I knew better of course, being much more mature and worldly, but I would never ruin their fun) so the kids left the Easter Bunny carrots and lettuce and milk. We went to bed that night too excited to sleep. We couldn’t wait to tear into our Easter Baskets the next day and hunt for the eggs that the ‘bunny’ had hidden. That was the year that the tradition of the Black Marble Egg began. My father told us all that the eggs we’d colored had been hidden by the Easter Bunny, but that he had a special egg, a magic egg, and the child that found that Egg would win a special prize. He showed us the shiny silver dollar, promising it to whoever found the Black Egg. I let my siblings find most of the Easter eggs. I was old enough to be magnanimous, except for the egg with my name on it. I ALWAYS found that one. It was a matter of pride, and pride of place. I was, after all, the oldest child and entitled to certain rights. The Black Egg however, was special, and I knew my father wouldn’t make it easy to find. He wouldn’t hide it in a place that my younger siblings couldn’t reach, and he wouldn’t hide it in our shoes or any of the other usual places, nor would he make it easy for the older children to find. He is a clever man, my father. I knew my parents stayed up late into the night hiding eggs. I knew they stayed up almost all the rest of that night filling Easter Baskets. And I knew that my father hid the Black Egg. My mother didn’t know where it was hidden. Mom has always been a horrible liar so dad didn’t tell her. If you asked mom a direct question like 'Mom? Do you know where daddy hid the black egg?' She'd get this silly grin on her face as she said 'no! I have no idea!' We all knew she was hiding something and we always got it out of her. Mom’s very ticklish. So this was the first time my father hid the Black Marble Egg and I was determined to find it. Easter morning rolled in bright and early as usual and Kelly was up and raring to go. “Kimma! Wake up! Da eesa bunny come’d!” She was jumping up and down on the floor trying to reach me in the top bunk. “Kelly if you don’t go back to bed right now I’m gonna KILL you!” This threat was uttered from deep under my pillow, avoiding the miserable sunshine pouring through the window. I was a late sleeper and the kids were always up at the crack of dawn, so I yelled and threatened and they went back to bed until Mom, Dad and I were ready to get up. “But Kimma! Da BUNNY! Pleeeez get up Kimma? Pleeeze? Kelly had resorted to whining and pleading. She was a cute enough to pull it off, but cute meant nothing to me before Eleven in the morning. And it was nowhere near Eleven. I pulled my head out from under my pillow, leaned over my bed and glared at her chubby little upturned face. Her cherubic face was lit up with anticipation. It didn’t move me in the least. “Kelly, I’m only gonna tell you one more time. GO BACK TO BED!” This last delivered in a deadly whisper that Kelly understood and obeyed. Dante was next to come pester me. “Kimba, you havta get UP! The Easta Bunny came’d and I saw my Easta Baket! There’s a BIG GIANT BUNNY in it! I wanna eat that bunny! Kimba! Pleeze?” Dante was clever, he rarely begged outright, preferring to use his considerable charm. This morning he was desperate. “Dante, I’m trying to sleep. If you’re still here when I count to three—then I’ll throw your Easter Basket in the garbage and you’ll NEVER get to see what the Bunny brought you! Go BACK TO BED RIGHT NOW!” That last was shouted in my most threatening voice. “Oh awight! I going now. I don’ like you Kimba. You’re mean!” Dante stomped out of my room and went back to his own. Michael, didn’t even bother to try and wake me up. He knew better and was the better for it. I was the 'queen bee' and my siblings were perfectly behaved for me. Mom never knew how I managed that. She later thought it was bribery—and sometimes it was, mostly it was the threat of bodily harm. I never beat them up, (mostly never), but they were very sure I would if they didn't listen. The biggest reason they listened so well, was that I played with them, I took care of them, I was the cool big sister and they looked up to me and respected me. I didn't deserve that from them, but they gave it to me anyway. So on that morning, after shouting down their excited squeals and their begging, they went back to bed for an hour or so. When I finally did get out of bed, Michael, Dante and Kelly were sitting on the floor staring up at my bunk-bed. I sighed jumped down to cheers and squeals. The kids knew the hunt was on! I told Kelly to check her shoes—sure enough there was an egg hidden in the toe. I let her check mine too and when she found the expected (at least I expected it) egg, I told her she could keep it. “Can I weally Kimma? For me? I can have it forever?” Kelly was two and she was thrilled. “Yes Kelly-belly, its yours forever.” I caught her in my arms as she said; “I WUV you Kimma! You’re my bestest fwend!” She ran into the living room, the rest of us right behind her. I led them around the house and the yard, hinting at hiding places, finding the eggs easily and pointing them in the right direction. But the Black Egg was something special, my father had hidden it and I wanted to make him proud of me—I also wanted that silver dollar. Amid the squeals of delight as the kids found more and more eggs, I concentrated on the big prize. I’d already helped the kids find the ‘bunny eggs’ and now it was time to search for the Magic Egg. I searched high and low. I looked outside under bushes and trees, I looked inside under furniture, in the kitchen cabinets, (I knew he wouldn’t hide it in a high place, but not too low a place either), Daddy made it a puzzle to solve and I was sure I could solve it. After an hour and a half of searching, I had an inspiration. I ran to my parents bedroom, flung his pillows off the bed and searched the bed itself. I liked to sleep in my parents bed after daddy left for work. I'd snuggle his pillow, because it smelled like him—‘the daddy smell', and I loved it. It wasn’t there though. Then I thought, the pillows! The pillows I snuggle when daddy goes to work! I grabbed them off the floor and pulled the pillow case off—and there it was! Hidden in the pillow case, cushioned in soft feathers. Thrilled, I ran to my father and showed him the shinny, Black Marble Egg. My face must have been lit up with joy and pride. Daddy hugged me hard and told me how clever I was. Then, he and my mom gathered the rest of the kids, counted the eggs and declared the Easter Egg Hunt a success. Michael, my five year old brother, wanted to know if anyone found the special Black Egg and my father said “Yes! Kim found it!” “I thought so. She always finds the goodest stuff’ He didn’t pout though, he knew I’d let him hold the Marble Egg AND the Silver dollar. Daddy took me by the hand and walked over to the secretary desk he’d built. He opened one of the secret drawers and picked up the shinny, beautiful, silver dollar. He told us all what a good job we’d done and sent the younger kids into the dining room to open their Easter Baskets. He held me back, “Kim, you deserve this—I hid that egg in a really hard place and, well, I really didn’t expect you—or anyone else—to find it.” “But daddy! If you didn’t think we could find it, why did you hide it in such a hard place?” “Because I wanted it to be special. If no one found it this year, then you'd all have tried harder next year. But you DID find it and your brothers and sister will work much harder next year to win that silver dollar.” “Okay, I think I understand.” I said. I hugged my dad hard and ran to join my noisy siblings as they tore into their Baskets and gorged themselves on chocolate and jelly beans and those awful yellow chicks. At the end of the day, my father came and collected the precious Black Egg from me. The rule was, the one who found the egg could keep it for the day, and then give it back for next year. I got to keep my silver dollar though and I still have it. Last year I hid my own Marble Egg for the twenty-third time. My children and I adopted this family tradition and love it as much as I and my brothers and sisters did. The problem is, silver dollars are hard to find and my kids have to make due with paper money—which is not nearly as special as that silver dollar. Maybe it was because I knew my father took time off work to go to the bank and get the silver dollar. Maybe it was because that heavy, impressive coin was just so . . . special. I don’t know. What I do know is that my father made Easter a fun for me, and I stopped hating it. I raised my own boys with the same Marble Egg tradition and its as wonderful now as it was then. A few years after the first Black Egg Hunt, my Godfather sent me a beautiful blue marble egg in a tiny gilded wooden chest in which to hold it. I use that Blue Marble Egg every year and when I can find silver dollars, I give them out to my children as their reward. At the age of twenty, my middle son hunts just as hard for that Egg now as he did when he was five. Its not often in this hectic world of chaos and two income families that traditions survive in tact. Most families just don’t have the time. They take their kids to community sponsored egg hunts. But its not the same as checking the toes of your slippers. It is certainly NOT as special as finding the great prize, the Black Egg, the silver dollar egg and knowing that now you reign supreme for the whole year, until the following Easter, when someone else might find it. I was so proud of myself every time I found the Black Egg because I knew it made my father proud of me—and I so craved his attention and I so needed him to be proud of me. In a way, it taught me to be proud of myself, and be content in that pride. I hope my boys will carry on the tradition. The Black Egg—or the Blue Egg. The Silver Dollar. The special hunt that allows the child who finds the Egg to be King or Queen for a day, and feel special all year. Every one of us that found that egg, remembers every year that we found it. I’m forty-seven now, and I look forward to hunting for my father’s Black Egg. And if my young nieces and nephews get in my way, they better watch out. I STILL need to find that Egg. I still want my father to tell me he’s proud of me. And I WANT that Silver Dollar. So, thank you dad, for creating a family tradition that has passed from one generation to the next, but most of all, for teaching me to be proud of myself for myself. Though, to be honest, I still want to make you proud of me too. |
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| The Egg mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#9 of 10 |
| 1750 words | |
| "…it seems your efforts were all in vane,
Sherlock," Dr. Klosse smirked gleefully. "Crime's getting worse and worse."
"I look at it philosophically; Doc. It's the law of supply and demand. If there was no crime, then who'd need us detectives? On the bright side, detective work can’t be subcontracted to China. So for now at least, detectives will remain in demand by the American middle class." Barrington lied. He hated the fact that most of his efforts in quarantining crime ended up in court, where expensive lawyers that only gangsters could afford on their payrolls, helped them "get away with murder." It resulted in a constant nagging pain, for detectives and law enforcement. Much effort, money and, sometimes, the life of good people were spent in tracking them down, only to see them… back in the streets in a couple of years, causing worse mischief. But that was the way it was "C'est la vie" as the French put it …and so one had to look at it philosophically or it would be too depressing. Block it from your mind and think of something else. Thank God for Sports! "It keeps pathologists in work too, you know," he winked at Dr. Klosse, "even the ones who throw human remains at each other." Barrington through back a verbal jab, referring to the incident that got young Klosse expelled from medical school for irreverence to a human body. The poor blasphemer had to move to the Caribbean and apply to medical school all over again. The thought made Barrington chuckle. Klosse smiled widely letting Barrington know that the joke hadn’t had the desired effect on him, as they entered the pathology lab. Barrington wrinkled his nose as he did always at the smell of formaldehyde. "So Doc you agree that the reason for the "Smile Boy’s" death was the car crash? It was going at least hundred miles per hour, the driver lost control, the vehicle turned over multiple times. As a result, as you know, it was one big mess of blood, bones and guts." "The end result, yes, but not the reason…" Dr. Klosse turned his back to Barrington opening the door of the cabinet and put on gloves. Laboratory lamps reflected gingerly on the pathologist's bold head. “I mean there was a reason why it spun out of control in the first place.” “it was one of those things… it was dark, they drove at more than a hundred miles per hour.” “on the straightaway portion of the road?" “Accident happens…” Barrington shrugged. Dr. Klosse shook his head “No” with confidence. "…oh?" Barrington's eyebrows rose. "… Then how?" "Quite unusual actually. McPherson was hit in the left eye and that caused him to lose control." "Hit in the eye? What was it? Can I see?" "See it? Be my guest." Dr. Klosse grinned as he pointed to a Petri dish with some gooey substance soaked in blood. "What is it?" Barrington cringed again. Dr. Klosse grabbed tweezers, swirled a couple of rounds in the dish and gingerly lifted a small, flat, oddly shaped particle. "The egg shell," he smiled broadly and then declaimed jokingly: "Who would’ve thought that the demise of the "Smile Boys," the most notorious bank robbing gang in the entire state history, would be decided by a simple egg." "An egg? You're assuming someone threw an egg at the "Smile Boys’" car and that egg hit McPherson in the eye?" "I assume nothing even though I’m the guy who knows something about throwing things.” His sardonic owl huuh, huuh, huuh, filled the lab. “I’m just saying McPherson's left eye was shattered by a raw egg and that the speed of the impact was close to 170 miles per hour. In fact, I can't imagine how, even at that speed, the egg could have pierced through the windshield glass." "Oh," Barrington watched as the piece of the eggshell was put back in the Petri dish. "That's actually the easy part. The windshield was broken in the shootout in front of the bank, right before "Smile Boys" bailed out. Guards in the bank saw them getting out from the car wearing their "Smile" masks and started shooting right away. Unfortunately one of the guards was killed and another one is in critical condition in Mercy hospital." Barrington jaw muscles showed on his cheeks as he ground his teeth. "So coming back to McPherson," Barrington was thinking out loud, "someone must have thrown the egg and it hit him in the face, poked his left eye right out and resulting in his losing control and the car spun out of control and crashed. That's the only explanation." "Quite simple indeed." Doctor Klosse nodded in agreement, threw his bloody gloves in the trash receptacle, walked to the faucet and started washing his hands. "I bet I know what happened…" Barrington rubbed his chin and wrinkled his forehead. "I bet it was some kids celebrating their Easter break. We usually receive reports of vandalism right about this time. Students running around drunk, breaking car windows with baseball bats, throwing eggs in vehicles, stuff like that. It’s weird how much aggression these kids accumulate during the semester. It’s a pity cus most of them are really nice kids and alcohol makes them behave like hooligans. What they do is really unacceptable." "So you're planning to get the guy?" Dr. Klosse looked his watch as it was getting close to lunchtime, but still with some interest. "That's my job." Barrington shook his head multiple times as the question caught him in the middle of his own thoughts on the subject. "Sure `Protect and Serve', I understand." Dr. Klosse's lips curved in a grin. "Only in this case the boy did a great service to the people, don't you think? Those “Smile” sons of bitches, they were robbing banks and killing people and kept the entire city in fear for quite a while." "You're right about that, Doc, but the law is the law." Barrington looked at his watch. "Well, don't want to be a party pooper, but I gotta' go. Gotta' find this kid. See ya', Doc." He waved over his shoulder as he hurried out of the lab." Barrington hadn’t had a chance to eat anything since morning and stopped at ”In-and-out” to get a cheeseburger, fries and a coke. As he was relaxing after the meal he lowered his driver seat down, opened the windows to get some fresh wind and tried to clear his mind. He closed his eyes and relaxed his head against the head rest. "Protect and Serve", "The Law is the Law" these slogans creaked through Barrington's head like a old door with rusty hinges. On one hand he certainly didn't like the idea of letting hooligans who throw eggs, break windows and, for God sakes, commit a murder, get away with it. And yet on the other…there was some kind of odd justice in the result of that egg throwing prank. In some inexplicable way the amount of Goodness that had been hijacked from the Universal repository of GOOD by the very existence of the "Smile" boys, was recovered. It was as if God himself directed the boy's hand. And if God did indeed intervene and reinstated the proper status quo, who was he, Barrington Cupper, to oppose the “Heavenly will”? *** “You have a visitor, Cesar” A fellow dressed in the uniform of a Roman centurion, bowed to Barrington. “What the….?” Barrington shook his head to clear it, trying to make out what was going on and yet strangely he wasn’t surprised by his surroundings or the language being spoken it was as if knew what needed to be said and done. He even realized that the language they spoke was Latin even though he had never learned it. “It’s a lady from Judea, Cesar.” “What’s her name?” “Mary Magdalene.” “Let her in.” She was big boned, husky and reminded Barrington of someone. “Great Cesar Augustus,” she ran toward him clumsily and kneeled. The impression that Barrington knew her became stronger and yet he couldn’t place her. “Speak.” “I want to talk to you about McPherson.” “Who is he?” “He was a holy man who was killed by one of your egg throwers.” “Nonsense! We don’t even have egg throwers on the force. So it was none of our legionnaires.” “Regardless.” “Regardless?” “McPherson was resurrected.” “Resurrected…? I believe this as much as I believe eggs are red.” A little sneaky smile made its way across her face. She stuck her hand underneath her garment and pulled a Petri dish full red gooey substance. “What is it?” Barrington cringed. “This is his blood, Cesar and inside is a shell, and the white and the yolk of the egg that killed him.” “and… why are you showing it to me?” “The egg is symbolic of the grave and life renewed by breaking out of it. The red symbolizes the blood of McPherson, and our regeneration through the blood shed for us by McPherson.” “What bullshit!” Barrington screamed. “You are pulling my leg?” At this moment he realized who this Mary Magdalene was. She was none but the pathologist Dr. Klosse. “Cease him, I mean her!” Barrington screamed to the centurion. But it was too late. The entire room was full of people covering their faces with “Smile” masks and all of them were laughing at Barrington in sardonic owl manner huuh, huuh, huuh. and aiming at Barrington with eggs. He raised his arm in defense. “Shit” Barrington hit his hand against the car mirror. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head and smiled remembering the stupid dream, conscious of the fact that he had no clue of what to do about the egg thrower. For a short while he thought that justice had been finally served to the “Smile” boys in the form of an egg and he would finally gain some control over life. That was silly though as he acknowledged, events unfolded regardless of him, his thoughts and desires. They just happened. Barrington sucked through his teeth and waved uncomfortable thoughts away like a fly. ‘If in doubt, follow the protocol’ he decided, ‘even though it’s going to be a hell of a task to lift fingerprints off shards of eggshell.’ |
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| The Egg limitlessimagination@yahoo.com |
#10 of 10 |
| 1142 words | |
| Throughout my years on this earth quite a few times I
have had the question posed to me... Which came first the chicken or the egg?
Every time I answer with all of the conviction I can muster... The Egg of
course! This is why.... Many eons ago when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, the bunny rabbit, even though a much larger varitey, lived in fear of morrtal injury. This continued through generations of the fuzzy wuzzy creatures. The poor bunny was smack dab at the bottom of the food chain. Over the years as the bunny adapted to smaller areas they began to loose some of their bulk. Mother Nature, being the kind and generous lady she is gave them fur to keep their bodies warm throughout the long nights. She even gave them a powder puff tail to use as a sort of built in cushion when siting on the cold, hard- packed earth. The furry little creatures could be spotted as they huddled, trying in vain to find a bit of warmth from the freezing temperatures. The bunnies watched as one by one the giants of their world began to disappear. Food became scarce. However, with their smaller compact size they were able to live on what scraps of plant life that survived the harsh temperatures and the bit of clean water they could forage. At the h eighth of the ice age the poor bunnies still were in mortal peril from the lurking giants but only because you never knew when one of the lumbering behemoths might die from starvation and fall to the ground with a thunderous BAM! Woe-be-gone any poor rabbit that might be in the way when that one-hundred and fifty ton body fell to it's final resting place on the hard packed ice that now covered their world. Mother Nature once again took pity on the poor rabbits or maybe it was simply their diet, either way the fuzzy wonders front teeth began to grow and take on their elongated form that still is the Easter Bunny's trademark today. This did however allow the small creatures to take on a bit more sustance. In dire circumstances, survival instincts do kick in. As the temperatures began to finally warm and the ice began to melt, water covered most of the fallen dinosaurs creating the great lakes. The rest were soon buried by soil that was whipped about by the fierce winds that predominated this period of time. In this way huge mountains ranges were created. Once again Mother stepped up providing our bunnies refuge from the wind. Their hands became paws with elongated claws, perfect for digging burrows. Another strange thing happened however, the bunnies began to decorate their burrows with multi-colored dinosaur eggs. I believe in the beginning their plan was to add these to their diet but with the warmer weather and the moist ground soon vegetation sprang to life once more, so there was no need. Finally the bunny as we know him today was born. A fuzzy little charaicture of his former self covered in thick fur, long ears, cotton tail with long front teeth and claws . His nose was constantly twitching for he expected to be running for his life but it seeemd only he and a few other smaller choice species were left to carry on in this new big world. Though he may have been small he was not as tiny as most. Many insects began to reappear and the wiley wabbit enjoyed a peaceful existence until ... along came man.... Man showed up as a scavenger in this cold cruel world. It seemed Mother nature had not been as kind to his species as she had our bunnies. Man had thin skin and little hair to cover his body. The bunnies looked upon him with pity as he shivered in the cold damp climate. Before long man had coaxed a rabbit or two from their hiding places. The bunnies hoped for a quiet co-existence with the hairless creatures that kept popping up in large numbers throughout their domain. It seems their hopes were to be dashed for the humans were jealous of the bunnies warm fur and began to murder the poor creatures and fashion coverings for their own bodies from the fur. Now at this the bunnies were furious. The barron bunny, their leader wanted war against man but his advisors convinced his liege that man was only struggling to survive as they had during the ice age and before. Had they not survived the dinosaurs? They would survive this onslaught as well. Man discovered fire and soon bunny eyes filled with tears as they watched their loved ones roasting over an open fire. The Barron ordered something be done! The advisors gathered and discussed the problem at length. Man was larger and rather sneaky, he had become a force to be reckoned with. His offspring were smaller and less frightening to the bunnies so it was decided that they would be approached but how to do it? So began the ritual of egg giving. The bunnies laden with the colorful dinosaur eggs would sneak into the caves in the wee hours of the morning before the larger ones stirred and play for a bit with the manlings leaving the colorful eggs behind. The eggs did become a staple in mans diet and once they found out that the bunnies were the source of this delicacy the wiley wabbit was revered as a comrade. from time to time a bunny still disappeared and the barron was sure that man was the culprit but he had no way to prove it. Bunnies began to befriend the young humans and even play openly with them. The larger humans would glare at them but they did not harm one hair on their heads. As long as the eggs were left in their caves man didn't care what the fuzzy wuzzy creatures did. Centuries passed and the days of the wild west were born. Man discovered the chicken, a nasty little creature. They ate from the ground many times consuming their own waste in the process. This did give the fuzzy wuzzies hope, the dinosaur eggs were rapidly disappearing and with that they feared man would revert once more to killing off their kind in large numbers. The bunnies began to miss the attentions of man so once again council was held. The problem was how to retain the affection of man without attracting too much attention. Finally it was decided, Once every twelve moons the bunnies would color eggs to resemble dinosaur eggs of old and give them to the manlings as a gift. This was a smart move on the rabbits part for as time has passed the easter bunny and their eggs have become a special part of the young ones lives. Now the next time someone asks you which came first, the chicken or the egg, you can respond definitely the egg and you now have the story to prove it. It may have been a dinosaur egg but it was the egg! |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club