It's Still Life

12 of 27: Frostwrit – Affection Behind a Locked Jaw

The Egg Song

“Easy, be gentle, my girl,” her grandmother says, eyebrows knitting into a single grey line, “and remember what I taught you this morning — focus, centre yourself — now be quick, or she’ll peck your eyes out.”

“Mothers will do that,” the girl mumbles, just low enough to be heard, and her grandmother snaps a bolting laugh from the top of her throat — “Hush now, and concentrate; a broody hen is no joke.”

The air in the henhouse is hot and sharp, thick with dust and baking wood and the scent of something that feels too close to violence, feathers shedding like snow in a storm of wings.

Felreil watches from the corner, half-shadow, half-patience, as the grandmother’s hands move with the silence of habit — slipping one brown egg from beneath the pullet as if secrets were meant to be gathered gently, her movements precise as a trim blade.

The girl flinches at the hen’s hiss, its wheezing egg song, and the wet smear of blood across the egg’s curve — but she does not drop it.

Later, she will remember this — not the fear, but the precision — and wonder if every woman she’s ever known learned softness the same way: behind locked jaws, with shaking hands, and no time for tears.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “trim”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.