Free Short Story

The Obsidian Egg

 

I examined the pile of debris covering a small stand on the fireplace mantle. The dusty mess collapsed beneath its weight. The remnants of a man I knew in my youth made my mind wander back to the summer of 1970. A young, not-so-industrial twelve-year-old needed money. After discovering that begging got me nothing, I decided to work for it.

 

At my inexperienced age, no one would hire me, so I went to work for myself using my father’s lawn mower. Thomas Seltzer, the neighbor at the end of our block, agreed to pay me one dollar each time I cut his grass and another for trimming and weeding once a month. Several older homeowners were willing to pay me to keep the yards neat and clean. Keeping driveways and sidewalks free of snow and ice in the winter months kept me rolling in the money year-round.

 

Turning sixteen, a fast food hamburger place paid more, so I dropped all but Thomas from my yard duties. Even though inflation meant I didn’t make any money cutting his grass, I continued to help the octogenarian with his yard. Upon completing the yard, he often brought me a soft drink or water. More than once, we sat and talked much longer than it took to mow his grass.

 

I graduated from university in 1980 with a business degree and searched for a management position. As usual, I quickly cut the modest yard of my old friend. I entered through the back door to receive my payment, as I had done since he yelled at me for making him get up several years back.

 

The timeworn man laid on the couch, his legs covered by a blanket. His gaunt face troubled me as I said hello. Thomas forced a small smile and then asked, “Why have you never asked for a raise?”

 

“It didn’t seem right to take money from a,” I paused, looking for the appropriate word.

 

“An old fart like me?”

 

I nodded my head to one side, shrugged my shoulders, and sheepishly replied, “Not the term I wanted to use, but yes.”

 

His low voice, almost crying, “I have money. You shouldn’t assume someone’s financial means.”

 

“Well,” thinking out loud. “We have become friends over the past ten years. When I started working, I dropped all my other customers.”

 

I could see a tear form at the edge of his eye as he spoke, “My time on this Earth is nearly complete. I came to your world sixty years ago. I made a good living and have a nice nest egg, plus this house. I am leaving for you when I die.”

 

I interrupted him, “What do you mean you came to my world?”

 

He lay quietly for a moment. I wasn’t sure if it was for him to gather his thoughts or for me to prepare for his news. Then, in a low, weak voice, “I am not from your world. My world is ten light years from this planet. It took us thirty of your years to reach it. That was only five of my years.”

 

My face must have shown the doubt racing through my brain. “You think I am full of hooey. This body will be dead by tomorrow morning. When you find me, an egg-shaped module will protrude from my navel. This container will contain my life. When my comrades return, I can tell them about your world.”

 

He paused for a second, allowing his words to sink in. “So, you are a spy?” I questioned.  

 

“No,” he shakes his head slowly. I am an observer. Spying is too militaristic. We are a peaceful people. My goal was to learn about human behavior. If I were a spy, I would look carefully at the Earth’s defenses.”

 

“But, you took over another’s life.”

 

“He was done with it. The young man whose name I had carried for the past sixty years was killed in a car accident with his parents. We transported him to our ship, repaired his body, and brought it back to life. I volunteered to live out his life and was inserted into his body. As it turned out, his parents left him this house and some money. I am leaving it to you with the hope you keep my essence until my countrymen return for me.”

 

“What do I have to do?”

 

“Just leave me on the fireplace mantle. They will come back for me, and I will go home.”

 

The next day, I came to check on my friend. He had not moved from the couch where I left him the day before. I pulled the blanket off him and found the egg with a black crusty surface that glimmered in the morning light. My fingers trembled with the egg shaking as I lifted from the dead body. A propositioned egg holder was in the center of the mantle.

 

I called 911 and reported my friend to the authorities. A police officer showed up first. He checked for signs of life and then spoked code into his walkie-talkie. The officer escorted me outside when other officials entered the house. We chatted about my old friend and our history.

 

After a while, we entered the house again. A doctor-looking fellow said it appeared to be a natural cause of death, but he would have to run more tests as he walked out the front door. The officer and I looked around the empty living room. My heart skipped a beat when he noticed the egg perched on the mantle. “That is a beautiful piece of obsidian art,” he commented as he examined the egg.

 

Only then did I notice that the egg had a smooth, shiny surface. “It looks like Faberge Egg,” he smiled back at me.

 

I shrugged back, not knowing what a Faberge Egg was.

 

The word came that Thomas’ heart gave out overnight. The autopsy showed no signs of foul play. A little more than a month later, the title to the house was in my name, and an investment company signed over a quarter million dollar account to me. I moved in, changing nothing but the old bed mattress. I married, raised three children, and waited forty-five years for Thomas’ compatriots to retrieve him.

 

I checked the stone egg every day for the first month or two. As time passed, I barely noticed the art decorating the mantle. Carol, my wife, changed the décor in the house. I allowed her to change everything except the egg and its position in our home. She surmised early on that it was a tribute to Thomas, and I let her believe that.

 

It was Christmas 2023 when I saw the egg's luster lose its shine. As we moved through 2024, it became duller by the day. I woke up on New Year’s Day to find the egg in a pile of dust and bits piled around the stand that had held it for so many years.

 

A certain sadness broke my heart when I realized my old friend would never meet up with his people again. I wondered if they had forgotten about him or lost their life on the commute. Perhaps they didn’t feel the need to come back for just one. Did his home planet have a catastrophe?

 

Many thoughts cried through my brain when a familiar hand touched my shoulder. She looked at Thomas's remains and said, “Come on, you old softy, breakfast is ready.”