Painted Red
“Counting your eggs before they hatch? Mrs. Henry, you are a very hopeful lady.” I teased as the hen warmed her possessions, comfortably in the coop. In a while, Michael would come and walk away with all the eggs in his basket. But Mrs. Henry would be counting chickens, at the drop of a hat. “Your sarcasm is as sharp as your blade, must say Mr. Dagger! Don’t you cut my dreams, so ruthlessly!” She doesn’t mind my killer words for this friendship had witnessed many grey seasons, collaboratively. Michael, who owned this farm, always took sufficient care to burnish me and nourish her. After all, we were his bread and butter, topped with eggs and meat. All the hens criticised me for I chopped off their chords with life. They loathed my appearance and feared my arrival. With Mrs. Henry and me, things were different. We sailed like breeze on the sea, one not intimidated by other’s presence; both proficient in our respective jobs –she laying in dozens and me slaughtering in millions...