Short story: A good human father

A completely normal story about becoming a parent. It is a hugely relatable tale and should probably be used in instruction manuals or something.

The Inciting Incident is a weekly newsletter about writing horror, writing tips, and some fun things on the side (often, but not always, related to my old Matazone content). Thanks for reading!

This week we have a short story and next week there will be a post picking apart its workings.

Trigger warnings: parenthood, weird pregnancy, and breeding stuff.

With that ado done, here’s the tale:

Photo by lauren lulu taylor on Unsplash

A good human father

I am a good human father. When my willing mate suggested I access her eggs, I knew it would be a big leap for us, but it was one I was willing to take with her. Birthing is hard.

She squatted and laid the eggs in a hexagonal grid across the polished marble tiles of our mansion, neat and orderly, as humans prefer such things to be. The tiles kept them nice and cool.

I must admit, splitting my juice sacks was more painful than I had anticipated. Human males like me often seek this moment of release, but I was startled at how the skin resisted tearing, but finally the juice spheres dangled free and limp against my thighs. With only a small tug, they came free.

The rubbing of the juice spheres over the eggs was a delicate process. I did not want to cause disorder among the egg arrangement, otherwise our spawn would never know who was the eldest and such familial terms as ‘big sibling’ and ‘little sibling’ are important in society for settling legal inheritance disputes. Speaking as a parent, it’s never too early to consider your death.

Once the rubbing of my spheres over each egg was complete, we commenced licking the walls. After an hour, they were adequately tacky for us to climb up to the ceiling. Licking the ceiling was harder. Parenting manuals should warn you about this: reaching the requisite salival thickness and smoothness on an inverted surface is trickier than you would imagine. Finally, everything was adequately tacky. Reproduction is such a sticky business.

We were tired and so, when my mate suggested we try something unusual, I admit I was nervous. Her suggestion of using a stepladder shocked me—I’m a bit of a traditionalist and blushed to think of using an appliance during our intimate act—but it did make the mounting much easier. The eggs, as you can imagine, were already swollen and going through their first blistering by this time. Climbing the stepladder, we carefully pushed them into the ceiling’s salival matrix, and they drooped, suspended in the nutritious mesh like perfect frozen droplets. Using the stepladder was just so far from how I expected this magical moment to be. Nonetheless, with her, it was special.

My human heart swelled to see them all dangling there. We opened the windows and let the cool night air brush their hardening shells.

My mate, always the prepared one, had already set the timer for 47 days. We curled together on the floor beneath the swelling sacs, screaming so the children would become accustomed to our human voices even before their birth.

We screamed and screamed, as loving human parents do, until we fell asleep and dreamed of burning skies.

Every morning, my mate would pluck the egg with the thinnest shell from the cluster and dine on the interior contents. As the days passed, the mush inside became more recognisable as one of us human people, but it is of course a kindness to devour the weak. I took no nourishment, so that my surface organ would be adequately floppy for the final stage.

When the timer rang for 47 days, we took turns to rap three times on each carapace to awaken the babies. We exchanged shy grins while doing this. I felt so honoured that she would still smile at my haggard form. I could barely believe it, but I swear her beauty was only amplified by the upcoming motherhood. Inside their salival enclosures, the infants mewled into their incubation fluids and rocked, smashing their little heads against the shells, trying to break through before they drowned.

Three escaped onto the marble floor, and the others hung, their swaying movements slowing, liquids leaking onto our mansion’s tiles through cracks that were too small to release the child inside. I did not help those that were trapped because I am a good human father.

In an instant, the triplets clambered across my withered body and latched their teeth into the loose flesh of my skull. In that way, with the three babies clinging to me—their tiny sharp nails deeply embedded in my neck, shoulders, and torso—we all walked to our private beach together. My mate held my hand and her skin glowed with pride at our newborn joys.

My limbs felt numb but I drew together the strength for my last responsibility. I tore the first child from my body, ripping skin from my human frame, and used every ounce of energy I had to hurl it into the sky. Then it was the turn of the second, and the third. They flew together, swirling like locusts above a cornfield, and their display of grace mixed tears with the blood trickling down my face.

When they descend, in 17 to 21 years, I hope they go to Harvard, or perhaps Oxford. I hope they go into finance, but perhaps they will be more tender and prefer corporate law. If I am among the fathers that survive the birthing injuries, I will support them: no matter whether they choose to be a banker or a lawyer, I will love them just the same.

They spin in the sky, surging upwards, then turn towards the city on the horizon and its nourishing miasma.

Watching them go, I know I am a loving, proud, human father.

The end

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Thank you for reading, and I’ll see you next week!

Go be excellent to each other,

Mata xxx