By Ron Koppelberger
The uncontrollable buzz of June bugs and crickets in song, sung sure and in rhythm with the firelight embers. The outline of the Willow wept in shadow and moonlit silhouette. Crem Harridan sat in the unfurled comfort of an aluminum and plastic yard lounger; the fire burned at a low ebb near his outstretched feet. Crem sipped at the blue and red can of beer with a slow contemplative breed of order. He lay there unpretending forethought before the flame.
He had found the passion of the egg. He had believed it to be an Ostridge egg. It was, or had been, the size of a large grapefruit. “An authentic Ostridge egg!” Wade Specter had said to Crem in excited exhalations of cigar smoke. “A gosh darn feast of feathered fare Crem!” he had exclaimed. Crem had begrudgingly bought the egg from Wade for ten
dollars and a beer.
The Willow swayed in the cool summer breeze and the scent of sulfur permeated the air. An Ostridge egg he thought; it hadn’t been an Ostridge egg.
Crems ex-wife had left in a sudden fit of rage nearly two months earlier. “Yer good fer absolutely nothing Crem, yer a lazy drunk and yer lousy in bed!” Mince Zither Fry March Harridan had screamed in his half conscious face. He had laughed and thrown an empty beer can at her. “Sonofabitch!” She had screamed in a furious rage. The argument ended with Mince tearing across their yard with the old Ford F-150 they had bought in the first year of their marriage. She had left deep ruts in the yard and a broken cement bird bath behind. He grimaced as he remembered the scene. If he had been in possession of the egg then things might have turned out differently.
The egg lay broken at the base of the Willow tree. There had been a snap and a crackling sound as fissures formed on the surface of the egg. He had considered sobriety for a brief moment as the egg ruptured in crackling expressions of birth. Untangling itself from the bits of broken shell it flew eagerly in warm currents of spell. It gracefully filled the close trembling shadow Crem cast over the taboo.
A likeness to the beauty of a mischievous question in vengeance swore an oath borne of miracles and impossibilities before Crems eyes. The winged magic of a fairy, maybe it’s a fairy he thought. It had the wings of a moth and the eyes of a tiger, scarlet and amber hued, Flittering, all teeth and a widows peak near its bulging forehead.
He lay there thinking about the Fairy and the shattered egg. His anger, his fury had turned it into a bright flame of rage as he thought about Mince and the Ford F-150.
It had sped off and he had honestly felt good for a second. He wondered what Mince would think about the fairy. Crem tilted the beer can toward his mouth and swallowed as he dreamed about his new friend.
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I have been submitting poetry and short stories for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old when my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I love to entertain the reader and give the gift of insight.
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