Flower, Eggs, Milk
(Random 2-word prompt- egg, wreck)
He
needed eggs for the kitchen... for the cook.
Just one tray. And just a short
walk up the street and back.
It
should’ve been easy. Over easy.
It
should’ve been quick. Quiche?
But it
had all ended up a bit of a pavlova.
Mrs Spatchcock
was baking tarts for the palace, but Flower had overslept- he’d been up late working
at the pier- and he’d scrambled his responsibilities; it was his job to order
the ingredients, and he’d messed up.
He’d meant to order a churn of milk and two dozen eggs, but…
“What
on earth am I meant to do with this much milk?”
The cook shouted and screamed, and cracked him round the ear with her
palm. “And one egg?!”
“Uhm…
let me fix it.” And Flower had whisked away,
with a bruise on his head and some coins in his hand, to the sunny side up of
town, to the grocer’s, to buy a new tray of eggs… and to escape a beating from the
cook.
He ran up the street and bought
the goods with haste.
“Oi! You
gotta pay for that!” The grocer caught
him poaching a roll from the counter, he was starving, as he’d left with his
arm full of eggs, and he’d tossed a spare coin to the man before he walked out
the door with a spring in his step and no longer a care in the world.
But
that coin was devilled; it fell, and it bounced, and it chased Flower outside. He hummed a tune as he chewed the bread,
nonchalant, unaware of the catastrophe that rolled between his feet and took
the lead.
The
coin careened down the hill, and swerved left as it hit a loose stone; it rattled
to a halt and waited in front of a shop.
Flower,
his bread devoured, whistled and walked.
He could see the door of the kitchens at the bottom of the street, and
Mrs Spatchcock in the doorway, arms crossed and face thawing. The morning was improving, or so he thought…
Meanwhile,
a man in a hat spotted the cursed coin, and ducked to retrieve it, but as he
rose up triumphantly, the golden disc aloft in his hand, a woman burst from the
shop, blinded by parcels stacked high, and barrelled into him. The coin flipped from his grasp.
Ignorant
Flower waved to the cook with his free hand; he was almost there.
The
money continued its path through the air; it clinked onto a roof, trundled down
the tiles and swung into the guttering.
It sauntered along the half-pipe, swinging to and fro, never quite
risking a leap to the ground. It swirled
the entrance to the downpipe, and then clattered into the tube.
The
coin rolled out, wheeling along and between the paving stones, ringing a chaotic
tune along its rim before it fell, stuck unfortuitously betwixt two slabs just
a few metres in front of Mrs Spatchcock.
It stood up proud on its edge, half in and half out… and unnoticed by the
cook, or by Flower.
And as
he neared the kitchens, his toes caught on the coin in just the right place,
and his gait faltered and jerked, and the tray of eggs was unleashed from his
grasp and into the atmosphere.
Flower
didn’t quite fall, finding his balance just before, but as he stumbled forward,
his eyes caught the horror on the cook’s face as the tray flew up and back down.
The eggs smashed all over her
frittatas, and she screamed. It was shock,
at first, but evolved into rage.
Flower ran, but Mrs Spatchcock
was faster, and she caught him in her grip within seconds. The buxom cook, bosom sodden with ovum and
shells, accosted the short man, who shrank back in terror.
The cook kicked.
Punishment was dealt; Flower fell
to the floor, clutching his bruised macarons.
And he realised that it wouldn’t
just be the kitchen that needed new eggs…
Ow.
The
End.
