Dance, Monkey, Dance

by V Rose Dahrke

This blog has been through several changes over the two years I’ve been writing, and it’s due for one more. Hopefully this will be the last. I’ve kept it as a notebook and journal, as painful small talk, and as a half-assed attempt to be helpful. In short, this dancing monkey has been trying to juggle, sing, spin plates, and shove sharp bits of wood up its nose without destroying its brain.

The dancing monkey has done everything but dance.

So, from now on I’m going to do what I like to think I’m good at, and you’re hopefully going to be mildly entertained by it. All stories. All the time. Some will be good. Some will suck hard. Some will make you recommend therapy.

This was last week’s. All the others are here. Below is this week’s.

Have a good night, and I’ll see you next Wednesday.

Ovum

She stared at it, scowling, as she crumpled the shell in her free hand. Its edges blended with those of its jellyfish-like fellows in the chipped blue enamel bowl. Like them, it was the usual milky-clear and yellow. Like them, it was the would-be offspring of the aging brown hen outside.

Unlike them, it had a human face. The yolk was a round, bald head with a pinched and sagging face.

Her face.

She inspected the remains of the crushed shell. Normal. Peering out the window, she watched Lucy scratching at the ground for feed. Normal. Still, there it was. She poked it with a bony finger. The jowls jiggled.

Really? she thought. Is that what I look like now? True, her dancing days were decades behind her, but she had always imagined she looked better than that. More dignified. Less deflated.

Well, she certainly couldn’t serve Henry that, now could she?

What did it mean? And what would happen if…

She burst it with a fork. It bled out, smelling vaguely of parsley, and dissolved. She waited. Still alive.

No, she couldn’t serve it to Henry. What would happen if she did? Would she die then? Would he? Would it steal his soul, leaving him a withered husk of a man?

She smirked at that last thought. After all, hadn’t she had to stomach three eggs with his face? Hadn’t they left her to wither? Ungrateful little snots. How would he like it?

She popped the two normal eggs and scrambled them. The odd one was invisible. She stared at the bowl again, tapping her fingers on the counter in indecision as the pan began to smoke.

She started at the boom-boom-boom of his boots on the porch, nearly spilling the eggs as she dumped them into the pan.

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