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Mr. And Mrs. Chip

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Mr. & Mrs. Chip


The stained blue carpet lined the square area of the covered, ground level porch; paint splatters sprinkled the dust covered floor. The screen door hanging dismembered from its hinges laid cracked open. The pocket-sized gap between the framing post, and the door, just the right size for the room’s new inhabitant. The keys of the piano seem to play the staccato notes of The Nutcracker Suite as the smooth coated fur ball began to inch closer to the gap of the fractured door. The chipmunk’s little feet seemed to dance to the beat of the bells as it scurried onto the open ground of the porch. Running then stopping, checking if the coast is clear, a few more steps followed by more searching. His nostrils were flared, almost as fast as his lungs pumping oxygen to his body, as he searched for the sent of danger. Propping himself up on his hind legs, his beer belly hanging from this body, Mr. Chip had a better view. Releasing the tension in his slender short feet, gravity did its work and pulled his body down to the ground. He flipped his head back to the left and chirped a few high notes as if calling in reinforcements. Within five minutes, a second chipmunk, following the same routine, came onto the enclosed porch. She gave a few chirps of confirmation that she was there, and she followed him to the obstacle that lay ahead.

In front of them was a ramp of slick wood that lead to a chair. On the top of the chair was a glass jar of seed. The two fur balls sat there for a few seconds. Mr. Chip stood on his hind legs, searching for a plan of attack, and fell back down to the carpet. The orchestra began to play the timpani. Its steady beat was followed by slow strumming strings. The light in Mr. Chip’s eye glistened as he began to charge the ramp. He seemed to be going in slow motion, his face rippling in the wind as he ran for the seed. The music became faster and the horns blew out notes that were rising in octaves. He met the ramp his skinny feet gripped the board with his claws. He pulled himself up the ramp, the cymbals crashing and the horns held their note. He reached the platform at top of the ramp he stood up on his hind legs as if he was Michael Phelps.

He went into the jar and began to stuff his face with the seed and raisins. The shells from the bird seed looked like wood shavings from a saw. With his face fully stuffed he slid down the ramp and ran off with the Mrs., sounds of chirping could be heard as they bolted toward the exit. Every day Mr. and Mrs. Chip came to that porch, chirping every time.





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