BIRTH STORY
Taryn Martinez
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The invitation laid accusingly on the floor of our burrow.
“I’ve been invited to Bethalzgruub’s babies shower,” I said, examining it. It was silk embroidered on a blue heron skin that had been stretched and treated to paper thinness. Delicate, impractical, and probably cost more than what I made in a month.
“Who?” said Vezuubit, from the other room.
“Bethalzgruub,” I said. “You know, the one from work? The one who lived abroad for a while and always finds a way to bring it up in conversation?”
“Hmm,” said Vezuubit.
With the claw of my rightmost forelimb, I placed the invitation onto the table. “We’ve gone out to dinner with her and her broodpartner before, remember? He works under Wall Street. They’re both insufferable.”
“Oh, right... Didn’t sh
