"We're going to have a baby."

Harlan smiled beatifically at his family. One inside the other, both alive. Both kicking. I am the shore, he thought, on which this detritus has arrived. His teeth were bared. He displayed as much of his skull as was possible without parting his skin. Memento Mori. Rictus grin.

He grimaced, unseen unheard; we’re crazed biologists, tiny gods, spitting life into pelvic Petri dishes without even thinking.

An accidental life. Existence boiled down to a minor tragedy of regrowth and recycle (and, please no, rebirth).

She sniffed, as if she were the one hurt, pulled back and peered up through her curls. Oh god, incubator of life, impish divine, woman that I have loved, say it ain’t so.

“We’re going to be parents, Harlan.” No. We are monsters, escaped from some lesser Olympus, the mutant inbred shovelware of idiot mortals.

I am post-modern Prometheus and my cock is aflame.

He converted his laughter into smiles and pretty words.

He howled and beat the walls in a wordless rage. But nobody saw, nobody heard.

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