Excerpted: How About This…?

It’s a little after the middle of the 21^st century. Loving couple Elspeth and Marybeth are both shocked and excited when a stroller with identical twins is left on their back deck with a recorded message that warns them not to try to return the babies or they could face arrest for kidnapping.

Using false starts, footnotes, direct approaches to the reader, lists, questions about who the author(s) might be, and even a dose of self-criticism, the story unwinds from that point as El and Mar work hard to create a family under the circumstances. This becomes even more difficult when they discover the babies come with unusual features that perhaps might explain why they were left in the first place. And it all takes place in a disintegrating world that may leave humans incapable of telling their own stories. 

How About This … ? arose out of a combination of interests related to storytelling (more specifically its future): meta-fiction and the possibility of AI-inspired writing (definitely faux-AI at this point). At the same time, I wanted to create a story that, at its centre, had a beating heart—with all that implies in terms of joy and pain and bemusement and tragedy—and that reflected some of the concerns and problems of a near-future world. To me, that means placing humans in situations that seem familiar in some ways (loving couples, families, parenting, life and death decisions) and not so familiar in other ways (mysterious twins appearing in the night, cell phones issuing troubling instructions and warnings, sexual identities to stretch acceptance). All wrapped in an envelope that features direct talk to the reader, footnotes, critical analysis/rebuttal, and perhaps a touch of virtual reality. 

The ideal reader would be someone who is interested in how storytelling is more than just the stories being told where sometimes the skeleton around which the story hangs is as interesting as the tale itself. 

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II. Back to 2044 AD [0111000 B-AI]: Here Come The Foundlings¹ — Surprise! Shock! Double Surprise! 
[Wherein, dear still jaunty reader, you will uncover a sequence of events that could easily lead to a cat-astrophe if not handled with care.] 

Of late, it being a form of springtime in both the fast-crumbling city and its barely-hanging-on suburban outliers, the feral alley cats [rumoured to be escapees from gone-right GMO lab experiments with an interest in synthetic testosterone as a way to improve elite soldiers’ kill ratios and billionaires’ sperm counts—and vice versa] have manifested particularly ardent/feisty attitudes. Especially on the increasing number of muggy, sluggish, mogrified evenings when one looks out the window to find more than a hint of Prufrockian fog dancing around the base of overwrought street lights². 

Giving them [the street lights, that is] the appearance of being the only real objects in the multi-verse as they invite hara-kiri attacks from pesticide-resistant mayflies who insist on being on the bright side when immolating themselves. [Most often perishing into the stomach cavities of super-geckos before any immolation can take place.] 

So the wailing at her back door—which has become an almost nightly occurrence—comes as no surprise for El [short for Elspeth, a tall pyjama-clad woman in her mid-to-late 30s with close-cropped hair and a distinct lack of make-up on a pleasant, round, well-nourished (as they say in murder mystery morgues) face]. To the point where she has developed a ritual that consists of: [a] pushing with her butt against the spring-loaded, outward-opening back door; [b] stepping out while one foot keeps the door from slamming shut behind her; and [c] quickly splashing a bucket of cold water into the night in the hope the shock will dampen, if only temporarily, the toms’ desire [for either battle or sex].³ 

But, as the bold typeface header would indicate, on this particular evening, El seems the one in for a shock when she flings the door open and prepares to douse the freestyle feline frolickers. 

So, for the record, here’s how El would have prepared her story in case of a possible investigation [criminal or simply bureaucratic]—and also how she explains events to herself and to her partner [scheduled to make a grand entrance in Section III]: 

“I was expecting snarling cats. Or maybe in the clamouring throes of lustful amour with one or two paramours, one of whom I’d come to identify as Sir Eglamour. What else could it be? Howling cats yesterday; howling cats today—isn’t that what inductive logic tells us? But there. There on our backyard deck underneath the motion sensor detector. There was the real source of the wailing which had in the meantime stopped. Infants. Two of them side-by-side in a stroller. Two infants tightly wrapped in blankets [they used to call them swaddling clothes, no?] that were a combination of pink and blue. Like whoever had done the wrapping couldn’t make up their mind. Two infants side-by-side in a mauve-coloured, ultra-modern, altogether spiffy, triangular-wheeled, two-seater, tandem stroller.⁴ 

“I must admit to a double take, an exaggerated double take, followed by the removal of a hand from across my mouth and furtive glances to ensure no neighbour was surveilling. Sorry, I mean, watching. Too much Elizabethan Age research. Joking, of course, as the word was first used in 1884, long after the Elizabethan Age. Anyway, I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what next to do. But what could I do? What choice did I have? I wasn’t going to leave them on the back deck in the damp and dark. Possibly to be mauled by hungry and/or horny cats. Possibly to die a slow death from starvation. So, I touched the stroller again to make sure it wasn’t an hallucination, then wheeled it into the house, back-heel kicked the door shut behind me and suddenly realized I hadn’t been breathing the entire time. Had been holding my breath as if it was going to be my last. So, I took a deep one. In out. And then I took several more. 

“I didn’t say: ‘Be still, my beating heart!’⁵ 

But my Fitbit Ultra-Versa V24.2i smart watch, the one I got as a 10^th anniversary gift from my ever-loving and thoughtful partner, did tell me that the beat of my heart had jumped rapidly: ‘Pulse rate at 118, sweetie. Time to relax. Take five.’ As you know, or maybe you don’t, I’ve always been one to obey sensible requests. Especially when they’re voiced in the melodious and calming tone my partner uses when I’m harried or acting headless. So, I pulled up a chair from the kitchen table and sat myself down before the stroller. But I still couldn’t believe it. And so, I almost immediately jumped up again and headed towards the bedroom so I could wake my sweetie and share the news. Only to remember, as I was about to open the bedroom door, that my partner was out of town meeting one of the more difficult clients [a cattle prod manufacturer who insisted on face-to-face meetings despite sophisticated holographic possibilities for fear his competitors have compromised his electronics] and wasn’t due to return until mid-morning. 

“So I went back to the stroller, looked around and then peeked in like I was still having trouble believing what I saw. What was before me. I touched the stroller. Shook it gently and felt it rocking on its silent, heavy-duty springs. Definitely not a mirage. I looked in. Two babies. I shook my head hard back and forth and eased myself once more into the chair, at the same time shuffling it closer to the stroller. Maybe for fear it might vanish if I didn’t stay close. If I didn’t keep my eye on it. And that’s where I remained in a sleep-wake dream state—and admitting to a massive smile on my face much resembling some Cheshire Cat⁶—for the rest of the night.⁷ 

“And that’s it. That’s the story of how these two babies ended up in our house. It was like a dream. A dream wherein all my wishes came true. A dream that washed away all my disappointments and frustrations. One that I hoped and prayed [metaphorically speaking, of course, as my belief in higher beings extends only as far as generative artificial intelligence⁸] would still be there in the morning. At which point I knew that, as much as I dreaded it, a decision had to be made. And the authorities would have to be informed.” 

Excerpted in part from How About This…? by Michael Mirolla. Copyright © by Michael Mirolla, 2025. Published by At Bay Press. https://atbaypress.com/

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