The Clutch

I told you before these eggs looked much fresher than Double-A’s usual one-offs, which he laid when he was particularly juked up. These were a range of pastels, similar to the colors of Jordan almonds, but larger, and the shells were sort of leathery. Whatever was in them was having a hell of a time breaking out, thumping and rocking and causing twists and finally rents in the shells.
Out of a pale yellow egg, a tiny hoof kicked through, and I watched as other hooves and a little head came out, and a beautiful red pony stood up in the wreckage of the shell, almost immediately.
A little yawning pteranodon, looking a lot like Double-A, knuckled its way out of the next egg, and immediately began nipping at the wobbly legs of the pony. They moved off in an ever widening circle, the flying reptile worrying the pony at intervals.
Another egg popped open. The board game, “Mousetrap” tumbled out and assembled itself as easily as a Hoberman sphere.
A starfish came out of another, its limbs all drawn together in the shell, they punched out like flower petals, and the starfish muscled itself over, its inside becoming its bottom, and looked for a surface not covered with shells and paper.
The next egg was full of butterflies, and they all tumbled out like spilled papers, and righted themselves on their little legs, and began separating their wings, airing them after the cramped dampness of the shell.
The last egg seemed kind of still; something told me whatever was in it wasn’t going to come out of its own accord. I cut the top off with an exacto knife. Inside was a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out and opened it.