Bad Egg

That day, he had his second eye cut by the optometrist out of the natural cracks in his calcium-enriched shell. After that, he could no longer take his new eyes off the framed portrait of the defiant Humpty Dumpty on top of the optometrist’s gilded mantel.

The image of Humpty Dumpty, glaring insolently on top of the brick wall as the king’s men held their breaths below him, haunted him. That was everything that he wanted to be. He had grown tired of his life—the slow staggering around, the delicate white shell which enclosed and stifled his protein soul and his will.

One night, he told his little brother about his plans.

Crying, his little brother reminded him of the news of the grisly omelet crimes on TV.

“Then they’re gonna put you into those refrigerators. It’s gonna be dark in there and cold and ugly!” The little brother said, his voice about to turn into a squeal, his shell trembling with fear. It took a lot of effort for him not to rattle his nerves too much and crack up.

“Then they’ll crack you up and kill you!” the little egg brother screamed at last in his futile attempt to breathe sense into his stubborn egg-headed big brother.

But no one could scare the hell out of this bad egg, even the gory instruction manual of an electric egg beater failed to discourage him.

By dawn, the bad egg went out of the hole and of course, like the other renegades before him, he never came back.


Editor’s Corner

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