genre twist

The room filled with baby laughter
and suddenly they are all our sons.
It's a finale worthy of a soap opera.

Then they are still our babies but
we are irresponsable teen parents,
like in a shitty reality show.

But really they're are robot babies
sent from the government to kill us.
A cool sci-fi, 'hasta la vista, baby' style.

Of course when we wake up,
it was all just a dream. Or was it?
As cliché as it seems.

a lover, divided

  You live in a house by the sea. The front porch meets the sand, the sand meets the sea, the sea meets the horizon and so on. Your house, made of wood and painted white, used to be your father's, and his father helped him build it. They were both sailors, as all the other men in your family, except from you. You were fated to be a sailor's lover.

  Fate, you know, is a cruel mistress, but crueler is the sea. Fate brought you a sailor to love and give your life to, and the sea took him away from you whenever she pleased.

  You sleep to the sound of rolling waves, you wake up to the sound of the waves, rolling. Sometimes the sea is calm and you can't hear them, so you are calm too. But inevitably it comes back, because you live in a house by the sea, the sea who took your lover away.

  Every passing ship is his ship. Every sandy footprint on your porch is his footprint, and you are already prepared to scowl at him for taking so long, or jump his bones. 

  Will the sea ever bring your lover back? They say she is temperamental and spoiled, claiming sailors to herself and keeping them caged forever in the bottomless waters, like trophies in a cabinet. You understand her, you do - if you could, you would keep your lover locked too, so he would never again leave you.

  Maybe he belongs to the sea. It could be, as frightening as it sounds, that you are fated to be his and he is fated to be hers. Who wouldn't favour the powerful and endless ocean to a weak and lovestruck little man? But you won't stop waiting. You'll never leave the house by the sea.

  There are no other houses by the sea, not in this zone. The coast here is too windy, the water too cold, the shore too shallow for ships to anchor. The bay is not far, nor expensive, but you won't move there. When -if- he comes, he'll come back to your house by the sea.

  Once you thought the sea was punishing you for not choosing to be hers, but you always knew it not to be truth. She is the one who didn't call for you, like she did to your grandfather, and to your father, and to your lover after that. There is no choosing with cruel mistresses, only claiming and taking and the longing she left you with.

  In the summer days, you sweat and smell, not worrying about him coming when you are in such a state. (He will be worse, salty and hairy but neither will care.) And if you think of going into the water, into the tiny waves that crash and roll in the sand, inside her and closer to him, you quickly try to shake those thoughts off. That would be cheating, and it could quickly crush the little chances you have.

  Time passes quickly in the city, slowly on the countryside, and not at all in the coast. Sand only works in hourglasses. The sea is timeless, and maybe that is why he forgot it was time to come back.

  If with the foam came only his body, pale and swollen, a disfigured soulless memento of what he used to be, you would give her the satisfaction of shedding tears. Your traitorous body would produce salty water, and she would have won twice.

  If, however, the foam brings no body, no men, no lover, then you two are in a tie, and somehow that is even worse. Cruel mistresses prefer to win.

  You will, some mornings, see him at the door. You will open the door and watch the waves mocking you. You will call the doctor and give him a piece of your mind. You will, nonetheless, wait for him in the house by the sea.

  Pour some tea, cook his favourite meal. He's still not home. The radio says a storm is coming. The fishermen are not to sail today. Pour some scotch, dinner getting cold in the kitchen table.

  Everyone knows you are not open to reason, or whatever they call 'losing faith' these days. Somewhere along the line - you wouldn't know when, since time doesn't pass here - they understand you will only stop waiting when you see a body, dead or alive. So, naturally, they stop knocking at the door, stop coming for tea.

So, naturally, you are startled by the knocks. But even more by the body.