Written by the CEO in conjunction with Jessica Lightfoot-Toye

“Father!” it called piteously; the voice seemed to blend seamlessly with the blue light “I am not yet ready, seal the egg, keep me warm and come back for me in one week’s time.” Aniello blinked. This was quite astonishing, however given that he was quite used to astonishing things, he took it quite in his stride. “Ah my child, with what shall I seal the egg?” “With the tallow of the table candle father; but be quick be quick, for when the blue light is spent, I shall perish.” 

So Aniello lit the candle and carefully dripped the wax over the crack, which, whilst wide was not fragmented at the edge but clean. The tallow cooled and slowly the blue light was prevented from emitting further from the ovum. 

Aniello now considered the problem of warmth. He thought about secreting it somewhere near some kind of warm water device, but he could imagine he would forget and the egg would perish from cold. He thought about having it about his person but then he feared he would forget and crack it. He thought about putting it near the fire, but feared the fire would be made too hot and the egg would be cooked. Lastly, he thought about the most traditional of all methods and considered he would give it to Rachel to sit on to incubate, presuming she would know how to sit gently enough not to destroy it. 

He did not particularly like this idea, and partially hoped she would devise a more cunning method of keeping it warm away from themselves. For, no matter how avian she became Aniello still wanted to indulge his desires for his wife (possibly it occurred to him, the more avian she became the more he desired her (but then repressed this again)). So the thought of her immobile upon this tallow fixed egg for a whole week seemed nearly more that he could imagine. 

On the other hand, one had to think of the children. Parenthood is no light matter and sacrifices must be made. Thus, with dutiful heart he went to his wife and said “My wife, this egg contains our child which I nearly cooked for my breakfast, yet it stilled my hand and told me to wait for a week. The child lives though the egg is cracked, but the egg must be kept warm. What’s to do?” and he looked at her with her an expression of such paltry intelligence that she —with considerable irony- fancied he looked as stupid as a chicken can look (albeit a handsome one). Rachel considered the matter cooly for a second and then with an alacrity that stunned Aniello, she snatched the egg from him with her claw-like hand and flung it out of a nearby open window. 

“There,” she said “that’s what’s to do with it. Let’s see if the lazy wretch can fly shall we!”

The egg, now hurtling through the air at many miles an hour, whistled as its trajectory was directed out of the open window and toward the palace grounds below. Aniello raced to the window, half-throwing himself out of it but alas, his breakfast-child had vanished from his sight. His heart lurched from his chest as he contemplated his loss and anger burnt ferociously within him. Aniello turned, preparing himself to beat his pesky poultry-wife but then he heard a strange noise.

Above him, the egg bobbed frantically. It seemed impossible for it to be doing so but Aniello acknowledged that this was simply the most recent of many impossible things that had occurred during his short life. Brushing this apparently obvious thought aside, he squinted his eyes in an attempt to observe how his egg-child achieved the gravity-defying feat.

From within the greenish shell (the colour of which was not previously noted), a pair of leathery wings emerged through the formerly-tallowed crack, and beat furiously to suspend the bulbous form high up above them. 

Turning rapidly on his heels, Aniello ran back within his palace and searched all 159 rooms for the tool he knew he would imminently require. Rachel, who did not follow him, meanwhile sat on the windowsill throwing small rocks, some of which were diamonds, at the egg child in an attempt to dislodge it from its airy position. Much to her frustration, she was unsuccessful . 

Within ten minutes, Aniello had returned and proudly displayed his much-sought possession.

“Behold, witch! My ergonomic, hydrophobic, rheumatic butterfly-and-occasional-moth-catching net!”. 

Rachel didn’t know what most of those words meant but she remained nonplussed, turling her tawny locks with her forefinger/-claws.

Balancing precariously on the window ledge, Aniello leaned forward on the tips of his toes as he teetered towards the egg which seemed to be just out of reach. With one fell swoop, he captured his prize, or so he had initially thought…