The Stork’s Formula

The Stork was his name, a too-thin straight smile of a man with a medical bag of impressive trinkets. The grin never disappeared, exploding an endless sparkle that reflected his love of work and all things creation. I needed his expertise, his creativity, and his love. I needed his hands and his miracles.

“Mr. Stork, I want a baby of my own,” I said.

He had a voice of divine smoothness. “I do enjoy chemistry.”

The cold medicine hands caressed the muscles of my stomach, grinning at the strength he could feel beneath his solid fingertips. I was worthy of a child of my own, ready to erase the hard ripples of my youth and progress into motherhood.

“You may look at my selection,” Mr. Stork said, opening his bag of gleaming eyes and lips, reaching fingers and curling toes, all different shapes and colors and sizes. A perfect blend of perfection in a bag, and my baby would be nothing less than perfect.

Mr. Stork’s twitching fingers swirled a magical concoction full of reds and blues—a whirlpool of life—his smile not once flinching as the steaming mix popped and churned, ready to run and play with the other perfect kids. And with his hands trembling with excitement, he handed me the drink. I graciously chugged it, wincing slightly at the fizzy burn that trailed down my throat.

There was a faint cherry flavor that lingered on my tongue, the only evidence of my baby making. My daughter’s birth would occur in exactly nine months. Just as planned.

 

Please tell me what you think. I apologize for any errors (feel free to point any out).

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