BIRDEVIL

every night when I get home from work at the glass smashing factory my seven daughters emerge from the back of the house where their chambers are and line up single file in order of their birth which incidentally is also the order of their heights (descending). each one receives from me a brief kiss on her smooth bald head then I reach into my pockets and produce for every one of my darling girls a small sliver of shattered glass that I squirreled away for them at work while Foreman Thomas's watchful eye was turned away, and with every present my daughters are uniformly delighted. "oh papa, you shouldn't have!" "oh really papa, all for me?" "you're the best papa in the village" and so on and so forth. and when we are done my daughters take their glass and scurry back to their chambers and what they do then I do not know for I have never seen within this part of the house. the ritual is repeated but in an imperfect way when my wife gets home from her job at the glass-making factory, except every day she brings our seven little blessings fully pressed windows of either the strongest tempered glass or the most strikingly colored carnival trinkets of the perfectest proportion. our daughters accept this sad trash with good humor rolling their eyes to me over their mother's shoulder as she hugs them each in turn and if I could I would smash those ugly windows then and there. but instead my daughters who are too well behaved to be as rude as i feel take their mother's hateful baubles and creep with them back into their chambers on the side of the house where we are forbidden to go

I read this entire post out loud on a discord call last night and I'm pretty sure I had a nosebleed at the end