The Box

A Very Small Story

I recently read a short-short story by

Etgar Keret

called Chinese Singles Day. It reminded me of a short-short story of my own, which was published in a little magazine called Rune Bear back in 2021.

I found the similarity funny, so I wanted to comment on Etgar’s post with a link to my story. Imagine my surprise when I clicked the link and found out the mag had gone extinct!

I still want to send Etgar the story, and now that it no longer has a home, I figured, why not republish it here and send him the Substack link instead? That way, you guys can enjoy it as well.

I hope you do! I highly encourage checking out Mr. Keret’s story as well, at this link.

Photo by Yu Hosoi on Unsplash

The package arrives just like that. No text, no e-mail, only a screech of tires and a black sedan swerving into my driveway. An inconspicuous young man in a black sweatshirt with the hood draped over his eyes gets out of the passenger’s side. He has a big box in his arms. He hands me the receipt, along with a bright blue ballpoint pen.

The box is heavy, which is a good sign, I think. I also think I can hear faint moaning, or cooing, coming from inside. I heft it up onto the kitchen table, scissors at the ready, and I cut the tape around the box meticulously, like a maestro dressmaker, careful not to damage my new property. The box blooms open.

The baby is inside: a healthy-looking, ruddy-skinned miracle. My baby, as advertised.

My friend Bertha was very skeptical about this and she made me anxious with her talk. “Made-to-order babies,” she scoffed last Sunday, on the telephone. She had her daughter propped upon one knee and was breastfeeding her. “I were you, honey, with your good looks and smarts? I’d ‘a’ used that money and gone back to college. What you just did is feed the capitalist machine on an empty promise.” As she talked, I could hear soft suckling in the background. The conceited little bitch, I thought. It took all my resolve not to slam the receiver down.

My hands are shaking. The baby—Finnegan, his name is Finnegan from now on—is smiling at me, his mouth tooth-free and gums shiny with fresh spittle. A lone strand of blond hair adorns his little head like a crown.

I’m a mother now, too. Bertha can suck it.

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