Steps, Parts 1, 2 and Threee

Party 1

"Why granny dies?" said the baby.

"Step-granny, sweetie," said Haylie, "she's not your real grandmother. She's just a step granny."

Sweetie was confused. "Ms. Elaine said that it's grandma if she is your mommy's mommy," he told her. "Or daddy's mommy," he added, after some consideration.

"Oh, Aaron," she said, picking him up to her lap and hugging him. She had named him after her father, who had passed on just five months before he was born. "Well, you got it right there, clever little guy." Aaron smiled happily at being called clever by his mommy. "But in this case, it's just a little bit different."

"Why?" said the child.

"Well," she said, holding him close to her, "you see, your granny -- I mean, step-granny -- she was not really my mommy. Not mommy's real mommy."

This revelation confounded him. "Then how did you come out?"

"Come out?"

"Into the world?" he demanded.

She stroked his soft brown hair, not at first sure how she could -- or if she should -- explain it to him. "Well," she said, "it's a very long story, sweetie."

Aaron laid his head back upon her. This was him 'settling in', as she liked to think of it. "I got a lot of time," he said, turning his face into her breast, and he closed his eyes so that she could begin the story.

.

It was a long time ago. I was only a very little girl, a child like you, when Alice -- your step-granny -- came to live with us. Everything changed when she came. It wasn't the same any more as before. I remember, daddy -- your grandaddy Aaron -- he changed too, from then on. It was so long ago, but I still remember that he changed then. He wasn't like before any more. Nothing was the same after Alice came to stay with us.

You see, before that, I was the light of my daddy's life. I still remember, as soon as he came home, he'd take me, pick me up, and sit down and talk to me. Even on the days when he was really tired, he'd never forget to collect me and have our daily talk.

Party 2

He always wore brown, you know? At least that's what I remember. There was all this...grime...on his suit, and I always liked to touch it -- touch the grime -- because I knew he would then playfully slap my fingers away and then find a tissue, or a wipe or something, and clean them carefully. He'd say that I had to be careful, and that there are loads of bad germs in this world that want to infect me. He always said I have to be careful with myself, and always notice all the things that are present around me. But he would say it with such wonder to me, such happiness. If you ever looked into his eyes, you would know that you were absolutely loved.

And we would talk. That was always important to him, for us. Strange thing is, I guess I must have been the one doing all the talking, because I remember so very little, so little of what he said. I don't even remember what he worked as, you know, what he did for a living. But he always wanted to know everything I'd done during the day. Maybe the reason I remember so little is that the most important things to me, at that time, were all his questions. I remember his questions. Maybe they're not the exact questions he asked, but I remember their shapes, and what they felt like.

They were questions about me. About how I was doing in the world. And you could tell they were important, just by his voice when he asked them. He wanted to know what was going on in my mind, what I was up to all those hours when he had to go away to work. I remember, at first I had not really understood how important these things were to him. But towards the end, I knew. I knew how important the routine was to both him, and me. How it bonded us, father and daughter. Later, when I was around ten or eleven, I realized it was how he made sure I would eat. That was his 'trick' to get me to eat the food he was giving me. He'd play with me and joke with me, coddle me, and then gently slip the spoon in. And it would always taste grand.

There was only one time I ever saw him look sad, and it was, if I remember correctly, just a short while before Alice came to live with us. He'd asked what I'd learned about today, and when I told him I knew about doctors, he teared up. He kissed me and told me that he was going to do everything possible to make my dreams come true. And I noticed the spoon that day, in his hand, trembled a little, and when I asked him, he just said he'll take care of it, and tucked me a little promptly into bed.

Party 3

"Check inside the drawers of your boss's files," he typed. "You will find something amazing there."

"I can't do something that violating," she typed back, "that would just be wrong." She did a double-take, and noticed a small infraction in the user interface window element. It made her take a deep breath. "Wait," she said, "who are you?"

"Your baby," he typed back.

She rolled her eyes, and sat back in the chair. "Lol", she typed, "for a minute there, I thought you were, actually, my baby! Fool."

"Looks like you forgot your nanny-cam," he typed back at her.

"No," she typed furiously.

"Not that hard to switch to it," he typed, teasing. "Flick of the mouse."

It was the slowest millennia recorded. Last time this much effort was taken to switch to nanny-cam was when Vesuvius decided to romp Pompeii. But...she made this shift in perspective.

There he was, a baby, typing away.

"Hi," he wrote.

"I never gave you a computer!" she screamed.

"Check the files in your boss's work area. There is information there about you."

For about five minutes, she just stared at the nanny-cam, wondering how the hell he was managing to communicate without any official computer system at his disposal.

And he was doing it in his nappies!

Cherry Tomatoes

A tear trickled down a cherubic cheek,
intimating this gross betrayal.
Quick to follow, the baby's painful shriek,
rejecting food 'cos of the tomatoes.

On halcyon days its mother had enjoyed
in groves of lemon thick as pies,
the largest of reddest fresh tomatoes
and fed herself slices from a glistening knife.

So panic now fully spread, who'dda thunk,
after those whole nine months bred?
That this baby would hate such tomatoes given,
'n weep with fury and see only red?

"It's a tomato, baby," says the mother,
trying to learn what the hell is wrong.
The baby flings the slice like a frisbee
that lands on his father's computer-side cheek.

Now both parents, panicking,
tend worriedly to their little king.
"Help me try and understand, dear God,"
says father, putting an arm around the mother's bod.

Finally, first words come from the baby's mouth:
not 'mama' or 'dada' or 'bubba boobboo';
but a pellet-like shot straight to their guts
it says, "I prefer the cherry tomatoes."

Curious, dumbfounded, they ask, slyly, "Oh, really?"
The baby just nods. Another tear down cherubic cheek.
"And why cherry tomatoes, not normal, nicely sliced
tomatoes like mommy likes?" asks the mommy.

"Cos they *pop*" says the baby, smiling happily.

Simple Recipes for Baby Vorlons (1 > Witnessing Realization Before Realizing Witnesses

(TINY INGLORIOUS BASTERDS SPOILER WARNING, and no, baby Vorlons are not subject to movie rating schemes)

Ingredients:

1) Two sets of people who haven't seen 'Sixth Sense'. (These may be difficult to find, but that is part of the challenge of this recipe). Try Mongolia.

2) Miraculously procure theater like running girl in Inglorious Basterds. If this means making all the popcorn by yourself at 3am then you are not doing it right.

3) Modded projection unit that can invert every 30th frame with its complementary frame on the opposite end of the reel. Cheating is allowed. For example you can just toss the bloody projector and get an optical disc player with one of those fancy projection units they use at professional conferences. You will find that altering access to optical media is easier, but you will get extra points if you describe in detail the qualitative difference -- from your point of view as projectionist -- of showing movie with this apparatus as opposed to using a reel (which means you need to build the 'old school' mod as well).

Directions:

1) Show movie in 'normal mode' to Set 1 and observe reactions to ending

2) Show movie in 'modified mode' to Set 2, and note differences in collective audience response. Things you may consider: Are there more ripples caused by obstinate types who see the ending in the first few minutes, and decide to reveal it to those in their environs? Are as many couples in Set 2 holding hands as were in Set 1? Which showing caused theatre mice to pause more in the midst of their scurries?

3) Note everything, and report back to homeworld.

pyroinfanticide

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."

The Baby Explains About Ears

Somebody had been shot in an interracial war outside their house. She knew that it was something about who has a better videogame or something, but she did not know the exact detail. I mean, I'm sure the kid that was shot, and the kid who had actually gone all the way and shot that kid who got shot knew about it, but she didn't know -- shit, it's hard enough being a single mother in the projects. Let alone a single mother of six children.

The sixth one began to cry. She entered the code so thirteen-year-old Janis could go onto the internet, and then she gave 11-year-old Charlie some money to go buy some firecrackers. "There is a reason that those things are banned," she told him. "I'm giving you this money in the hope -- the pure hope -- that you won't misuse it."

When all was said and done, she finally attended to the baby in the middle of the living room. She put a blanket over its body, as it had requested, and then added those nitrous oxide injection units to each of the casters of his pram. "See," she said to him, soothingly. "Mummy wasn't away anywhere else. Mummy was right here."

The baby smiled and took the gift. But then he said "I have Ears, you know?"

She froze. "You don't have ears, baby."

"I have Ears!" he said, stubbornly.

Wtf? How was this even possible, that he knew about ears? She got down, and hung out with him, on his personal level. "Who told you about ears, baby?" she asked.

"I know about ears," said the baby, miserably. "I know how they are such wonderful organs, how exquisite the formations are. How there are canals."

She could not do anything except nod. "Yes. They are designed really well." She looked around to see if any of the other kids had been teasing him so cruelly.

The baby pressed the nitrous oxide button his mother had just installed for him, and ran over her foot. "It's not designed!" he shouted.

Then something amazing happened. Too bad nobody caught it on tape, but there's this vision of this crazy baby on nitrous, in a pram, whizzing around the whole fucking living room and talking about evolution.

Massive Six-by-Eight ft. High-Definition TV Has Tiny Production Artifact

"Okay, I'm really getting tired of these. These ... dOTs," I grumbled.

dOT was speaking again now, waking me from my peaceful slumber. It was able to perform whole sentences. Said something about being able to 'actually fleep peeffully'. "Well ain't that marvelous," I fumed.

For those who don't know, dOT is a baby I hear from time to time, going about in the building in which I live. When I first learned of it, it was spirited, yet could not speak in any language except to say "dOT!" all day long (loudly). This is why I named it dOT.

However, as evidenced by today's massive dissertation on delta wave brain states, dOT is starting to learn how to compose whole sentences. Which makes it something more human, and less dOT-like.

But I am still going to call it dOT for a while. Until the bird is actually able to leave the coop.