You choose the ending...
Instructions: Read or watch Silk-Jazmyne Hindus's story, "Build-a-Baby" then VOTE on the ending using the online poll below!
Our incubator installer was an attractive woman. Incredibly tall, over two meters high, with skin so smooth it looked spread on. Slanted hazel eyes. Buzzed sides of her head and underneath with just a chunk of hair held in a high ponytail. Green uniform and white soft soled sneakers.
Installers are revered. Good Installers ensure a fast growing, healthy baby. They offer no guarantee but miscarriages are almost a thing of the past. The first and last reported case was due to a power failure during the third war which destroyed the power grid. Ever since, expectant parents are requested to be either off the grid or lease a backup generator during incubation.
I extended my hand as she stepped in. "Alexis," I told her. "You can call me Alex." She shook my hand.
"Marjorie," she told us while shaking my wife's hand.
"I go by Nora."
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Marjorie...isn't that the Scottish name for pearl?" She raised an eyebrow at me.
"Search engine buff," I replied. "I work nights so sometimes when I need a break, I look up different things. It keeps me connected to the outside world when I spend most of my time in the house."
"Oh wow," she said. Then she glanced at my wife.
"I'm a civil designer," Nora said. "I design mostly municipal buildings, roadways, and such. I love patterns and making things seamless."
"My kind of woman," she said with a smile. "That's totally what I'm here for, to make sure your experience goes seamlessly."
"Would you like something to drink?" I asked.
"I'm okay, thank you," Marjorie replied.
"Right to work. I understand that." I turned and lead her up the stairs to the nursery.
"You used one of your eggs?" she asked opening up the blue leather book bag. It looked like a jetpack with two large tubular shapes next to each other with the compartment on the bottom and silver tracks for the zippers. She lifted the left canister that was held inside and placed it into an opening at the bottom of the incubator. She pressed a button that closed the bottom with a slurp. She did the same for the second canister. I nodded. "The supplements you took prior to the procedure gave you the strongest eggs possible," she added. "Your application wouldn't have been approved if there were any abnormalities in the genetic code."
"I remember reading that in the pamphlet. Didn't know how true it was."
She toggled a few nobs, checked the wires in the back of the machine. "Incredibly true," she said. "People able to emotionally and monetarily care for children should have all the help they can get to reproduce."
"What about people who can't?"
"Afford to emotionally and monetarily?"
"Then they shouldn't," she shrugged while standing up with her tablet in hand. There were levels on the screen. Columns in different colors.
"What are those?"
"Your embryo's vitals," she turned the screen towards me. "You'll get the updates of each stage that'll automatically be transmitted to our servers as well. The incubator will constantly vary the environment as necessary, completely mimicking what used to occur in the mother's womb. At the points were certain genetic displays are determined, I'll be telecommunicating with you and your wife on choices."
"Eye color, hair color, hair type, body shape, etc," she answered. "All within reason of course unless you choose to upgrade your services package. Typically, there's two options per feature based on dominant and recessive genes but if you want something that's not already included, we'll have to add in genetic links to get your desired result."
"So if I wanted my child to have curly hair but it wasn't in my code, I could pay for it?"
"Exactly," she smiled sweetly. "We at Build a Baby believe that every parent should get the child they want. We also include behavioral modifications as well."
"That's a lot to take it," Nora said. "I don't remember reading it in the manual."
"We choose not to advertise options as a means of discretion for past clients," she told us. "See, some people could give grief to new parents about their choices or family members would want to weigh in on the choices."
"What about word of mouth?" I asked.
"Remember the paperwork we had you read, review and sign before today's appointment?" Nora and I nodded. "There was the NDA portion which legally requests for your own discretion. But let's not focus on that legal jibber jab. Let's get this baby ready to go!"
The incubator was just a little more than half my height. Shiny metallic material with a glass top. Marjorie pressed on her tablet, moving levels up, down, evening them out. Nora and I were quiet as she finished her work. "All done."
"So, what do we do now?" I asked.
"Honestly? Wait." she said. "Your egg has been impregnated so you'll be getting a notification of pregnancy confirmation. I've made sure the incubator is synced to your home system. I'll be back in two weeks to check on things."
It took two days for the pregnancy confirmation to chime through the house. Sansa, the virtual home assistant announced it at dinner with a purple hue. Nora immediately stopped eating and grabbed the wine she'd bought the afternoon the installer arrived. We laughed. We cried. We kissed. We drank. We made love. We were going to have a family.
"Congratulations!" Marjorie told us via telecom. "Welcome to parenthood."
"Well I mean, not technically," I said.
"Did you apply for a permit?" Marjorie asked.
"Purchase the incubator, provide your egg, hire us?"
"Then you're a parent. Both of you," she said. "You're taking steps to bring life into the world." She smiled. "Whether or not you carry the child or even share genetic code with them is neither here nor there. You're going to love and provide for this child. That's what makes a parent."
"Wow," Nora said. "That's beautiful."
"It's from our handbook but it's true," she laughed.
"So how does this work?"
"It's super simple. Our engineers are some of the best in the world and it shows in the technology," Marjorie flashed us her tablet. "For the next nine months, I will have this with me at all times. At each genetic marker, I'll send a notification that'll inform you of the window. The window is a 24 hour period in which you can make genetic alterations. We keep it short as to not stunt the growth of the fetus. You don't want to plan a birthing party and your baby comes days late right." she was standing in front of an incubator. "When you receive the notification, you come and turn the knobs to get your desired result. The variance will change with each feature. So if it's time to pick eye color, one knob will control color while the other will control brightness." An image appeared on the wall. "This is just a template offspring but watch." Marjorie used one knob to select a blue green hue and the other to make it dark. "And you can change as many times as you want prior to the closing of the window. But be aware that whatever is selected upon closing is what you're going to get."
"So when's the first selection?" I asked.
"Now," she smiled. "Today is body type." she pressed the tablet. "So it looks like our base code is giving us a max of six feet and minimum of five foot seven."
"We requested a tall donor," Nora said. She was no means short at five foot four but it was rare. The average person was at least five foot six so she often was teased as a child and even picked at a bit as an adult.
"Understandable," Marjorie said. "So step up to the incubator," she told us. I extended my hand to Nora, waving her on. Nora placed one hand on the left knob. The template baby was gone, replaced by an adult outline. "Turn it," Nora did so which stretched the outline up. "Try the right one," which pushed the outline horizontally. "See how it varies." she said. "I'll check it when it's time for the next window."
Each day, I checked my wristlet, waiting for word from Marjorie. The chime and purple hue of her call. Even in the middle of the night while I was working. Letters. Numbers. Grammatical marks to instruct programs how to move. Where to go.
The first modification after height and body shape was hair color and type.
"Curly," Nora said.
"So predictable," I replied.
"You have curly hair."
"And it's boring."
"I love your hair."
"So about 3c"
"Too typical. I say 4b."
Nora turned the left dial and a baby face with hair appeared. Thick tight curls appeared.
"Ooooh, I want blonde!"
"Like a gold blonde."
"That's going to look crazy."
"No it's not. We just have to keep it in mind when the window comes for eye color. I wonder if we can get swatches?"
"Swatches, for our future child's hair?"
"Doesn't hurt to try."
Marjorie assured us there weren't any swatches, but she'd see if we could download the color to keep in mind.
Next was fingers and toe types.
"What does that even mean?" I asked Nora.
"I guess long versus short."
"Then long cause we chose it to be tall."
"Well I mean we didn't pick the sex yet."
"Do we get to choose the sex?"
"Why wouldn't we?"
"That seems like a fifty fifty either way."
"Point taken, long fingers and toes?"
"Works for me."
"You have a non-existent eyebrow and almost beady eyes."
"Sheesh, tell me how you really feel," she kissed me. "I'm still mad at you."
"No you're not, not in your nature."
Then it was personality type.
"This seems silly," I told Nora. "I mean who wouldn't pick an obedient, quiet child."
"Quiet obedient children can easily become adults who get walked all over."
"So you want a strong willed toddler running around tearing down everything."
"I didn't say that," Nora said. "Let's just consider the positive attributes of someone strong willed. We can't just think about what we want as parents but how this will affect her down the line?"
"Her?" I asked. "You want a girl?"
She smiled and shrugged, "I wouldn't mind a little you running around," she said kissing my nose. "I happen to enjoy your stubbornness."
I had just began a shift when my wristlet went off. The house was quiet, Nora already fast asleep in our bed. Lightly snoring. I walked into the nursery to find Marjorie in a crumpled t-shirt. Hair tousled. Eyes unfocused behind thick lenses.
"Glasses?" I asked. "Your parents didn't modify you?"
She yawned, shook her head. "Couldn't afford to," she replied. "Where's your wife?"
"I think this is something to wake her up for."
Nora hurriedly jumped out of the bed when I told her who telecommed in.
"I apologize for the late hour but I have pressing news that I didn't want to wait on."
"It's time for the window for the sexes," she told us.
"Sexes?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
Nora covered her mouth. I could see the smile through her hands.
"What am I missing?"
"We're having multiples," Nora belted. She looked at Marjorie for confirmation.
"H-how can that happen?" I asked. "I mean we didn't request twins."
"Every so often, it happens too quickly for us to catch. It's actually the only modification we haven't patented yet. All the features you've chosen so far will apply to both fetuses. Any features chosen from here on out will be by each child." She smiled wide. "So what do you say? What are you having?"
We decided on a boy and girl just to be fair. We painted the nursery forest green. The color of earthly leaves. What I imagined Ireland looked like. Rolling hills of trees and shrubs. We decided on one crib with a divider. Our research informed us that modified twins needed each other even more than unmodified ones. Something about the genetic code almost missing one another after leaving the incubator.
At first, we waited for Marjorie's calls with suggestions and desires and selections. Then we began to call her. Filling her in on little tweaks we'd like done. We had the money and figured why spare any expense. We worked hard and were having two after all.
Then the time came when we began reaching out separately, each picking a child to craft to our liking. I with my notes of voice patterns and accent cadences. Nora with learning styles and love languages. We were mad women. Wielders of science and genius when standing at the two knobs on top of a silver drum in a nursery room.
We should have known our tickering would have more consequence then we initial thought.
But instead we had to learn by pain and misfortune.
We held each other like we knew bad news was coming. "We need to talk" has ever been a great phrase to hear. But was even scarier coming from our installer. Marjorie wasn't in a command room like the majority of telecoms before. She stood in a purple hued room. Headset off. Sitting down instead of her usual standing. She offered us to sit so we did on the loveseat of the nursery. Marjorie told us that there was a pressing issue. That either only one or none of the children could proceed during the process. That our multiple modifications weakened them.
"Wait a second," I said. "You want us to chose one?" she nodded. "Why didn't you tell us about this risk before?"
"It was all in the paperwork," Marjorie said.
"But our physician said the labs came back great that a successful birth was imminent."
"Yes, for an unaltered child," she replied. "You have not only one, but two incredibly altered fetuses."
"Then why the hell offer someone when-"
"You seem distressed," she cut me off. "Let's reconvene at a later date."
The call ended. The room silent. Just my wife and I in silence. It wasn't until Nora touched my hand that I realized I'd been shaking. That my anger was rumbling just beneath my skin. IT was true. Two babies were in the device next to us but we'd only get to meet one.
WINNING ENDING: Cancel the whole thing.
“Wait Dr. Dude? What did he do?” Renee, the woman who rented a chair in the shop piped in since it was clear that I wasn’t going to take the bait. The other three women in the shop were obviously listening now. The one sitting under the dryer was even holding the hood of the dryer up away from her head so that she could hear over the loud drum of the dryer.
Amanda the one who taught Dr. Woke to be woke and feminist. Did feminists cheat?
Talking about a man in a beauty shop was the quickest way to have everyone in town in your business. Normally, Jade didn’t talk so freely about her personal business in the shop. She could spend hours talking about the people who tried to get over on her, or the tenant who she’d evicted who had left a pair of gummy discharge infused underwear on the floor of the master bathroom, even her two children who’d become less perfect over my years of knowing her but aside from letting us know that she was dating some fancy schmancy woke ass doctor in Dallas none of the women who came in the shop were close enough for Jade to mention her relationship woes.
“I prayed to marry a doctor and I met a great doctor, fine, black, in shape, not an asshole then I met Dr. Dude. And Dr. Dude is MARRIED. To a white woman. Ol’ Fake woke ass.” Jade grunted, tugged my hair closer to her and tightened her grip on one of my locs. Good thing I’d followed my mother’s advice and went to Chili’s before my hair appointment. Buy one get one drinks had been keeping me from crying like a baby for the last six hair appointments.
“But, where were you staying when you went to see him?” Renee was clearly too enthralled in the story to focus on the young lady sitting in her chair. The girls platinum blond ponytail was sticking up like Alfalfa’s from The Little Rascals and from the looks of things the gel was starting to set. If I were her I would be getting pissed.
“I thought we were staying at his house. Apparently, we’ve been staying at one of his rental properties. His maid showed up this weekend unexpectedly and I should’ve noticed that he almost shit his pants but I was too busy playing boo boo the fool. I even got a BRAZILIAN for him.” She was tugging at my hair so hard now I wished they would change the subject or put on Judge Judy. “I mean we’re sitting in his jacuzzi naked two seconds away from intercourse and before I knew it this old Spanish lady is standing over us looking at us like we’re hairless chickens and all that he could say was ‘It’s not what you think. Took me ten whole minutes to process why he would be saying that to a maid.” She was getting madder by the minute and was standing up practically pacing at this point.
“I have to use the restroom.” I said to her trying to buy myself some time. Hopefully by the time that I got back from the bathroom she would be done with her story and back to her normal sometimes-bougie-sometimes-ghetto-self.
It wasn’t until I was in the bathroom pants half way around my thighs before...
Doctor. Woke. White wife. Dallas.
Trevor is Dr. Dude. Dr. Dude is Trevor started to click through my brain in warp speed. Trevor a woke black doctor who still had a practice in Dallas where he’d lived for a few years during med school and immediately after. Trevor whom I’d met in Chemistry class who I’d then hooked up with my best friend. Trevor who was married to my best friend from third grade. Amanda the one who taught Dr. Woke to be Woke and Feminist. Did feminists cheat?
“Girl I hope they all burn those yard sale shoes while they’re wearing them in the center of a pile of gasoline soaked drawers.” Jade was now saying to Renee. Who was now washing the gel out of the young Alfala-haired lady’s head. I would be so pissed.
Normally I wouldn’t ask any questions about Dr. Dude and Jade but I had to know. I waited for the next pause in the conversation and blurted out “So of Course I missed the ending of the story but I know you broke up with that Dude.” to Jade as she began retightening my hair like a normal human being only half-way killing my head.
“Girl, no. That fool told me that he was leaving his white woman in a few months and promised to take me to Nigeria for Thanksgiving. By the time my plane landed in Tampa the plane tickets were sitting in my email inbox. And you should see the safari that he booked” she said, passing me her phone which was open to an email which she’d obviously already showed the other women.
“Hmmmm, I didn’t take you for the type to knowingly sleep with married men.” I said barely able to contain my anger.
“Girl. I’m not. But I’m also not dumb enough to turn down a fifteen thousand dollar all expenses paid vacation to the mother land.” Jade said into my hair. I could tell that I’d touched a nerve by the way her hands were flying through my coils.
“Oh ok. So then after Africa you done with him then?” I asked using every ounce of restraint that ten years of $150 dollar an hour counseling had barely taught me.
“Yeah. I’ll be done with him the second we land back in America. I’m not like these young dummies running around the city waiting for some idiot to leave their wives.” She turned up Judge Judy who was berating some fool for stealing her best friend’s car and crashing it into a pole.
As I walked in to the bar and spotted her splotchy face my throat started to feel constricted. “Hey boo!” I said with false cheer leaning across the table and kissing her on her cheek.
“Hey lovey! How was your day? I ordered us Tequila on the rocks to start.” She said with less false cheer than I had.
I couldn’t understand how Trevor could cheat on someone as beautiful as Amanda. Even with her splotchy face she was one of the most beautiful women in the place. Her shiny auburn hair was bluntly cut in a Boss Ass Bitch Bob, her white blouse seemed to glow on her tanned skin and her smile was practically perfect.
“It was ok. How was yours? You don’t look happy.” I said hoping that she already knew about Trevor so that I wouldn’t have to tell her.
“Well, I went to the doctor on Friday and got the results of my breast biopsy.” She began before I cut her off.
“Breast biopsy? When the fuck did you get a breast biopsy?” I could feel the Chili’s burger getting ready to make it’s exit out of my stomach.
“When I went in for my yearly Dr. Kline found a lump under my breast and she took a biopsy. We got the results back today.” she said reaching across the table and grabbing both of my hands with her perfectly manicured hands.
“And the results said?” I tried to disappear into the oversized leather booth. I didn’t want to know if the results were bad. They couldn’t be bad. Cancer had already taken our friend Maria, the third amigo of our tribe, two years before. Leaving behind three beautiful children, one handsome now eternally depressed husband, and two best friends abruptly forced to be a duo and to deal with the fact that the day after you bury one of your bestfriends the world still goes on.
“I know you don’t want to hear this.” She got up from her chair and walked over to my side sliding her arms around my body which had done the thing it does when forced to deal with horrible shit, got so stiff you could roll me down the street like a log, and kissed my cheek, “But I do have cancer. It’s the 'Good' kind, we found it early, and we have a plan."
“Oh my god, no. You can’t have cancer. This can’t happen to you.” I cried into her shoulder. Realizing that she was doing the thing that people always did when they were sick, consoling the healthy, yet I was still unable to immediately console her.
“I can and I do. Pull yourself together Marnie, I need you to be strong and help me tell Trevor. You know he’s not going to be able to handle this.” She was rubbing my back in a circular motion the same way she’d done every time I was distressed from the time my first girlfriend cheated on me with Michael Colhoun to the time that I didn’t win the award for Small Business of the Year in my dental practice. Trevor, Fucking Trevor. Of course he wouldn’t be able to handle cancer. He couldn’t even handle having a perfect wife without cheating on her with a hairdresser who lived in the same damn town that he did.
I cleared my throat, inhaled and exhaled ten times then pinched the bridge of my nose. “OK” I said taking her in my arms and squeezing her. “We’ve got this! You’re going to be fine and where praytell is your husband today?”
“This is his week to be in Dallas. He’ll be back tomorrow. That was the other thing I needed. I have to go to the lab for some blood work in the morning. Can you pick him up from the airport at 8am?” She asked smiling like she’d won the lottery.
The waitress walked over then placing our drinks down and asking us if we wanted to order any appetizers buying me some time. I didn’t want to pick Trevor up from the airport. He was a sorry excuse for a human being. Cheat on my friend? Shame on you. Cheat on my angelic, always positive cancer having friend? A pox upon your soul. Do I tell her? Would I be a good friend if I told her? Or should I pick Trevor up from the airport and confront him?
WINNING ENDING: PICK TREVOR UP AND LET HIM HAVE IT!
about the writer...
in 2020, your vote matters... for more than this story ending:
For more information about voting in Florida, VISIT https://dos.myflorida.com/elections/for-voters/voting/
The Courage to Write Fiction
Writer and publisher stephanie outten shares her writing journey
Writing, for me, has been cathartic. Coming from a place of hurt, it was exactly what I needed in order to begin the healing process. I needed to get things off of my chest without having to speak them. The words on the pages needed to speak on my behalf, at the time, and shift me from a place of emotional bondage, to a place of liberation deep in my soul.
It’s pure peace and joy when I’m able to take what’s inside my head and put it on paper. Whether I write in my journal, type into my phone, or type into an electronic document, I write to bring myself to a place of wholeness - a place of feeling full and complete. I believe everyone should have that type of experience when they write.
"Writing, for me, has been cathartic."
I read a lot of fiction as a child. Reading was my safe place. When I would read, I was transported to new places in my mind. The words, the characters, the descriptions, the scenes…they all drew me in as if I belonged to them. I became so fully immersed in books that I sometimes didn’t want to leave those make-believe worlds. That’s what a well-written book will do for you.
When I became an adult and began to experience trials and heartaches, the stories of others pulled me in. I wanted to create a different ending for them as a writer, one that didn’t end in the types of trials that I had experienced. So, when it was time for me to write my first book, I wrote fiction because I knew I could write the beginning, middle and ending exactly how I wanted it to be. In addition, I could live through my characters, and I could breathe life into my characters.
"I needed a place to bury all of the pain..."
Now that I’ve written one book and contributed chapters in two other books, I spend my time coaching others to write the stories the world has been waiting for them to share. Also, as an independent publisher, I help them get their books into the marketplace.
So, as a writer who is also a publisher, here’s my advice as you prepare to write your own fiction stories:
STEPHANIE OUTTEN'S TIPS FOR WRITING FICTION
- Identify why you want to write fiction
It’s not always easy to write fiction. Take it from me as well as my clients who are interested in writing fiction. It’s much easier to write nonfiction because it’s your true story - nothing added for effect.
- Be sure to read great fiction before you try to write it
Reading great fiction helps you understand how to craft your own story.
- Think about the message you want to convey
Yes, fictional stories have messages and themes, too. For example, the message of my first book was about seeking joy in the midst of your challenges.
- Get the help of a writing coach if you don’t know the ins and outs of how to frame your story
Writing coaches can be lifesavers and time savers for you.
- Write about something you know about
Even though with fiction you get to make things up, it makes it so much easier and cleaner when you write about things you know and/or have experienced yourself.
I hope this helps you along your journey to becoming a great fiction writer. When you’re ready to write and/or publish, let me know!
Stephanie Outten, CEO | Chief Publishing Officer | Literary Doula™ of Cocoon to Wings Publishing, guides existing and aspiring anointed writers through birthing their “literary babies” and leaving their story as their legacy. Stephanie is a Christian fiction writer who published her first novel, “Is This the Way to Joy?” as a way of healing from past trauma that once, unknowingly, consumed her life. She has also authored chapters in the Amazon Bestseller anthology, “Soul Talk,” as well as hot-selling fiction anthology, “When I Kill Him, Jesus Can Have Him". She holds a bachelor’s degree in Mass Communications/Public Relations from the University of South Florida and a master’s degree in Organizational Management/Human Resources from the University of Phoenix. In April 2016 she became a certified life coach whose focus is centered on transformational writing coaching.
For more on Stephanie Outten & Cocoon to Wings Publishing: https://stephanieoutten.com/
Writing heals the writer
REFLECTION AS INSPIRATION by memoir magazine founder, mARY MCBETH
I knew that we, as women of color writers, needed a literary magazine that would fairly consider our reality in the wider literary landscape, and I wanted to create a safe space for us to tell our stories, without judgment, because I know the power of writing to heal the writer as well as the reader.
"WE HAVE BEEN YOKED BY THE NOTION THAT WE MUST PRESENT OURSELVES AS CLEAN AND GOOD AND PERFECT TO BE ACCEPTED—INSTEAD OF THE BEING OURSELVES, BEING REAL PEOPLE WITH REAL PERSONALITY FLAWS, REAL ILLNESSES, REAL EMOTION, REAL NEEDS, ALL OF WHICH CONTRIBUTE TO THE REAL BEAUTY WE HOLD INSIDE OF US."
We writers are charged with churning this notion into dust. Not only does this idea of perfection create obstacles to good writing, but also it is a kind of (often tragically self imposed) abuse to our intelligent women ancestors. By adhering to oppressive standards of perfection, we are silencing the stories and struggles of our ancestors, maintaining a status quo where we are expected to be and stay silent about our realities—at the cost of ourselves and society in general.
We can stay silent no longer. We cannot leave our feelings and valuable self-reflections out of our narratives.
With Memoir Magazine, I want to contribute to a world in which every woman of color feels like an integral valued part for society and has greater empathy for herself, by fostering an environment for more vital emotional truth-telling in our work and the healing that comes from laying our collective burdens down.
MEMOIR MAGAZINE IS CURRENTLY TAKING SUBMISSIONS! CLICK HERE TO LEARN MORE: mEMOIR MAGAZINE sUBMISSIONS
Kitchen Table Literary Arts covers book experiences, book recommendations, publishing and writerly news, and other randomly beautiful, provocative things that inspire us! We also feature guest bloggers! Wanna write for us? Shout us out!
Black Women Writers
Choose The Ending