Fires were one thing. Roof rot was another. And there were nesting squirrels and bats, and blocked chimneys, and inconvenient plumbing encumbrances. All of them were incredibly trying. Being a house in general was a terrible plight, as well as being less impressively ‘witchy’ than other incarnations. But it wasn’t a hut’s purpose to complain. Huts just endure.
Besides, who would listen to it bitch and moan all the way out in the middle of the Romincka Forest anyway?
But, as a hut, some indignities should’ve been beneath it. Like this one, which was, well… literally beneath it and threatening its fragile, boreal sense of calm. An egg. How did this happen? It was A HUT, for crying out loud! How does a hut gestate? And it only possessed chicken legs… It just wasn’t fair. There should be no eggs – NONE. Bring on the termites and mold instead.
The hut creaked in aggravation as it gingerly squatted above the offending offspring-in-waiting. It sighed loudly through its eaves. If one listened intently enough, it might have sounded like ‘fuck my life’. But once again, there was no one around to listen.
Then the egg rolled about.
The house bent lower, trying to see clearly through warped, dirty windows and ragged curtains.
‘Don’t you dare,’ it threatened in a gust of dried leaves and dust.
The egg hopped on the crispy, winter grass. Then it hopped again and the shell cracked.
‘Nonononono….’ The hut experienced a foreign, destabilizing effect that humans might have labelled as “panic”.
The shell cracked once more and a sliver fell away revealing a blinking, confused eye staring right back up into the dirty hut windows. Then, for the love of all that’s unholy and damningly inconvenient, it spoke its first word.
“Mamochka…” it peeped quietly and blinked in an adoring way from its shell.
The hut staggered on its chicken legs and made its floorboards squeal as it sagged despondently. It tried to look skyward, but huts don’t have necks.
‘Fuck my life,’ it wheezed into the night breeze, and below it something giggled.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: PG-13
Date: 2017-11-03 08:26 pm (UTC)Besides, who would listen to it bitch and moan all the way out in the middle of the Romincka Forest anyway?
But, as a hut, some indignities should’ve been beneath it. Like this one, which was, well… literally beneath it and threatening its fragile, boreal sense of calm. An egg. How did this happen? It was A HUT, for crying out loud! How does a hut gestate? And it only possessed chicken legs… It just wasn’t fair. There should be no eggs – NONE. Bring on the termites and mold instead.
The hut creaked in aggravation as it gingerly squatted above the offending offspring-in-waiting. It sighed loudly through its eaves. If one listened intently enough, it might have sounded like ‘fuck my life’. But once again, there was no one around to listen.
Then the egg rolled about.
The house bent lower, trying to see clearly through warped, dirty windows and ragged curtains.
‘Don’t you dare,’ it threatened in a gust of dried leaves and dust.
The egg hopped on the crispy, winter grass. Then it hopped again and the shell cracked.
‘Nonononono….’ The hut experienced a foreign, destabilizing effect that humans might have labelled as “panic”.
The shell cracked once more and a sliver fell away revealing a blinking, confused eye staring right back up into the dirty hut windows. Then, for the love of all that’s unholy and damningly inconvenient, it spoke its first word.
“Mamochka…” it peeped quietly and blinked in an adoring way from its shell.
The hut staggered on its chicken legs and made its floorboards squeal as it sagged despondently. It tried to look skyward, but huts don’t have necks.
‘Fuck my life,’ it wheezed into the night breeze, and below it something giggled.