The Egg short story
"Siri, close shell." Much better.
Fuck it, I'm nestling in. Icy current on my hinge, must be that flow of sea. Affirmations, gratitudes, asanas. Pop the top. Good glow, saltier, still frigid. Better get some breakfast slurps in. Then it's nestle and chill.
"Hey Flake, what's crackin'?"
"Flake?" Dirty pirates! Did we lose another one?
The tide teems and tows under and over, as we all flow.
If we're being honest, I never understood Flake. Always clacking on about that pebble.
"Mgghhg mohhffff uzzzz fllll ovvvv prrrrl," Flake could hardly clack.
"What? Clack up, Flake. You know we don't have ears," I intoned, clear as a diving bell.
Chaturanga, shivasana, aaaaaaand… vipasana. Done-zo.
Oof, sharp one in the gullet today. Rock up or rock out, as we all flow. "Hrrrrrnggh!"
Good out, nice out. "Been rounding. Be rounding. Round and round—and I'm back." That wasn't so bad.
What am I, a rock-sicle? Icy currents on my hinge side today. Good silt here though. My to-do list is nice and short, so I think I'll slurp for a bit and then do some meditative nestling. Really get down there this time.
Geoffrey's been ribbing me so hard recently, really shelling it out about his fancy pearl.
Pinky's gonna love this new nectar I'm brewing. Perfect unguence, balanced saline, nice mouthfeel. (Bit of an oyster joke there. Every feel is a mouthfeel to an oyster.)