Happy Story Time Sunday! Today, I’m sharing a fresh Easter flash fiction that I conceived on my bike ride, and then penned this afternoon in the park. It’s a fledging of a flash, and I’m super excited to share it with you this Easter Sunday. I’d love to hear your reactions. Enjoy!
Every year it was the same arduous application process. Perfect professional photos snapped, portfolios updated with hobbies and talents, full-financial disclosures provided. They wrapped their lives in a packet with the prettiest bow they could find and submitted it early before the frost ended. Then, they waited.
Ten years into marriage and this was the first year they’d been selected for a hunt. Both believed that finding a lucky egg could save the cracks emerging in their marriage.
“Babe did you bring sunscreen?” Minutes before the start of the race and Paul was panicky and concerned with skin care.
Bridgette looked through the layers of gear in her bag but didn’t see the lotion.
“Don’t see it. Sorry.” She held her breath and waited.
“Damnit, Bridgette. Do you even want to have a baby? This is the most important day of our lives, and you’re blowing it.” Paul’s feelings peeled back to reveal a bitterness. Bridgette was like women today, completely sterile. Easter races were the last hopes of humanity, and this was their big chance.
Bridget and Paul waited at the front of the lawn. They had been waiting since well-before the first pink pathways opened up in the sky. Between them rested a brown wicker basket with pink and blue ribbons woven by their parents for good luck.
Despite the Easter sunshine, the grassy fingers of the White House lawn had its tips painted white. The couple wore their Easter outfits, heels and dress shoes. It was all about presentation if they wanted to win a grand prize. Paul gripped Bridgette’s hand, digging in, as they waited for the sound of the sparrow to begin the hunt.
“The fountain will be crowded. Too obvious to put an egg there. We better stick to our plan and sprint for the far perimeter.” He pointed, returning to the plan for the fifteenth time since they arrived.
Bridgette nodded her head, but secretly she worried. How much time would they waste hiking that huge distance in the hopes of an outlying egg?
“Remember, Paul, there’s only seventeen lucky eggs out there, and there’s hundreds of hopeful couples waiting here.” She reached up to calm his nerves with a soft touch, but Paul pulled away.
All these years projecting the perfect couple, following all of the guidelines, just to falter here at the start line. Bridgette’s will felt fragile as the eggs out in the first yard.
“They’re cleverly disguised, Bridge.” He moved back to her side, recomposed. “Remember, look for the camouflage eggs tucked in the gate or among the orchids.”
The sparrow began its long twittering sound, followed by a buzz. Couples in their finery took off through the White House lawn in search of humanities coveted crop of seventeen viable eggs.
Paul sprinted faster than Bridgette. He was always pulling ahead while she fell behind. He wore goggles and scanned the perimeter of the lawn as he jogged, looking for any sign of organic material in the shape of an egg.
It was then Bridgette saw it, sitting by the water fountain’s edge. An orange egg. The light hit it perfectly, and she could see it gleaming there, all she had ever wanted. And in a flash, she was rocking her baby, bathing her baby, swaddling someone in unconditional love.
“Bridge, what are you doing? I swear you’ve got less than two brain cells in there. You don’t have the trajectory mapped; you’re way off course. Get over here!”
Bridgette raised her hand to signal Paul, but then folded it back down to her side. His anger was volcanic, and this egg hunt was a clear indicator of how their partnership would progress, especially if an innocent life was added.
No, she would let the golden orange egg lay for another couple. One whose hearts still glowed. Maybe they could bring up a new chick with compassion.
“Coming, Paul.” She smiled as she joined him in the far side of the lawn, placing her hand back into his controlling palm.