Ovum

There is an egg. 

Molten metal surged, lit by the incandescence of its own heat. The heart of the planet pulsed and roiled, following strange fields and courses invisible to the naked eye. Orange, yellow, like a yolky centre massed beneath a thin shell that split and cracked with every shifting motion beneath its delicate surface.

Just one egg.

Cooling winds carried stardust, running soft fingers against the rough eggshell surface. Distant lights in velvet darkness whispered stories in the void, voices carried on the shadows to fall into silence. A solitary axis spun gracefully through an eons long dance.

The egg is smooth and round.

Thin veins of metal threaded through the egg, creeping beneath the surface and worming deep. Gold and silver, delicate platinum filigree hidden by a thin crust of compacted dust that settled over long ages. Greedy fingers dug deep into the egg, sought the golden warmth of its core and the vast oceans of its riches.

The egg is sapphire and emerald.

Dew glistened against the grey dawn sky, tiny crystal balls predicting a future of light and warmth in their refracting depths. Each contained infinite possibilities, encased in water.

The egg is speckled.

Freckles against pale skin. Hair frizzed by static, a tangle of storm-cloud dark strands. Wind tickled, white specks dancing across the azure vastness. A vast world, microscopic scope, everything a universe unto itself.

The egg sits alone in a nest of quantum tangles.

Blood thrummed in quickening, racing and thundering, carrying life. Grublike roots wriggled and wormed, digging through thick black loam seeking the sweet lifeblood. Sprouts shot up, thickening into trunks that shade the grassy expanses.

The egg quivers.

Creatures stepped gaily in sunlight, slunk and sailed through the night. Overhead, stars glistened down upon the egg as upon its surface crawled tiny beings, lives important to themselves even as they scratched the stardust surface of the egg.

A tiny crack appears. 

Chrome scaffolding unfolded itself with the graceful articulation of an insects’ legs. Metallic feet scratched and scratched, teeth gnawed and rubbed on bone and sinew, dark blood welling in the wounds. Everything was propped up, unsteady on its own legs and shored up with tenuous, beautiful metal threads.

Fissures carve themselves into the eggshell.

Threads connected all things, the egg woven in soft fibres. Spiders’ webbing and silks, soft and slick to the touch and warm from the breath of the weavers. With a glistening edge, sharp as starlight, iron slipped between the threads. Pulled taut. Strained.

The egg spews black fluid from the cracks.

Oils hidden in dark recesses spilled forth. Bandaged shell slipped, cracked, lubricated by shadows as it slid against itself. Tiny creatures, vanishingly small to the eyes of the distant stars, scurried with frantic energy, lapping at pooling lifeblood.

The egg is cast in shadow.

Fire swarmed, salamanders basked in the heat until they were crisped and crunched and blackened like the void. Stars blazed overhead, searing light driving away the darkness and the cold.

Where is the egg?