I haven’t written a short story in a while. The last one I wrote was sooo meh but I thought posting it here might help me motivate myself to write more!
The mere act of seeing you carry your groceries makes me glad that I exist in this world.
The way your elbows bend to support the weight of meat, greens and a carton of milk. Your palms supporting the bottom of the paper bags. You try to balance the two in one palm, your left, it’s always the left, to free your right palm and it begins its quest of finding the keys to the front door. Right palm is successful but your left palm fails you and yolks gather on a pool along with some lettuce on the pavement of the street.
Your mouth opens to a wide gap and a supply of carbon dioxide exits. I can see the change of colors in your eyes (in their natural state they are goldish- brown. A box of Crayola doesn’t have the color available) from the peaceful steady blue to the upsetting molten red.
Later, you’d tell me it’s because you feel bad about the crushed eggs; not necessarily because it was a waste of money. You can’t help but think about the tiny wings that never got the chance to test the wind, the baby beaks that never made a sound, not even a silent protest as they landed.
“Twelve chicks didn’t see the world in order to make me happy. They gave up their lives to be fried on a pan on a cold Monday morning. And I failed them of their mission. They are now rotting on the hard cold pavement. They should have been buried between toasted bread.”
We’d laugh but then I’d stop and ponder those words.
I looked at the time and realized it’s going to be Monday morning in a couple of minutes. I guess it’s time for me to leave.
The ruthless cycle doesn’t end, doesn’t it?