India Choquette is a writer, a trainer, a teacher, a breakfast sandwich eater, a person in love with a person, and a FOrmer Vermonter living in New York City.

The Egg

Here’s a little writing exercise I did to work on point of view. I did it for no real reason.

MELODY: Melody stared down at the pan, the fried egg beaming back at her.

“Is breakfast ready?” Rudy shouted from the next room. He was so demanding, unappreciative. She couldn’t wait to hand him the divorce papers. Why not now? she thought.

RUDY: Rudy pulled up his suspenders, bowing around his large belly. He double checked that the clips were in place. It was her fault, he thought. She cooked crap, so of course he gained all this extra weight. Sometimes he thought she was trying to kill him with all that grease. Just smothering him with duty and bacon fat. He smiled. It seemed she was the only wife that still served her husband nowadays. “Is breakfast ready?” he shouted.

THE EGG: The egg felt the warmth spread though its body, like taking a sip of hot cocoa after a long day in the winter air. It was wonderful—tingling and popping and oh so very nice. Especially after the long dark stay in that cold box. It had been pitch black except the short intervals when the door opened, the heat and light rushing in, flooding his chest with hope. Only a paper divider separated him from Michelangelo, that snooty asshole, far too large to be with the regular large eggs. He liked to remind them all that he should have been extra large. Well then, what was he doing in the large carton, then?

But look now. Here he was, lounging in his pan, soaking it all in.

A beautiful woman with long eyelashes and deep lines between her brows shone down on him. Yes, the eyelashes were fake, but only a beautiful woman starts her day early with false eyelashes. She was a woman who accomplished things, he could tell.

“Is breakfast ready?” he heard a brutish voice yell from far away.

Breakfast?

Re-Reading Harry Potter

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