8 | Psychopomp Magazine
and so he did. He sat with it and made sure it was plugged in; he rubbed its shell, inspecting it for weaknesses. He measured his workshop’s humidity and temperature. He taped plastic wrap over the windows to make the room less drafty.
After three months had passed, the inventor slid open his workshop door and found that his egg was glowing, emitting a pink, opalescent light he’d never seen before. He stroked the egg’s shell, and its hatch popped open. From inside came a sound like a sigh.
The inventor undressed at once and entered the egg feet first. The hatch fell shut behind him.
His machine was marvelous, better than he could have hoped. His cells had grown into a spongy membrane, which rose to meet his touch. Behind the membrane, the screen played softly illuminated scenes, where silhouettes of mothers and sons danced and cooked breakfast, took walks and completed puzzles.
The inventor reached up and traced the opening of the egg with his finger. The membrane responded, expanding to seal the hatch shut. The inventor settled into the softly pulsing screen, which swelled to embrace him, massaging his skin with the vibrations from an almost-heard voice not unlike his mother’s. ♦