Fiona Blaine opened her eyes, squinting at the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Without her glasses, she could only make out the faint outline of the time. It was 5:29. One minute before the alarm. She reached out and shut it off just in time, not disturbing her husband, Sonny.
She sat up slowly and fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand. A silent prayer of thanks crossed her mind for the extra few minutes of sleep on the weekends. Every weekday for the past fifty-two years, Fiona had been up at 4 a.m. to prepare breakfast for Sonny. Weekends were a brief reprieve, a chance to sleep in until six. But today was different. Today was the Cocke County Celtic Festival, and for the past forty-nine festivals in a row, Sonny had led the parade with his bagpipes and full, dress kilt. She would need to start breakfast earlier this morning.
Fiona wrapped herself in her cream-colored flannel robe and tiptoed to the kitchen. She flicked on the light and froze in her tracks. In the middle of the floor lay Monster, their old black lab, his eyes barely open. She sighed, relieved that at least the dog hadn’t stirred in his sleep. Fiona opened the fridge, scanned the contents, and planned her steps carefully: biscuits first, bacon next, and finally Sonny’s favorite cheese scrambled eggs.
The eggs!
Her heart sank as she scanned the refrigerator’s contents. The egg carton was missing. How could she have forgotten to pick up eggs yesterday? Sonny would be up soon, expecting his usual cheese scrambled eggs.
She knew what he would say, too. He’d remind her this wouldn’t have been a problem if the door to the chicken coop hadn’t been left open a year ago this September when, in the middle of the night, a fox or coyote or something had entered the coop and killed all five of their good-laying hens. Fiona didn’t remember leaving the door open, and Sonny said he certainly would never have done such a thing. It was the biggest quarrel they had had in their marriage. Sonny finally just said to heck with it; he wasn’t replacing the chickens. They’d have to start buying eggs at the grocery store like city folk do.
And that’s exactly what Fiona would have to do this morning. Drive to the all-night grocery store for a carton of eggs. Grabbing her rabbit coat and the keys to the Lincoln, Fiona slipped out the door to the garage. At this hour, there’d be no one at the store to care about her bed hair and disheveled appearance. She adjusted the car’s seat and mirrors from Sonny’s preferences, cranked the heater, and set off down Sussex Road.
Cooper’s 24-Hour Grocery was only three miles away, so she had plenty of time. She’d be in and out, eggs in hand, before Sonny even noticed she was gone. She didn’t worry about Monster waking him up; after all, that dog hadn’t barked in four years.
As she passed the old church cemetery, she noticed something unusual ahead. A faded wagon by the roadside. Her headlights illuminated a cardboard sign: “Ordell’s Farm Fresh Eggs.”
“Thank you, Lord!” Fiona exclaimed, relieved. Local farmers often set up roadside stands, and she was grateful for the shortcut. She pulled over and stepped out of the car.
The wagon’s stand was dimly lit by the full moon, aided by the scarlet tail lights of her car. She approached and noticed a figure wrapped in a blanket, sitting motionless by the eggs.
“Good morning!” she called cheerfully. “Lordy, you have saved me! I was just starting breakfast and realized I forgot the eggs! Can you believe that? I don’t know what’s wrong with my head lately.” She squinted at the figure, trying to make out details. The blanket was too thick to see anything clearly.
“Are you Ordell?” she asked. “Hello? Anyone there?”
A hand stretched from under the blanket and pointed silently at the eggs.
Fiona smiled. “My husband loves his eggs. I’ll take a dozen, please.” She gathered a dozen large eggs into her basket. “Thank you so much for being here. I was about to drive all the way to the store. How much do I owe you, Ordell?”
The blanketed figure remained silent.
Fiona placed a five-dollar bill on the stand and muttered to herself, “He probably doesn’t even speak English.” She felt a twinge of sympathy. “Poor man’s just out here early, trying to make a living.”
Relieved, she scurried back to the car, though a bit unsettled by the strange quiet of their encounter. The eerie silence from the figure on the roadside lingered in her thoughts.
When she returned to the kitchen, Monster had moved from the kitchen floor to the bedroom. She didn’t think much of it. She was too focused on getting breakfast started. She set the eggs on the counter, then retrieved the biscuit dough from the fridge. As she kneaded it, she thought about the comfort of mornings like this; the warmth of the oven and the sounds and scent of bacon frying in the pan. She knew the smell would soon drift to the bedroom, waking Sonny in the gentlest of ways. When the bacon was done, Fiona poured most of the grease into the “Bacon Grease” container, leaving just enough to flavor Sonny’s eggs.
She cracked an egg against the side of the iron skillet. Fiona wanted to scream when the first cold, slimy tentacle emerged from the egg, but she was prevented from doing so as it wrapped twice around her mouth. The second tentacle was thinner and sleeker, resembling a lizard’s tail. It crawled up her neck and sprouted tiny fingers that twitched and spread across her scalp. Two of the finger-like appendages descended her forehead and pierced through her eye sockets. Her glasses fell to the floor, and she got the feeling she would never be needing them again.
From the broken shell in her left hand, a dark, bristly mass emerged, pulsating and expanding rapidly. Veins and filaments spread, its viscous fluids oozing over her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she slumped against the stove, her body growing cold. All she could think was, “Where is Monster? Why doesn’t Monster hear this noise and come running to my rescue?” Then she realized it was, after all, Monster. That dog hadn’t heard a single sound in the past three years.
Fiona’s body convulsed as the mass launched a cord into her chest, injecting a yellowish liquid into her heart. The liquid spread rapidly, dissolving her from within, but on the outside, it exploded into a glob of golden bio-goo that coated the cabinets, the stove, and the oven.
Monster ambled into the kitchen, sniffing at the goo dripping from the oven door. He licked it lazily, then circled twice before settling in the middle of the floor to sleep.
Several moments later, Sonny entered the kitchen, dressed in his usual pre-parade attire. He expected to find Fiona at the stove, but she wasn’t there. Puzzled by her absence, he glanced around. Her robe lay in a heap near the stove. He looked in the living room and the second bathroom, but found no clues to her whereabouts. The car was in the garage, and Fiona’s rabbit coat was draped over the rocking chair. He thought maybe she had gone out for a morning walk, as she often did. “That’s probably what she was doing last year when she left the door to the chicken coop open,” he muttered to himself. “Or, maybe she just went to the end of the driveway to get the mail or the morning paper.” He was confident that Fiona would return soon.
Sonny approached the stove, his eyes widening at the sight of the plate brimming with warm biscuits, crispy bacon, and delectable cheese. He stirred the contents of the iron skillet, then carefully transferred the fluffy, golden eggs onto his plate. Sitting down at the table, he offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the breakfast before him. With a contented sigh, he scooped a generous portion of cheesy scrambled eggs onto his biscuit. The cheese was perfectly melted, just the way he liked it, and the eggs appeared fluffier and sweeter than usual. “Fiona has truly outdone herself this morning,” he thought. As he gazed out the kitchen window, he noticed an old wagon passing by the house, and thought about how Fiona had made his breakfast every day for the past 52 years. “This morning,” he thought, “may have been the best he’s ever had.” With a satisfied smile, he wiped his mouth, knowing that Fiona’s love for him was evident in every bite.
“Damn good eggs!”
©2018 Rick Baldwin. Revision ©2024. All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
