A Synful Twist
This i sn’t what he want ed . That’s what he tells himself. Really, though, deep down, in the darkest pit of his now racing heart, the thing standing in his bedroom right in front of him is, in fact, exactly what he want s . It all c omes back to him. The night before. The meteor. He’d approached it carefully since the heat seemed intense, when all of a sudden it cracked wide open all on it’s own. Peering inside he saw it cradled in a membrane of dripping mucus like an oyster’s pearl. Against all sense of self-preservation he’d reached inside with gloved hands and drew out what could only be described as a huge egg, nearly the size of a football. It shimmered as he turned it about in the light of his headlamp, but despite it’s glisten it didn’t seem wet at all. Smooth to the touch in fact save for the latticework of bulbous veins winding their way across the surface. From there his memories are patchy. Vaguely he recalls hiking back through the woods and making it back to his ...