"A Trick, Sure Enough" by Elizabeth Rosen

The boxed baby was just over nine inches long. Pink-skinned. Pert. In the sunlight streaming through the high cedar branches, the woman could see the baby’s ringlet of hair, flaxen, and its irises ringed with indigo. It waved its little arms at her. It coo-ed.

“My goodness,” she exclaimed, wiggling her fingers in the baby’s plump face. “And what have we here?” 

The baby babbled. The baby clacked. The baby disarticulated its bones into a flesh puddle and slithered to the side of the box, folding like a paper accordion fan to reach the edge of the box and flow over it like oily soup. 

“That’s a trick, sure enough,” said the woman in delight. “Follow me.” 

She left the box with its sodden, mildew-speckled blanket still inside, and pushed her door open to enter the cottage, the puddle-baby gurgling and burbling behind. It slid and glided, wet and wide, right up to her heels as if it meant to wrap itself around them, but the woman skipped lightly whenever the baby seemed on the verge of taking hold and in this way avoided being seized in the baby’s liquified limbs. 

The puddle-baby raised itself off the cottage floor and slapped two parts of its puddle together. The bones inside clacked against one another. An altogether unpleasant sound that demanded attention, but the woman only laughed and said, “Oh, be quiet, you little monster.” 

The baby lowered its gelatinous self back to the floor and hurried after. A rocking chair stood before an open hearth, and into this, the woman lowered herself, the puddle-baby quivering at her feet. 

“Well, come on, then,” she said, lifting her skirt to expose her bare legs. The puddle-baby drew near and slid over her foot. It wrapped its jelly-self around her pale ankle and began to climb her calf, up over her knee and under her skirt where it got tangled in the bunches of fabric there and could go no further. The woman laughed again as the puddle-baby punched at the fabric, trying to get free. 

She began to rock. She rocked and sang a tune gentle and dark as she helped free the glutinous baby from her skirts. From under the fabric, the clicking and clacking of bones kept time to the lullaby. 

Elizabeth Rosen is a native New Orleanian, and a transplant to small-town Pennsylvania. She misses gulf oysters and etouffee, but has become appreciative of snow and colorful scarves. Color-wise, she’s an autumn. Music-wise, she’s an MTV-baby. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in journals such as North American Review, Atticus Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Pithead Chapel, Ascent, and others. Learn more at www.thewritelifeliz.com.