Creative Writing

Chapter One of Siblings of the Storm & Sky

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When the goddess Vita cupped chaos in her palm, puckered her lips, and blew, she scattered the stars like so many dandelion seeds, birthing the galaxy as we know it today. Some of those stars nurtured planets, and some of those planets, life. Their soils exploded into little ecosystems, overflowing with oceans and forests, butterflies and bees. Flora whispered through the earth. Silk-soft petals drifted across the skies. Insects dusted their legs with pollen and peppered the fields into meadows.

One star, however, drifted far from the flock. Bright and independent, it migrated to the outskirts of the Dandelion Galaxy and used its magnetism to draw planets into its embrace.

There resided Gantuan, the driest of worlds.

Gantuan blossomed in its own, barren way. Oleander and olives poked through the cracks of its deserts. Lizards scuttled along the shadows between dunes. Like other humans, the people of Gantuan began as cave dwellers, and they evolved into hunters who tracked antelope for their meat and gatherers who tucked seeds into sand and prayed blossoms into food. As the Gaunts advanced, they became farmers, glassmakers, and clerics. For generations, they developed tricks to survive the unrelenting summer heat, such as harvesting plants for their sunburn-relieving properties or spending afternoons indoors.

The Gaunts chipped away at the land until it revealed itself to be a series of stone huts, complete with archways and stairs. Awnings shaded the space between houses. Glass trinkets dangled from windows, catching the sunlight and painting it across clay floors. The Gaunts developed an array of teas—for their healing abilities, yes, but also because of the old, trusted adage: the hotter the stomach, the cooler the skin.

Gantuan’s infirmary had been carved into the deepest mantles of the planet’s crust, the corridors looking like something a river might have eroded on a more temperate world. It smelled of miracle mud, the kind a beautician uses to keep her skin supple and hydrated, and curtains fluttered between the stalls, a poor attempt at ensuring privacy.

Deep in this infirmary, Latona Venetis went into labor. She squatted in an upright birthing cubicle, where a rolled-up tunic absorbed the sweat from her neck and leather straps pinned her arms to brass spindles. She huffed in, then out, in, then out. A thin, linen gown clung to her rotund belly, which was ready to burst with both laughter and tears, innocence and sin, hope and despair.

She screamed.

Dr. Baucholonous dragged his stool across the sand. “We’re almost done, Latona. The pain will be over soon, but first you must push. Push!”

Latona reached for her husband’s hand, but it slid out of her grip. Undeterred, Elias grasped Latona’s fingers with both of his, pressing her knuckles to his lips, hoping they—and the soft touch of his beard—might bring her comfort.

Dr. Baucholonous gestured. “Step over here, if you please, Elias. Aye, exactly like that. I find that the mother instinctually leans forward at this stage, and we need you to stand there in case she—aye, there she goes. I’ll go underneath and—there’s the head. Push once more, Latona. Push!”

She screamed again, the piercing, split-body call of one about to give life.

A dome ruptured through the opening, followed by a placid face, sloping shoulders, and a chubby body. At the same time, something rumbled, as if furniture moved upstairs—but of course there was no upstairs, only a tarp canopy.

“That sounds like a storm,” Elias said.

“A storm?” Dr. Baucholonous repeated. “On Gantuan? Who ever heard of such a thing?”

He lowered the newborn’s head and suctioned the mucus from her nostrils. Her nose gave a little wiggle. Her pink mouth parted for a thin inhale. She kneaded her fingers against her stomach, but otherwise, she moved so little that she could’ve been mistaken for a very red, very sticky doll.

“Ciara,” Latona Venetis said. “May I hold her—argg!”

Dr. Baucholonous stepped toward Elias, about to deposit Ciara in her father’s arms. Halfway through, however, he grimaced, as if recalling an unpleasant memory, and pivoted, transferring the babe to the nurse droid instead.

Avoiding the Venetis’ gaze, he snipped the umbilical cord and commanded Latona to push.

“I’m trying!”

“Push!”

“I am!”

Elias patted his wife. “Push, darling.”

“YOU—PUSH—IF—YOU’RE—SO—erggg!”

Another head crowned. A momentary flash blinded everyone but Latona, who had squeezed her eyes and bared her teeth. In the distance, thunder groaned.

Dr. Baucholonous gasped. “It is a storm.”

The wind whipped the curtains into a cream-colored frenzy. Sand sprinkled through the open flaps. Dr. Baucholonous encouraged Latona to bear down until the second baby, too, slithered from her body.

Unlike the first offspring, this one thrashed and cried. He already missed the warm, watery comfort of his mother’s womb as well as the soothing embrace of his dear sister’s arms. Something was very wrong about being forcibly expulsed from his mother’s body, and everyone, he decided, should hear his complaints.

“Strong lungs,” Dr. Baucholonous shouted, handing the wailing babe to Elias.

 “Cyrus.” Elias rubbed his beard against his son’s cheek. The caress mollified Cyrus. He blinked twice and drifted into his first dream.

Latona collapsed against the labor cubicle. Dr. Baucholonous returned to his post beneath her, where he sliced the second cord and waited for two placentas to plunge into his hands.

“Nurse,” he said to the droid when he finished. “Stitch Latona while I monitor her daughter.”

“Is something the matter?” Elias asked.

The droid’s square head swiveled on its spring neck. It teetered on its lone wheel, rocking Ciara. “Your daughter is perfectly healthy,” it said in a scratchy voice.

Dr. Baucholonous coaxed the infant from the droid’s arms. “I cannot be sure.”

“But the nurse said—”

Dr. Baucholonous pressed his palm to the babe’s forehead. “The nurse is old and outdated. It doesn’t know what it’s—”

He flinched. The motion was so exaggerated that it might’ve been practiced. “My gods!”

Latona sat up. “What? What?”

Dr. Baucholonous stroked the babe’s head. “Your daughter…”

“What about her? What’s wrong?”

“She is too hot, too quiet, too still. I will assess her symptoms in the lab and return as soon as I am able.”

“Let me hold her.”

From the skies, a crash of light.

“The risk—it’s too much. I—”

A gust of wind.

“She is my daughter. You will let me hold her.”

Dr. Baucholonous whisked out of the delivery stall, shouting something about an emergency. The droid trailed him. “The baby is perfectly healthy,” it repeated. “The baby is perfectly healthy.”

Latona ripped off her restraints. She stepped down from the cubicle…

But she was too weak from being split apart, too weary from hours of hard labor. When her bare foot touched the sand, the rest of her body collapsed after it.

“Latona!”

“Don’t help me, Elias. Help our baby. She needs our—ow!”

“What hurts?”

“Everything.” Tears sprung into her eyes, and her voice cracked. “My heart, my legs, my body—everything.”

In the trenches, beyond their purview, Dr. Baucholonous ran. He banished the memory of their distressed faces from his mind, reminding himself that he couldn’t afford to miss this opportunity. With twins, Dr. Baucholonous could avoid his usual dilemma: he could appease Maeve and deliver a healthy baby to a caring family. After all, he wasn’t a monster—or so he would’ve said had anyone bothered to ask.

The droid kept at his heels. “—Is perfectly healthy,” it said. “The baby is perfectly healthy.”

Dr. Baucholonous hastened down the dug-out staircase, where the one-wheeled droid couldn’t follow. As he descended from sandy surface to clay crater, the steps became harder, browner, and damper. Here, on the lowest level, the most contagious patients had been shoved into cubbyholes. In one room, someone dry-heaved. Another regurgitated his meal in loud, splattering slaps.

Dr. Baucholonous ducked under a levitating stretcher and raced around a six-armed droid, each limb laden with lunch trays. He shouldered past another doctor.

“Baucholonous, what in the—”

“Emergency, emergency,” Dr. Baucholonous cried. He was being reckless, yet he didn’t dare stop. People were staring. The baby was squirming. If he hesitated, he might be caught—or, worse, change his mind.

Ahead, a cage shuddered down a shaft. When it screeched to a landing, the doors rattled apart. The nurse droid rolled into the canyon, swiveling its boxy head.

Its eyes glinted. “The baby is perfectly healthy.”

“Damn those ethical sub-routines,” Dr. Baucholonous said to himself. “When will robots learn to butt out of flesh-and-blood business?”

He reversed course, knocking over a crate of tonics. The glass splintered, releasing a pungent, herbed scent.

“Emergency,” he shouted again, leaving the droids to clean up his mess.

Above, the clouds curdled, ramming into each other headfirst. Lightning sparked along the collision. From that golden, glowing fissure, there came a sprinkling of rain.

Nurses, patients, family, custodians—everyone gasped at once, a single, husky intake, as if preparing to recite a prayer.

Dr. Baucholonous, too, stopped in his tracks and stared at the miracle pouring upon him. The baby opened her mouth. A raindrop landed on her tongue.

The drizzle swelled into shower, and that shower surged into a cold, hard downpour. When the lightning cracked again, it was followed not by a rumble of thunder, but a mourn of sorrow. When the wind roared, the draperies responded, weeping.

While everyone else sought shelter, the baby reached forward, trying to catch raindrops.

The droid spun its wheel in the mud. It screamed, “The baby is perfectly healthy.”

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Dr. Baucholonous rapped on a door and whispered. When the lock on the other side unlatched, he barged into a stockroom, kicking the plank shut behind him.

The barrier muted the droid’s voice. Still, it said, “The baby is perfectly—”

“Someone dismantle that thing before it exposes us all!”

A man nodded, touching the brim of his cap. “Right away, Baucholonous.”

Bright light spilled across the chiseled shelves.

“—Perfectly healthy. The baby is—”

With a slam, darkness and quiet overtook the cupboard once more.

The clay wall had been molded into shelves. Syringes, bandages, and saline pouches crowded the ledges, alongside stacks of linens. Disinfectant perfumed the cramped space, threatening Dr. Baucholonous with a headache. The fumes could damage the newborn, he realized. She wouldn’t do Dr. Baucholonous much good dead.

By the tub, a boy sponged a surgical knife. His round ears stuck out of his cap.

“You,” Dr. Baucholonous said. “Do you understand how this establishment works?”

“Aye, sir. I’ve been told all about it, sir,” the boy said in a falsetto voice, on the precipice of puberty. “I’ve heard that even a custodian’s apprentice like me can earn up to—”

“Shh. Not so loud. Are you in contact with Mistress Maeve?”

“Not directly.”

“No one is in direct contact with Maeve.”

“In that case, aye, sir.”

“Do you know how to hold a child?”

“I have six younger siblings. Practically raised ’em myself.”

“Here,” Dr. Baucholonous said, transferring the babe into the boy’s arms. “Get this to Maeve, and make sure she knows it is from Dr. Owen Baucholonous. Tell her I will send the proper paperwork along shortly. You’ll get paid when I get paid.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll take care of it, sir.”

Dr. Baucholonous held open the door. On the other side, rain poured from the heavens, a thick sheet through which he could scarcely perceive anything else.

“My gods!” Dr. Baucholonous said, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a sign for him, if the gods were telling him he had gone too far this time.

 “Is that rain? Real rain?” the boy said before starting out. “The last time I saw rain I was loading lumber onto my pop’s wagon, and that rain wasn’t half as heavy as this.”

 “Never mind all that.” Dr. Baucholonous ushered the boy into the storm. “The lanes will be slippery. Take care. Watch your footing.”

“Real rain,” the boy repeated. “How about that?”

In the canyon, another droid paced, its wheel unable to roll past the divot it had carved in the mud. A doctor shrieked, holding a tray over her head, the sand clinging to her sandals with wet, sucking kisses. The tarp, which had once shaded the patients from the sun, now buckled under the weight of the rain, pouring water directly onto the very people it was designed to protect. The machines beeped erratically, unable to make sense of all this liquid, while the patients fled their rooms, taking their buckets with them, stopping only long enough to vomit.

Dr. Baucholonous waited until the storm abated, and when it did, it left a refreshing, earthy smell in its wake.

“Now, then.” Dr. Baucholonous frowned, conjuring a disappointed—no, apologetic—expression.

When he returned to the delivery stall, he found the three remaining Venetises resting on a soaked-through cot, baby lying on mother, mother leaning against father. They hunched and shivered as one, dark hair plastered to their foreheads, near-transparent clothes clinging to their bodies.

Latona peered from behind puffy, red-rimmed lids. “Where’s Ciara?”

Dr. Baucholonous said, “I regret to inform you that—”

Elias stood. A puddle gathered at his feet. “Where’s our daughter?”

“She didn’t survive. She—”

Bundled in white, the baby boy reached for the second blanket, the empty, yellow one Elias was holding. The boy looked as though he might suck on its corner—but no, his soft, pudgy fists grasped for more and more. By the time he seized the opposite corner, he realized the length of the cloth was empty, and he began to wail, begging for his sister.

“She suffered from what we call disperthia, a plasma that blocks the brain from sending signals to—”

Latona said, “I want to see her.”

“I wish I could accommodate your wishes, but the body is already—”

“I want to see her now!”

Dr. Baucholonous backed into the corridor. Once he cleared the drapes, he fled.

In the stall, Latona and Elias wept, uttering a choked-throat sob, the animal bellow of two people in so much pain that they had forgotten how to think, how to breathe, how to do anything other than hold onto each other and cry. Their tears mingled with the fluid from their noses, and when they did manage to gasp, to catch a breath, they inhaled their bodies’ awful, salty solution and, with it, the raw stench of birth—now, in their minds, a half-birth—with all its pungent medicines and coppery blood and dried, sour womb water.

Dr. Baucholonous retreated into a lavatory, the broken one, the one everyone avoided, where drips dropped from the sink in a slow, maddening tempo. The mirrors were missing their frames. The trash cans had been thrown onto their sides. Roaches congregated around the toilet, and the hems of the stall curtains had been stained orange from being dragged back and forth across the sand.

Dr. Baucholonous stared at his reflection and begged the gods for their pardon.

In the corner, a flicker of movement.

He spun. Four of the stall curtains had been pinned ajar. The fifth rippled despite the absent wind.

“What the—”

He drew the curtain, rings scraping against the pole.

The nurse droid lay in a heap, its brass intestines ripped out of its stomach, its wheel torn from its hips. Its metallic arms buckled in on themselves, and its head spun ’round and ’round its axis, squeaking.

“Baby…perfectly healthy…baby…perfectly healthy…”

“Garbage,” Dr. Baucholonous said, and he gave it a good kick.

Two-Faced

Honorable Mention in Literary Death Match (2016), a 250-word Flash Fiction Contest Guest-Judged by Daniel Handler

At the ticket booth, circus goers point at the man called Blister as if he, too, belongs in the sideshow. A boy with large teeth splashes Pepsi-Cola onto Blister’s shirt. Rapping the back of his head, his mother scolds him, yet neither apologizes.

A lithe arm slips around Blister’s back, pressing a towel to the stain on his chest. It belongs to Trixie, Goddess of the Trapeze. Her costume shimmers opal white and ghost gray, and her ruby bracelet jingles like crystallized blood. She says Blister’s scars are a brand of his bravery, a reminder of the fire he’d smothered, the audience he’d saved.

The calliope whistles. Clasping hands, Blister and Trixie sneak through the crowd, past warm funnel cakes and buttered popcorn. He grips the vial in his pocket.

It would only work—the fortune teller had warned—if Blister rode next to Trixie.

She perches atop a tiger. He hoists a leg over the adjacent horse. The carousel shudders, then spins. Blister becomes dizzy as the colorful tents, clowns, and balloons smear into streaks.

He no longer sees the onlookers, and they can no longer laugh at him.

As the ride slows, he swallows the potion. His flesh bubbles into goose bumps. He almost vomits.

Steadying himself, he massages his temple, pats his cheek—his cheek!

His skin feels foreign and smooth, like porcelain; fresh, velvety—a petal. He strokes his nose, fingers his lips, relishing the soft curves.

Trixie, too, touches her face. She screams.