The System

The horizon is quiet so I kick white snow over the amber snow and re-enter the cabin. Hanging up my coat, I join the procession of men curling away from Miriam.

She is always smiling. Despite no longer being aesthetically pleasing, her important parts still function. She has produced enough sons to establish a small army, but without a single daughter that force has an expiration.

Our system has been refined over decades. We keep Miriam well-nourished throughout pregnancy, minimise the resting period after birth, and exclude the infertile from the process altogether. A single grain of rice can tip the scale.

I am now close enough to see her imperfections. The cellulitis, liver spots, and the scars where her limbs once were. Deep down we know that even if she conceives again, her chances of surviving another gestation period are very slim. Most of us however, choose instinct over logic.

Some of the others have grown violent during sex and no longer address Miriam by name, whereas I am always polite throughout the process. Only when another male is born do I find it harder to assert my manners.

There is a stutter of breath, silence, and then the shuffling of feet. It is almost time for my contribution.