Reddit Writing Prompt: Food baby, but it functions like a regular pregnancy.
“Will you get off Reddit already,” Bianca growled.
“Couple more minutes, just checking if there’s a decent writing prompt posted yet,” I said.
She knew it was no use arguing. We’d already been there, both our cases clearly expressed and refined to a point. Hers being: Why do you need writing prompts to write? Mine, At least I’m writing anything at all.
“Fine. Dessert’s on the table.”
Dessert, after the mountain of legume and basil pasta I just ate? I looked down at my distended stomach. I’d clearly married a feeder.
It was a perfectly arranged banana split sprinkled with almond. She’ll be the death of me, I thought.
“Thanks babe,” I said, sitting next to her on the couch. Keeping Up with the Kardashians was on. We sat silently as I scraped the bowl clean and licked the spoon before placing it on the coffee table next to hers.
I leaned back with an arm around her shoulder, my stomach now swollen grotesque, just about ready to burst. “Third trimester, by the looks of it,” she teased.
“Never thought it’d be you getting me pregnant,” I said.
Hand rested on my belly, I kept watching the show. The episode was especially hard to follow for its complex sociocultural commentary, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on. “You’re just an idiot,” Bianca reassured me.
It was then that I felt the kick.
“Holy shit,” I said. “My fucking stomach moved!”
She looked me over, dubious. “Good one, dickhead.”
“No, seriously. I just felt a kick,” I insisted. “There it is again! Quick, give me your hand.”
She reluctantly did so, and immediately pulled it back with a scream. “What in the actual fuck!?”
“There’s something in there!”
A half hour later we’d managed to calm down, and made efforts to evaluate. Most obvious conclusion was that we’d inadvertently gotten it right earlier: the food baby I had, was an actual fucking baby.
The ease in which we accepted this as the best explanation might be hard to swallow, but it’s my body and I’ll be damned if you reckon you can tell me otherwise.
“Who are you talking to?” Bianca asked, staring from the kitchen.
“Nevermind,” I said.
She shook her head with a look to say I was losing it. Maybe I was. But, at least I was pregnant. She was probably jealous, I thought.
Suddenly, a bucket of warm liquid spurted down my pants. Things were moving fast, it seemed. Now my fucking water had broken.
“Come check this out,” I said.
But this was no regular water-breaking. Instead of the amniotic fluid you’d expect, it was pineapple syrup, thick and sticky, smelling delicious.
“This gets better and better,” she laughed.
“Wait, something’s happening,” I said, wincing in pain. We both knew what came next, without having any idea what would actually come; the syrup hadn’t exactly been a herald for the average.
The pain was piercing and unbearable. So this is what the fuss was all about, I thought.
Overwhelmed by agony, my respect for women’s pain thresholds immediately skyrocketed, and, later reflecting on the abnormally large head I’d had as an infant, in the weeks following I would send my mother no less than a dozen flower bouquets in reparation.
I’ll spare you the gory details of what transpired next. The male anatomy is less than equipped to handle literal food baby pregnancy, and I’d never been into the kinds of activity that would better prepare a man in the position I was in — even though Bianca had tried her luck on numerous occasions.
Anyway, we suddenly had a son. He was a tad on the smaller side, but he was healthy and well, and that’s all that mattered. We couldn’t be happier. Came out with a mop of angel hair pasta hair and a giant legume for a face, a couple articulated bananas for arms and two stacks of vanilla ice-cream for legs. He was on the dull and docile side, sure, but we kind of expected that, seeing as he didn’t have a brain as far as we could tell. Mostly he just smiled dolefully at us with his basil lips, smelling delicious.
The news crews and talk show interviews died down after a few weeks. Our Brian was loved by the entire nation, famous before he’d uttered a single word.
But we soon had to accept that his longer-term outlook had been bleak from the beginning. His legs melted and his hair went mouldy, and his face had started to rot. But as hideous as he became in those final days, we loved him all the same, and the two banana splits that Bianca made were absolutely to die for.