No. 47. Distinctly apathetic amongst a row of cookie-cutter houses, it stood- long-stretched- heavy and overcast. It was still- a staunch refusal to participate in what others may describe as ‘normal life’. This was made apparent not only by the haphazard fashion in which it was presented (for instance- a myriad of discarded fishing rods crudely bound together with string that were acting as a makeshift gutter) – but more so by the individual that was currently sat in the dimly-lit basement – carefully taking apart yet another disused contraption in the hopes of conceiving again.
She was an apprentice-a novice to the art of home-renovation, however, she was experienced in the art of creation. As a midwife in the late 3000’s, the former nurse had lived through her fair share of technological advances in the medical community. Recently retired, she was in the early stages of translating her experiences as a life-giver into the home- hence her recent foray into home renovation. Throughout her time in nursing, she had also become familiar with the darker sides of all things baby-related- be it those born addicted due to their mothers unrelenting need for substances, those with physical deformities or even those that were simply unwanted- tossed aside like discarded wrappers after a night of over-familiarity with a stranger. Over the years, the good nurse had become increasingly apathetic and eventually all together disillusioned with the callousness of both nature and the supposed ‘nurture’ that masquerades as the intention of care but which- if left unattended- can run riot; leaving destruction in its wake. The all-too-familiar repercussions of improper reproduction that leave many an individual no better off than if they had simply been hand-picked and tossed around in a chemically filled cylinder. At least in these circumstances- under careful observation and consideration- they may have a chance. She welded together a couple of steel cords- the finishing touches completed at last- and sat her creation upright on the table. She was finally able to etch a thick black line through the last name on the list. It remained, motionless- waiting patiently for the thousand volt jolt that would eventually bring it to life. It was by no means pleasant looking- quite the opposite. In sharp contrast to what would be expected of a new-born, it would not look out of place on the mud-stained floor of a scrap-yard- battered into some sort of recognisable form, yet still off-kilter. She picked up him (?) up- not that any of them were designed one way or the other- that was hardly the point. They moved together carefully- with each step moving closer and closer towards the storage facility at the back of the house. They approached the entrance- he, pressed tightly against her porcelain chest. As they made their way into a pitch-black space, she pulled a thick black lever- straining under its weight but with its movement coming a surge of power. Then there they were. Illuminated in 3000 square feet of iron bars, tables and metals – they all stared. Thousands of grotesque machines- all varying in sizes and shapes stared back at the two who had just entered.
‘Come, children’, she ordered.
‘Yes mother’, they all chimed as they began to march in synchronicity towards a new dawn.