Take that, Shawshank Redemption!

Walked the neighborhood in the night, it’s quiet save for the cars with loud stereos and loud people talking loudly on their phones. How can you be that loud and have that lung capacity?

Feel the wind begin to chill, it’s going to get colder. Feel the rain, take off my hat and my jacket, I’m in my undershirt feeling the chill rain drop on my clean head, on my naked shoulders. I’m being spit blessed. Unto this I receive your blessing, night cold rain wind.

The chorus of a song sticks in my head, I don’t bother to clear it out, just let it carry me, raise my arms in the way a boring ass hero baptized by rain is in all of those movies. That’s not how I’d do it.

EXT. ALLEY AT NIGHT.
It’s raining hard. Water gurgles from gutters onto the broken pavement, a forgotten alley, rain drops glistening the shattered glass and empty chip backs like a shattered disco ball. Leaves and muck dapple the uneven walkway to a 3×6 drain. Overfilled garbage cans receive the downpour, adding a sweet, sickly stench to the air.

The rain intensifies, litter, leaves swept up in the torrent flooding towards the sewer drain. A moment passes and part of the ground begins to buckle, a bump develops in the mud, growing larger and larger. Before long, it becomes a thick, viscous, organic veiny bubble. The rain beats down on it as it grows out of the ground. The bubble is rumbling, liquid inside. Something alive, something.

The cyst, for it is a cyst from the earth, the muck, the sad, continues growing, blocking the mud and water.

From inside, something is fighting to get out. It has to get out, panicked punches and kicks until the cysts bursts open, deflating as it empties blood, mucus, shit, vomit, everything. Sliding out among the sick, a pale naked body plops out, rolls over, and lays still in the filth, the mud, the debris of the alley. The body is hairless and still, on its back.

Is it dead?

It jerks violently, spasming, choking, until it rolls over and pukes its insides, the bile and gunk in its lungs, coughing, choking, shitting itself, piss dribbling between its legs. Exhausted, it collapses again unto it’s back. It heaves for air and chokes as mucus coughs up out of its mouth and nose.

It’s a boy!

He stares up. Rain illuminated by the street light drops on its face, looking like stars zooming past. The lights hurt his eyes Confused, scared, cold, he starts to scream, screaming out loudly until the screams turn into sobs, hard sobs. Sobbing known only by the lost.

Now that’s how you write a birthing scene.

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