This is an old work, written probably in 2005 or 2006 or something, originally here, but renewed anew … err. I’m going to try to quit smoking again.

(being a variation of psychosis experienced while attempting nicotine discharge from the body. and an homage to that great creator,mr. pregnant)

I was woken around 3am by the wails of a child in the aisle. Naturally, I tended towards shutting the noise out with my pillow, and was ready to sink again into sleep and strange dreams when my, shall we say, ‘maternal’ instinct was awoken.

Far be it from me to harbor such instinct, being a well-formed man at the rim of youth – but I always like to leave my senses open and varied to the smells of the universe.

Here it was, then, that I smelt the fear of the screaming child. After a moment’s heshitatition (befluffed also by crumbs of dried soymilk profusing from my beard), I picked up my pistol and rose out from my room.

Two women were in the vicinity of the elevator door. From between them, I could see the hint of a handlebar, and the sound of the wailing child. Brandishing my pistol, I courageously approached these foul whores.

“What are you doing with the baby?” I demanded.

They were shocked. No doubt it had not occurred to them that some hero may come to rescue this poor child they were clearly smuggling away.

“Whereforth you steal this child?” I demanded from the one to my right, an elderly crone who may have been named Madame Shcadenfraude.

She gawked. The woman next to her, somewhat younger, yet no less foul in demeanour, tugged at her sleeve. The elevator had arrived. They opened the door and hurried in.

I peered between them to see the baby. Finally – there it was. Sitting in a stroller of pink nature, with lots of – pinkness. It smiled at me. I smiled back at the baby. However, at this juncture the baby started crying again. “Don’t worry, baby,” I said, “I’ll save you!”

The crone tried to shut the door, but I put my hand right in the way, the one holding my pistol, so that it pointed at her head. “No, crone,” I said. “Inform me of the whereabouts you intend to impose upon this fine child.” I looked at the baby again, and it wailed louder.

“You’re going to burn it aren’t you?” I exclaimed. “You’re going to burn the baby!”

The women gawked.

“You’re taking it to the basement and throwing it into the incinerator!”

Eyes wide open, the older woman grabbed the elevator door from my hands and closed it upon themselves. I was surprised by this move and did not have time to fire my pistol.

As I heard the elevator ride down, I beat my hands upon the door. “You will not get away with this! I’m calling the police! I’m calling the police goddamn you and putting an end to this baby burning business!”

I ran back to my apartment, a cold sweat breaking upon me within the 12 steps it takes to get there. What if they reached the incinerator before the police arrived? What if that cute baby which smiled at me was borne unto ashes?” I had promised that I would save it.

Shaking my head, I stamped my way to my desk and picked my phone up. I called emergency services. I dialed 9-1-1. “They’re burning babies over here!” I screamed. “Babies – they’re being burned!”

I was made to hold for about 35 seconds while they patched me. In.

It was while waiting, then, and rolling my pistol around my finger, that I realized it was actually a chicken bone. A wing piece, attached to the arm as is customary. I remembered that a neighbor of mine owns a child, and due to its wailing on certain nights, takes it out for a stroll to soothe it.

“Sir, are you still there?” came the emergency voice.

“Ah ha ha ha.” I said. “No.”

My hands trembled, as I held the photo.  Who is this child? It was a picture of a new born baby boy.  His black hair was thickly curled, around smooth cinnamon brown skin.  Eyes closed, sleeping quietly…wrapped in a knitted ocean blue blanket.  What a beautiful baby, I thought.

Who is this child?  …And why is this photo in my fiance’s glove box?

Oh, this must be his nephew, or perhaps that of friend’s.  Minutes ticked into hours, as I waited for my fiance to come home.  As I prepared dinner for 2, I kept reaching into the pocket of my apron, pulling out the photo…locked onto his face.  I made his favorite, grilled salmon, green beans and saffron rice.  Today, I decided to make a sauce from virgin olive oil, fresh lemon juice, oregano and sea salt.  He came home late, as usual, but he had a bundle of lilies and a stuffed teddy bear…asking how I was feeling.

Loved the flowers.

I tossed the stuffed teddy bear next to the other 3. I’ll name it later.

The silence of dinner was broken by, “You know, my sister had a miscarriage and she was back on her feet in one week”. I snapped, “Really?…One week? Well, she has 4 children by 3 different men. I think our situation is different.”

“She also said that you might be blaming me for your situation” he said.

“MY SITUATION? Situation?”

Here’s the summary of My Situation: I’ve never been pregnant and I wanted babies. We discussed it year 3 of our relationship. I was fastly approaching 40 and we decided to go thru fertility treatments. I became pregnant one month later. Unfortunately, the baby was lodged in my tubes and I miscarried at week 6. I was still crying 2 months later.

As I cleared the dishes from the table, I poured 2 glasses of wine.  I placed his glass in front of him and sat down at the other end of our dining room table.  I pulled out the picture of baby-doe…..took a deep breath and asked, “Sweetie, who is this?”

“Oh, so you’re going thru my shit?” he said.

“I was looking for my CD and you told me it was in your glove box…SOOOOO, who’s baby?”

“I’ve told you…it’s my niece’s baby”.

“You never told me any such thing…your niece? Which one?” I said.

“Look, I’m not going to argue with you” and with that he grabbed his car keys and left.

NEXT: Part 2.

The sub-atomic particles were confused. “What is this direction? Why this?” they cried.

“He needs something good,” they were informed by a surrounding voice. “This time, we are going to do something good.”

.

When a Boy awoke, his soul filled up his skin so gently as taking careful steps amongst marigold. “The body is just a shell,” sang a voice into his ear. “It is your soul that is important.”

Babies know that these are the lies of anxious mothers. They start crying, at first, just to exacerbate the anxiety. Because the mother is the first testing unit. The babies want to see what they can do — how far they could go. The cool thing is that even this lie is comforted by their Mother, after a short process of her various mixed emotions. Then the momz takes the baby and soothes it. The entire ‘act’ is one of liberation. Of freedom. The baby falls asleep at his mother’s teat, free in his dreams, and the mother is also freed. She knows this boy will grow up to be probably the most excellent man ever. Now she may proceed and find sustenence for herself, and the baby.

The father is a distant figure. It is the mother who teaches the baby everything. From speaking — saying things like ‘bubba bubba bubba’ — to crawling. Yes, crawling. The mother teaches the child to crawl, and then one day, he finally does! She gets so excited, she phones up everybody she could possibly know. “He’s crawling!” she cries, into the phone receiver, to a million people who probably don’t care. But the million people are not what is important. It is the tears of the mother that are important, here. That is where you will find the most beautiful happiness. If you were there, you could even take one of the tears, and taste it, and it will blow your mind more explosively than any drug sold around in the multiverse.

Eventually the baby begins to advance from crawling, to walking. It tends to learn by itself. Mother is always watching, of course, but now it is from some kind of distant, fond amusement. Now she thinks, “Oh my God, what have I created?” There is a distinct smile on her face. She admonishes the baby, when it makes little mistakes. She trains it, according to her beliefs and such. But then one day, the child, now even talking back, informs her that her instructions are becoming rote. “My god,” she cries to herself at night (not when he is listening). “I hope you are not going to break my heart.”

Despite her greatest fears, this is a Good story. The baby grew up into a little boy, violent and mad. He did crazy things. One time, he even rode his BMX so fast, and pulled the front brakes, and was tossed over it, landing on his nose. The physics were amazing. That is the reason his nose ended up that way, for the rest of his life. His mother was not very happy when she saw it. But she told him, “You are now learning about the ways of life.”

So he learned. He dated his first girlfriend at the age of 9 or so, on a see-saw. Later on, he moved on to more complex issues. He began hunting things bigger than little dragonflies with wings to pull out, or frogs in whose mouths to put firecrackers. He learned about a thing called ‘humanity’, which is where you get to care for people. He learned it because there was this one girl who (in planned place of his mother) told him how to do things. This girl was amazing. She knew about things, and when she conducted her experiments, all the physics always ended up completely correct. With this woman, the boy grew to even greater heights. He became a Man.

Is that not a beautiful story? No? Let me tell you something more beautiful than even that. Bear with me, and imagine … imagine if the mother originally had never taken care of the Boy like that? Imagine if she did not even want it. Or maybe she was not ready for it. “What’s so beautiful about that?” you might ask. “How can she be such an evil bitch?” Here is what is beautiful: I’m here to tell you that she is beautiful. And, no, she is not an evil bitch. I’m here to tell you that it is her prerogative. I’m telling you that she has to have a choice. Because if she does not have a choice, then all of the amazing stuff you see above will turn negative. The ‘beautiful baby’ who learned to walk and talk will end up a complete bastard. I don’t mean that in the familial sense, either. He will be an an actual complete bastard. Not like-able at all. Nobody will love him. People will pretend to love him, but they would only do it for his cash.

So you see, then. She has to have the choice. That is how beautiful the whole thing ends up.