I believe that part of the writing journey is trying to write other things – genres and topics that you otherwise would not necessarily handle in your may vein of writing. I have some amazing friends, and one of them started this fantastic writing group that meets on a monthly basis with a genre-focused short story prompt. If I am honest, I have not been in some time as I have gotten wrapped up with Fireborn, but really it is such a great exercise. And the group is incredibly supportive and provides constructive criticism, which everyone needs.

Anyways, I digress. I am sharing the first piece that I wrote for this group three years ago for the Realistic Fiction genre. I had no idea what I wanted to write about, and then thought about amplifying one moment. I asked myself, how could this unfold? So here we are. It is a simple, sweet piece.

Also, for the writers out there, it was quite something to go back and edit a piece that I had wrote almost three years ago. It was a bit of a proud moment to see the way I’ve grown. And if you think I use a lot of commas now, just be glad you haven’t read my original works! Enjoy.

The Belly Martian

By C. E. WAGG

Rat-a-tat-tat dum-de-da-dum. Sally’s heels drummed into the metal side of the examination table. She slowly rolled her thumbs over one another, absently gazing at the walls.

The Improved Pain Scale. Point your finger to the most accurate description. She followed the numbers on the poster from a very happy face to what appeared to be a constipated happy face, to maybe a happy face on fire. The corners of her lips curled up, and she chuckled. Her face turned into a grimace and she clutched her stomach. The hot, lava-like sensation started creeping from her belly to her chest, and fizzled out in her throat. Sally scrunched her face and swallowed the bile.

“Happened again eh?” Dr. Travis came whirling in, flipping through her charts on a clipboard. She pushed a few loose strands of hair away from her face. Sally nodded. Dr. Travis flopped onto her little swivel stool, wrote a few notes on the top of the paper, smiled and looked up.

“Well you aren’t dying. I can tell you that.” 

Sally’s eyes narrowed. “Well I’m not fine either, I promise you that.”

Dr. Travis chuckled and held up her hands. “Oh no, I understand. I believe that you aren’t feeling well. But you are not sick, you are pregnant.”

Sally furrowed her brow and opened her mouth. Then closed it. She tried again, hoping words would come out. “ I-I beg your pardon?”

“Your urine sample came back. You are pregnant. Somewhere between three to five weeks. That is why you’ve been so nauseous, the swollen breasts, the irregular spotting …” The room was really quiet, Sally could hear her heart pounding. “Sally …” Dr. Travis continued, “How are you feeling?”

She inhaled deeply, flicking a stray hair away from her face, waiting for her chest to fall with the exhale. She met Dr. Travis’ eyes and forced a smile, “Honestly, not what I was expecting. I just thought the birth control wasn’t functioning properly, or maybe I was allergic to something, or maybe I was super stressed and throwing my body out of whack. I didn’t think – I didn’t know – What is the point of birth control if it doesn’t work? I’ve been managing this for over ten years how did I … I am babbling.” She shook her head and leaned back.

Dr. Travis nodded slowly, her understanding smile growing slightly infuriating. “Nothing is 100% infallible. You are the exception.”

Sally’s face hurt. Her smile was too big. “Lucky me.”

“It’s perfectly normal to be shocked. Even unsettled. No need to pretend.”

She added some teeth. People say a toothy smile is the best. “Oh, no! I’m fine. This is good news!”

“Sally,” Dr. Travis sighed. “That face right there. That’s the ‘Oh shit I’m pregnant face’. Pretty sure I trademarked that one.”

 Sally laughed uncomfortably, inclining her head in Dr. Travis’ direction. “Fair enough. Look – I know I should be really happy. I’m in good health, with a stable job and a great partner. But um … I don’t know how I feel. Gosh, I don’t know how Kevin’s going to feel. OH GOD!” she groaned, burying her face in her hands, “It’s Wine-not-Wednesday…. No drinking, right?”

Dr. Travis shook her head, “Not a drop.” The doctor moved closer, “Look Sally, you are a smart girl. You make good decisions. But do me a favour – make this decision for you. And for Kevin. Right now, there is time. Go home, talk to him. Let me know when you’ve decided if you want to keep it.

She nodded slowly. “Thanks Doc. I … well I will be back once I’ve decided.” As she walked out, Dr. Travis chirruped, “Maybe take some vitamins!”

Sally made it home and glanced around their two bedroom apartment. Warmth blossomed in her chest as she cast a glance over their trip photos hanging on the wall, all the little mementos of the adventures she and Kevin have shared. Do I really want to change that? Babies cost money, I will never sleep again, and that little Martian will control my body for nine months. AND then make my nipples bleed for another year. She shivered. But they are super sweet, and Kevin would be such a good father. We have talked about maybe wanting kids someday … maybe today is that day? She sat down on the couch, thumbing through photos of her niece. What a good kid. We could have one like that. Then a picture of Kevin’s niece popped up. She grimaced. Or it could be like Ophelia. Screaming, biting, tiny, maddening little human. No thank you. Sally tented her fingers, gazing blindly at the far wall. She inhaled sharply, smacking her palm to her forehead. The trip! We’re supposed to go to Mexico in 8 months! She looked down at her stomach and frowned. Thanks belly-Martian. 

She took a deep breath and nodded. One step at a time. First – we tell Kevin. Pulling out of Pinterest, she typed in “How to tell your boyfriend that you are pregnant”. She pulled out an old t-shirt and wrote a big +1 across the belly and tried it on. I look like a confused ghost. She shook her head and threw it aside. Next she ran into the kitchen, ripped open a bag of buns and stuck one in the oven. Nodding her head she smiled, Yep, this it is. The ol’ bun-in-the-oven. Classic. Staring down at the small ciabatta roll illuminated by the orange light of the oven interior, she cringed. Nope, not doing that. She slammed the oven door shut, leaving the offending bun to suffer its fate in the dark depths of its cell.

Hours cascaded by as Sally sought the perfect way to tell Kevin. Homemade #1 Dad t-shirts, cupcakes, old pictures of them with a random baby head taped in the centre, writing ‘You + Me = A Family of Three’ on anything and everything … she even made a fruit family out of two oranges and a clementine. And their silly smug faces will not stop staring at me.

“That’s it!” she said, “I’m out.” She opened the pantry, pulled out a can of lightly salted peanuts, a bag of loaded baked potato chips, a milk chocolate bar, a milk chocolate almond bar, a dark chocolate almond bar, and a dark, dark chocolate bar. With one curt nod to the pantry, she strolled over to the couch and flopped, pushing aside her “projects” to make space for her butt.

Three and a half chocolate bars and a bag of chips later she heard keys jingle at the door and the lock click as it opened. “Hey Sal, how’s it goi … Sal?” She could see Kevin slowly walking into the living room, picking his way over her discarded “projects”. He crouched down at her side, giving her a very loving, confused smile. “Kinda looks like a bomb went off in here. Bad day?”

She nodded her head slightly so as to avoid the trajectory of the dark, dark chocolate changing. With each delicious bite, she sighed. He chuckled and patted her leg. Heading toward the kitchen he said, “Okay, well, I’m going to throw in a pizza and we can start Wine-not-Wednesday!” 

Sally groaned. “Well Sal, that’s what you get for eating all that junk.” She could hear him banging pots and pans, then rummaging through the freezer. “How did it go at the doctor’s office?” She groaned again. “Did she tell you to give up chocolate or something?”

She heard him open the oven. “Um …” he started, “Hey Sal, why is there a bun in the oven?”

Her voice wavered. She sucked breath through her teeth, and stood to face him. “I …” she was staring at her feet, the floor, the table covered in her junk food rampage. Then she saw it. The perfect way to tell him. She opened the can of peanuts, and held one up. “I have a peanut in my belly.” She smiled, that was so easy.

Kevin frowned, and leaned over to look at their wine rack. “So there is a bun in the oven, because there is a peanut in your belly? Sal, my love, did you start Wine-not Wednesday without me?”

She huffed and folded her arms. “No Kevin, I have a peanut in my belly and there is a bun in the oven. They mean the same thing. Oh! And no I can’t drink. Won’t be able to drink at least for the next nine months, actually.”

“Oh shit,” he said, smile spreading across his face, “You’re pregnant.”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “And you’re smiling. See, we’re both observant.”

He rolled his eyes, but kept smiling. “Is that why the apartment is a mess? Why there’s a shirt in the kitchen that says,” he held it up to himself, “Congratulations on making a human with your genitals?” He clicked his tongue. 

She nodded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She shrugged, “So today my only goal was to tell you.”

Kevin nodded with his big smile, and shrugged. “Seems fair. Geez Sal, I thought you were going to tell me you had cancer. This I can handle. Whether we keep it or not, we can figure that out.” She started breathing really quickly, and felt her eyes widen. “Not tonight though,” he added quickly, “tonight we have to go through all of these magnificent ways to tell me you are pregnant.” They both gazed around at the remnants of a once-clean apartment.

She nodded and then froze. “WAIT.” She smiled. “I do have the perfect one.” Sally sifted through the half-completed projects on the floor, pulling a light blue t-shirt from under the coffee table, she showed him the front. “Meet the Belly-Martian.”

He nodded, “Works now, works in twenty years when this,” he pats his stomach, “succumbs to a beer gut.”