Vanilla (3)
Title: Scrambled Eggs & Toast
Author: morethanmending
Rating: G
Word Count: 671
Universe: Gone WIP
Characters: John Warner, Abigail Warner
Notes: Written for the flavor "Vanilla" - prompt #03 "Chores".
Summary: Breakfast time on a farm means a trip to the chicken coop.
---
Abigail crouched down and peered through the open doorway of the chicken coop. It was dim in there, light filtering in between the rafters and from the squat windows on the other side of the house. Most of the hens were already in the yard, pecking at the food she'd tossed and the rooster was perched on one of the fence posts, facing east, eyes on the sun.
Holding tight to her basket, she crawled inside.
It smelled inside the coop, like fresh hay and old feathers. Standing, Abigail crept along the boxes, peering into each one, into each nest. White feathers and bits of grass littered the insides, and every now and again she spotted a bit of trash - an old wrapper, a scrap of paper.
Three boxes down she spotted her first egg. It was brown and speckled. The shell was firm under her fingers and heavy for its size. Abigail set it in her basket.
Work on a farm was never done. That's what her father said. There was always something that needed doing.
Abigail liked doing chores. She liked feeling useful, liked helping the animals. She liked eating a meal she'd helped provide. It gave her a sense of pride to see the small smile on her father's face, the warmth in his eyes before they bowed their heads to say grace.
She placed another egg into her basket, nestled it with the other.
A chicken sat in the last box in the row, fat and fluffy and with a mean glint in its eye. Abigail paused and stared at it. It cocked its head and stared back, throat working. It clucked a warning.
Abigail passed it by and turned to the other row.
"Abby!" The shout came from outside, across the yard. Abigail quickly scanned the last few boxes, picked up two more eggs, and wiggled herself out through the little door, into the fresh air and sunshine.
John was turning circles in the yard, hand shielding his eyes from the early morning light. He stopped when he spotted Abby crawling out of the chicken coop, basket handle tucked snug in the crook of her elbow. Abigail waved when she spotted him, wide grin showing off the dimples in her cheeks. "Four eggs!" she called, swatting her bangs back from her forehead.
"Not bad," John said, crossing the grassy lot to meet her. "Not bad." She ran to his side, placed a hand in his when he reached for it. He smirked down at her. "You've got a feather in your hair."
She batted at her head ineffectually. John plucked the feather from between dark blonde strands and handed it to her. "You don't have to actually climb inside, you know," he said. He pulled her arm and they began a slow walk around the yard, birds clearing a path as they continued to peck at the ground.
"I know," Abigail said, staring down at the chicken feather. It was long, white with grey edges, crooked at the tip. She dropped it into her basket. She would add it to her keepsake box later.
"Remember those little trapdoors I built into the walls?" he asked. "You can just reach right in and-"
"I know," Abigail said again. "But I like it in there. It's like treasure hunting."
"I know," John said, his voice soft. His hand squeezed Abigail's, palm warm and dry against hers. "I just don't like losing sight of you is all." A calloused thumb rubbed across her knuckles.
Abigail nodded, only half listening.
"Besides," John continued, voice lighter. "You won't be able to fit through their door soon enough. You're getting big."
Abigail scoffed. That was ridiculous. He could always build her a bigger opening. "I guess," she said finally, if only to take the worried frown off his face.
John nodded. "Come on, then," he said, tugging her towards the farmhouse. "Let's get some breakfast."
"Okay," Abigail said, and together they moved across the lot towards home, chickens scattering in their wake.
---
End.
Author: morethanmending
Rating: G
Word Count: 671
Universe: Gone WIP
Characters: John Warner, Abigail Warner
Notes: Written for the flavor "Vanilla" - prompt #03 "Chores".
Summary: Breakfast time on a farm means a trip to the chicken coop.
---
Abigail crouched down and peered through the open doorway of the chicken coop. It was dim in there, light filtering in between the rafters and from the squat windows on the other side of the house. Most of the hens were already in the yard, pecking at the food she'd tossed and the rooster was perched on one of the fence posts, facing east, eyes on the sun.
Holding tight to her basket, she crawled inside.
It smelled inside the coop, like fresh hay and old feathers. Standing, Abigail crept along the boxes, peering into each one, into each nest. White feathers and bits of grass littered the insides, and every now and again she spotted a bit of trash - an old wrapper, a scrap of paper.
Three boxes down she spotted her first egg. It was brown and speckled. The shell was firm under her fingers and heavy for its size. Abigail set it in her basket.
Work on a farm was never done. That's what her father said. There was always something that needed doing.
Abigail liked doing chores. She liked feeling useful, liked helping the animals. She liked eating a meal she'd helped provide. It gave her a sense of pride to see the small smile on her father's face, the warmth in his eyes before they bowed their heads to say grace.
She placed another egg into her basket, nestled it with the other.
A chicken sat in the last box in the row, fat and fluffy and with a mean glint in its eye. Abigail paused and stared at it. It cocked its head and stared back, throat working. It clucked a warning.
Abigail passed it by and turned to the other row.
"Abby!" The shout came from outside, across the yard. Abigail quickly scanned the last few boxes, picked up two more eggs, and wiggled herself out through the little door, into the fresh air and sunshine.
John was turning circles in the yard, hand shielding his eyes from the early morning light. He stopped when he spotted Abby crawling out of the chicken coop, basket handle tucked snug in the crook of her elbow. Abigail waved when she spotted him, wide grin showing off the dimples in her cheeks. "Four eggs!" she called, swatting her bangs back from her forehead.
"Not bad," John said, crossing the grassy lot to meet her. "Not bad." She ran to his side, placed a hand in his when he reached for it. He smirked down at her. "You've got a feather in your hair."
She batted at her head ineffectually. John plucked the feather from between dark blonde strands and handed it to her. "You don't have to actually climb inside, you know," he said. He pulled her arm and they began a slow walk around the yard, birds clearing a path as they continued to peck at the ground.
"I know," Abigail said, staring down at the chicken feather. It was long, white with grey edges, crooked at the tip. She dropped it into her basket. She would add it to her keepsake box later.
"Remember those little trapdoors I built into the walls?" he asked. "You can just reach right in and-"
"I know," Abigail said again. "But I like it in there. It's like treasure hunting."
"I know," John said, his voice soft. His hand squeezed Abigail's, palm warm and dry against hers. "I just don't like losing sight of you is all." A calloused thumb rubbed across her knuckles.
Abigail nodded, only half listening.
"Besides," John continued, voice lighter. "You won't be able to fit through their door soon enough. You're getting big."
Abigail scoffed. That was ridiculous. He could always build her a bigger opening. "I guess," she said finally, if only to take the worried frown off his face.
John nodded. "Come on, then," he said, tugging her towards the farmhouse. "Let's get some breakfast."
"Okay," Abigail said, and together they moved across the lot towards home, chickens scattering in their wake.
---
End.