Ad Hoc Fiction

Miracles
If you pee on toothpaste, and it fizzes, you are pregnant. I want to know, but I am afraid to jinx it with a shop-bought test. But how do you pee on toothpaste? If I were six, I'd know who to ask; we used to deal with disgusting things: frog eyes, mosquito bites, soup made of compost. Now we do spreadsheets and go to staff meetings.
     I'm alone, it's 3 am. I squeeze the toothpaste and pipe out little people into the sink. This one is lopsided, and this is more like a mouse. I try again: this blob is like a girl. Cadmus had it easy. If I had dragon teeth to sow, I'd watch my warriors sprout out – all grown up, perfectly formed, ready for battle. I'd brandish my sword. Instead, I must become small and slowly go back into childhood, earth, and the dark corners of my body.