The Egg. By CpSingleton (c) 2013
There was once an egg; a smooth brown egg; the most unassuming egg to witness. But the egg and its tiny, bare occupant didn’t want to be an egg at all. She wanted to be a lantern. She’d heard the concept through her shell and was warmed by it.
The way she heard it, lanterns could light the way for the lost traveller and could be used to gain information from a spy. Lanterns could lead processions out of tyranny. Lanterns could brighten the darkest corner to show the world the broken or the mighty. Lanterns could join together, hand in hand and bring joy to the world!
As the days wandered by, lanterns seemed so much more exotic than the life the scrag of a chick, with her scruffy patches of half formed feathers, was leading.
What she didn’t understand, and only the wisest of eggs do, is that inside her shell she was an every changing metamorphosis of her present condition.
Within the calcium based home in which she slept and constructed theories about Geordie huntsmen of the fifth and sixth centuries, a golden chick of such sublime beauty would soon grow. A chick with the will to bend men’s hearts into the shapes of giraffes and mold fractured minds into mighty thinkers.
But she wanted to be a lantern and nothing anyone could say would sway her from that ambition.
Her mother begged and pecked her to come out of her shell and take up the vocation she was born to follow.
She ignored her mother’s persistent clucking.
What did she know?
She was old and had little ambition, save from scuttling about, whinging.
The egg, who’s name is unpronounceable to human tongues and sounds a lot like Bworrrk, dreamt of one day being the lantern of her dreams. She dreamt of being a light that could make dozens of beings happy all in one flash.
Her mother sobbed and begged her to crack out of the dreamworld she was presently playing in. ‘Nothing good will come of staying inside and wishing to be something else,’ she urged her chick-to-be. But the egg would have none of it.
Her mother, however, wouldn’t give up, despite her tear ducts becoming arid and sore with over use, so plonked herself on top of the egg to keep it warm.
Inside, the egg spread its brilliant dream wings and flew. It left its light wherever it went: over playgrounds; on the surface of rivers; even Manchester felt its angelic beam.
Sadly, her broken mother never fully recovered.
Many days later the farmer gently lifted her large behind to remove the egg and never again found another waiting there.