Sneaking rum beneath his beard, heft the bit of grass into the sump. Chains rock inside dark canopies, the occasional sigh or animal grunt can be heard. Molten wax drips from candles put on any flat surface. Summer evening glow. Out from a tent rears the brown haired head, lightly peppered. He was wet. Uncapping a flask he drinks deeply, sniffing up the smells the hidden sun had given while shadows grow long and cold. “Charlie boy, charlie boy.” he mutters, eyes flicking around to soak it all in. He snapped his fingers and walked over to another tent, sliding between the canvas flaps and into a little den with a dirt floor. He sat by a lamp and unhooked a measuring device. It was a chromium probe, ten inches long with a small, blunt hook on the end. He carefully eyed up the thing in the centre, hidden beneath a pile of fox skins. The feet of a woman, soles up, trembled slightly with each laboured breath. He slowly moved across the dry soil, trying to breathe as gently as he could. Quiet. Two feet away now, he started to lift the probe upwards and pointing it as the hunched thing. The fur was pulled back quickly to reveal a huge hard boiled egg with legs and arms sticking out of it, sweating blood. It slowly turned, murmuring although Charles managed to push the metallic stick through it's back. Limbs flicking like swatted insect, pushed deeper into the soft, white body until he was up to his wrists. “I've seen you out, partying.” he said, now working back and forth to scrape through a tough shell inside it.
“What do you think.”
“I felt sick...” he whispered as he felt something give way and he went right up to his shoulder before withdrawing. He gently pulled out his arm to look at the red instrument. On the end was a buckle attached to a leather strap which he took in both hands, wrangling. Resting one of his feet by the wound, he gave a great heave and the egg thing turned inside out. Girl sat there with the belt hanging out of her mouth. “I still feel sick.” he said, sighing. She rested her head on her folded knee and blew a kiss. “Don't feel bad sailor, summer is here.”
He undressed and took her hand, walking away from the tents. The moon was big and fat, it wasn't even night. Over grass and dandelion leaves, they passed a copse where men and women lay, pouring big glasses of water for each other and watching the sky. Black beetles flew lazily in the air, snapped in the jaws of rabid bats that screamed and swooped above the couple's heads.
“Eggs are important, they are a part of nature just like you.”
He nodded then twiddled a bit of his beard. He was an egg once as well. “Let's be fat together.”
Twelve years later. He was thirty seven years old and didn't have as much hair. He threw a few flowers into a river and watched it for a while before setting off back into the clearing. It had changed now, the ground was scorched in odd places. Rolls of metal, broken glass, latex. Twelve years ago he had turned an egg inside out at the spot where a shopping bag with a dead animal rested. He flung it to one side and knelt, looking towards the East. Twinkling yellow lights burned on the motorways back, all the roads linking up to it like a tarmac net. He nudged some dirt with his finger, poking down. Up to his knuckle in mud, he rubbed at the shell of a baby egg. It hadn't had chance to grow properly. He withdrew his finger and punched the ground again and again until the egg cracked. Yolk spurted out before getting mixed with the grey soil and pebbles. He stared at it until it didn't look familiar, blinked a few times, then went on.
Fifty years later. He held the hand of a pregnant woman whilst eating an apple. They both looked out onto the silent garden, the stars and the moon and the planes and the town lights lit it up. Charles Kinitski owned a house. He turned to his daughter-in-law. “Anoushka, have you ever walked in the garden...in the night time?”
“No. Never crossed my mind.”
“Let me show you something.”
Charles Kinitski lead her across the neatly mowed grass to the spot where he had punched fifty years ago. He knelt down and pulled up a clod of grass before gently putting it onto Anoushka's bare foot. “You are lovely.” he said to her unborn baby then pushed his face into the dirt and quietly vomited. Anoushka looked down as he grabbed the grass in his hand, shaking a little, then relaxing his grip. The moon was full. Charles Kinitski's soul rose from his body, winked at the seven month old foetus before ascending up into the golden palace of everlasting ghosts. It stretched on for infinity.
