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.01 the eggs .02 the toothbrush .03 apparatus
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THE EGGS [read in romanian]
I am standing and looking foolishly at the orderly row of eggs, each in its cradle, in that frozen fridge of mine.
Life in custody.
Frozen, stopped just one step short of the multiplying point.
I keep waiting for something to come out of each egg. I am sure nothing will come out of it.
At least nothing moving.
If the shell breaks and something comes out, I might consider it a major triumph of my wishes.
The lack of fulfillment leads to the hope for fulfillment. Maybe the cracking shell will be fulfilled.
I am looking but nothing is moving. Only myself, impatient.
It crosses my mind that, were I to defrost the fridge, the miracle might happen sooner.
I turn on the gas stove watching the stupid sticky matter coming out of it.
Yak! That’s my clammy mind projected on the stove ring.
Oh!… That reminds me of the eggs. Definition of fried eggs: death of the death. The way to kill what has already been killed.
The jelly on the stove keeps flowing, pouring onto my floor.
I get out of the kitchen, still watching the eggs.
I wouldn’t want to miss their moment of resurrection. If I miss it I’m finished.
My glasses are gone too. I see them floating on that jelly.
My God! I’m such an asshole! I had left them on the stove. What the hell was I doing, leaving them on the stove?
I am taking one step into the kitchen. My leg suddenly disappears in the spreading mess.
Strange thing, the gunk won’t come out of the kitchen. It seems to stop in front of an inexistent glass pane.
I can’t feel my leg any more. I get frightened and pull it back. I am neither daring enough, nor mad enough to take that step.
I am frightened. Damn frightened of all that is happening around me.
I see now all kinds of animal cubs slipping out of the TV set. I had forgotten to switch it off “Animal Planet”.
For the second time it crosses my mind that I am a complete fool. Nothing I do seems to come out right.
The last thing I need is to find out that I didn’t flush the water closet and start swimming through my own shit. I run to the bathroom.
Of course, for the third time, I realize how stupid I am. Shit floating everywhere.
Lucky for me, shit and gunk and cubs in the living room stop right on the doorstep, as if that is as far as their control goes.
The doorbell shrieks like crazy but I feel in no mood to open the door for everyone to see the filth in my house.
That damn whizzing sound won’t stop. As if something is on fire! Who could it be…
I go back to the kitchen to see how far the greasy gunk grew… Almost up to the ceiling.
My glasses standing on top are ready to be crushed by the sticky thing that keeps pouring from the stove.
But something else bothers me: not to let it cover the eggs.
I take a look at them and it seems that the substance goes just round the open fridge door, leaving them enough space to breathe.
I keep looking at them and I get bored.
In the bathroom the shit rose to the ceiling, in the kitchen that green, vanilla smelling filth has crushed my glasses, and the living room looks like a real animal farm, with all sorts of cubs howling like hell, for a hippopotamus just won’t get along with an alligator or a camel.
Sounds right to me.
I stand and cast a bland, dull look towards my eggs.
Aaaaaaa… one of them is cracking.
The crack grows bigger and bigger.
I scream with joy, louder than the doorbell ring and the stupid hippopotamus.
A small nose comes out through the eggshell crack.
What a nice little alligator.
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© razvan ion
