WHERE DO BABIES COME FROM?
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Where Do Babies Come From? By Madeline Perez
I
look around and I see ignorance. I look inside myself and I see nothing greater. We are all ignorant of something and I do not claim to know all. The truth remains that the masses are riddled with great holes. Holes in their knowledge. Holes in their hearts. Holes in their ass. Lies perpetrated by the powers that be would lead you to believe that some of you DO, in fact, know where the arcane creature “baby” comes from. Or even what a “baby” is. But I have consulted the ancient texts and I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. So utterly, dangerously wrong. Long ago, in a town plagued by darkness and greed, a king lay dying. It’s ok though, he was a terrible king. It was a terrible town. At this point, babies had yet to torture the ertheral plane with their wretched existance. Human beings were a small race that were simply uncovered from the earth fully grown, like potatoes or various root vegetables. They knew not the modern horrors of “being red-pilled” and wouldn’t be able to comprehend the tragedy of the “soy wojak.” The soil was fruitful and nutrient rich, and the magic of the realm filled the biological potholes of my story. A council of town superiors surrounded the grand bed of the king, where countless women had laid in the sweet, sticky summer warmth of eras past. The ghosts of these memories danced around the room, seen only by the blind eyes of the dying king. The council stood re-
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spectfully, waiting for him to choose a successor. Waiting for him to die. His withered, shaking hand rose while blind, glazed eyes looked through each member. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could see the weight of their souls, as such was the power of the king. His disease-ridden, disgusting old-person hand seemed to falter… and then it fell. “None of you are fit to rule. Not even the Girlbosses among you.” he strained. Though weak, his voice still held the gravity of one who was once powerful and unforgiving. “You all must band together and find me a true successor. Or else thou mother beist gay.” With that he let out a final shriek and died violently. The council turned toward each other in murmur and shock. They hated the king with unparalleled rage, and his last decision cemented the hatred in their hearts indefinitely. But the council respected his dying choice. They wished none of their mothers to be gay. The council took up temporary rule, but resentment bred within. They coveted one another with sinful glances, tossed carelessly and then hidden away in dark places. The king’s wish haunted them, but they knew not a suitable townsfolk who could rule, and would all rather die before seeing a fellow councilmember take control. It was in this desperation they broke all societal norms and consulted the Department of Witchcraft to help construct the perfect heir. However the throne was reclaimed, it would not be with grace. They knew that much to be true. A full moon gleamed high. Blood would be spilled tonight. The witches cackled in boisterous, feminine glory; they had been paid nearly 300 gold pieces and were laden with empty promises from nearly all the members of the laughable virgin council. Little did they understand the weight of their promises, and would be held to their necks until fulfillment at the co-
ven’s whim. The witches congregated from all directions of the silent forest, their breasts perky with malicious intent. The leaves fell one after the other in the autumnal darkness. A comically large cauldron sat in the middle of the clearing, rusted and helpless to time. They were commissioned to create an early human. One that could be trained, raised-- easily influenced. One that could be reared to become a great ruler of their domain. If only they knew the horrors they were about to unleash on the world. They would not be laughing. They would be crying. The broth bubbled happily
“The town would never receive new royalty. The town was actually doomed due to its proximity to the baby cauldron.” within the deep cauldron. Each witch added a silly little ingredient that they felt reflected humanity. Dirt was tossed in handfuls. Glitter abound. Three cups of flour. You know the drill. Finally, the witches gathered around the soup. Each took a blade to her respective palm. Their eyes gleamed with moonlight as they watched the red spill; they did not feel pain. Not since the initial severing of their souls to serve the Moon Mother. Suddenly, there came a rumbling from the cauldron. The witches stepped back, smiles wider than Wide Logan. The ground
Vol. XXXIV, Issue I
