Free Short Story:
The Birth of Gug
by Kenna Mary McKinnon
Over the line of the sultry hills bursts the blood of sun, reminding me that I am late for the bloodbath with the Moon Beast and may be late for my son’s birthing, as well. My son’s name will be Gug, who was conceived in a dream of Kadath, the former home of the gods. He’ll be born into a heap of skulls and other bones, as my wife, Mormo, wished. With teeth jagged to munch on the midwife before she could tell the world of our undoing in the Valley of Death, his eyes will be pink, jutting from each side of his black-furred head, and his vertical yawning mouth yellow and agape between them. Our magic to conceive him, juxtaposed from the Mythos of the Great Ones, was strong. You can pile on the guilt but my heart will remain stone. I stand beside my wife and newborn monster who will, I trust, help us to undo the outrage to my world.
I speak of the oceans and the plastic that will not bleed; I speak of the designer water bottles that pollute and destroy; I speak of what Gug can do when we lead the Green Party to election, just like Britain and its henchmen, here in our Lord Anno Domino 1999.
My Palm PDA device flickers to life in my hand as my wife, Mormo, summons me on her new golden PDA (so recently discovered and replacing our old cell phone). Ensconced in our marriage bed, she breathes into the instrument the words I’ve been waiting for all night, interrupting even my bloodbath with the Moon Beast to make way for the birth of our son. Yes, we named him already soon after the ultrasound showed us his tiny penis and shaggy outline, our precious little Gug who will change the Earth for the better. Our political agenda couldn’t happen at a better time, with trash littering the planet where the new gods dwell. No, not Boston, but Winnipeg, for that is where we live, my wife and I, and that is where the antichrist will be born. Our precious Gug. I sigh with delight.
“Hippolytus,” my wife cries, “the time has come.”
I frown and bite my lip. Males are not allowed in the birthing room. I am taking the call outside our dwelling, in the courtyard, and watch the bloodred sun as it rises. The Moon Beast will not be happy with me. “Are the midwives there?”
“Yes, all is ready. I feel the pangs of childbirth and they are severe, but not as severe as the brushes of our Master,” she replies.
“He is cruel,” I agree, “and his pen draws close, I fear, to the empty gods of Kadath.”
“Does the morning sun still stain the glass over the wondrous halls of Winnipeg?”
“Yes, Mormo, I’m still here soaking it all in, the magical vista before me of Winnipeg in the morning. The Moon Beast must find another artist to best represent his fierceness. For I stayed here all night, slept in the anteroom beside the birthing chamber, and now eagerly await the birth of our little Gug.”
“I fear he is not so small,” she groaned. I could hear the midwives scuttling about in the background. They would be helping my wife to move into the birthing room next to our matrimonial chamber. I wished with every tortured and bulging heart that I could be there, but the matriarchal society in which we lived did not allow it.
Within my lifetime McCarthy won the election in the United States and plunged us all into this nether universe, around which I understand our sun whirls in disarray. There are those Nightgauntian spirits who insist the earth is spherical. As you know, they are far outweighed by the rational observation that the earth is flat and remains that way in spite of the monsters who spiral up from the infernal edges, like the Kadathiangod who is Gug’s godfather and my good friend.The gods who dwell in Boston decreed it so, that we should populate the Earth with our progeny that is our right, but the Earth cannot sustain its original denizens much longer. Thus agrees our Maker. There are many more like our son being born, right now, to the delight of the Mythos Fandom, the whales and denizens of the oceans, and the turtles and rats of Earth all entangled in the refuse left by Eve’s descendants.
Mormo went out and bought a little black onesie for Gug and there is a black Pierre Trudeau toque sent from a friend on Manitoulin Island, Ontario. We think our son will be well dressed. Our political agenda may come to fruition with his birth. A boy from the Tower of Gothwho munches plastic and flesh. Excellent. He will be the perfectinfernal machine to create a new world, starting with our home town of Winnipeg and mowing down to the 49th parallel then through Fargo, Minneapolis, and Fort Dodge. Boston is one of the worst polluters but if Gug inherits my excellent eyesight and his mother’s good sense, he will bypassChicago and Boston rather than make a stint eastward. Our nephew lives there with his wife and family. As an environmental engineer, our nephew and his proctologist wife desire nothing less than to clean up their city with the aid of clamps, scope, and gun, which is commensurate with the plans of the gods. I’ve heard it’s architecturally bland, anyhow. Our Gug would not be interested. Winnipeg, as everyone knows, is the cultural centre of North America, and we are happy to say we call it home, though the winters are fairly brisk. Did I mention that Boston tends to be bland? It’s in New England, you know.
Today we welcome our son to the world. I hasten into the anteroom next to the birthing chamber. For many hours I chew my nails and wait; the birds on the patio beside the huge apple tree in the courtyard chatter in tongues. I hear the groans of my wife and the wailing of the nurses, then cut short by a pregnant silence. I know the child of the Tower of Goth has arrived.
As I pull apart the curtains to the birthing room, I am greeted by the wondrous sight of my Gug munching on the bones of the midwives, and my Mormo chortling over his precocity and appearance, reminiscent of his godfather. Perhaps too reminiscent? I ponder this challenge as it appears to my fuddled mind. Prancing over the splintered bones of the nurses, I approach my little family.
“My husband,” croons my wife, and opens her arms to me. I fall into her cavernous embrace, which includes the busy form of our newborn son, shaggy and quick-witted.
“Mormo. You’ve done well. He looks like a god.”
“Yes, he does. But resembles you, my husband, above all gods.”
I pinch my lip and frown. “Perhaps. But his features bring one to mind of the Kadathian who is my friend and the baby’s godfather, our Master.”
She laughs, her pointed teeth flashing in the blood light that streams through the open sashes. Her tentacles entice and wander. “You’re dreaming, darling. Mythos is a trusted advisor and no more.”
The discussion ends with me trying to fit the black onesie onto Gug’s monstrous shaggy form, while Mormo popsthe toque onto his shaggy head. “Perfect!” she cries.
Gug smiles and gurgles.
“He’s smiling at us!” I hold my son in a firm embrace, though he towers far above my head.
“It’s gas,” explains the doctor, who arrives late, as always. She opens her bag and pops a stethoscope onto Mormo’s distended stomach. “Hmmmm.”
“Not another one in there?” Mormo shrieks.
“No. I wonder at the elasticity of your womb, though.”
“He grows fast,” my wife says. “He’s a big boy.”
The doctor snaps her bag shut and glances at the newborn monster. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself,” I say, grinning. She screams, then there is the silence of the slaughtered calves.
Gug munches happily as the doctor’s head disappears into his maw like a gingerbread woman. My precocious son is so very precious. The blood red sun has long ago risen from the east. I missed my appointment with the Moon Beast due to Mormo’s bloodbath here in the birthing room. It may not be important, but the bird of Good Fortune certainly shat decently on my cornflakes this morning. Our political agenda is pure and certain. Even now, Gug begins to munch his way from the birthing room to the kitchen, where stray bits of plastic, like offerings to the gods, litter our table before being taken to the recycling bin in our backyard. No need now. Gug’s massive incisorteeth crunch through the back-screen door to the courtyard, then into the neighbor’s bins, and nexthe trundles out through the gate to board the downtown city bus to the Greyhound station. No one questions his lack of a ticket. He grins, and the huge maw on the top of his shaggy head clicks and bleeds. I follow at a distance, taking it all in, my newborn precious son and the political agenda he will fulfill, as my Master told me he would.
© Kenna McKinnon