A tall, blond, slim person was sitting in the waiting room.

  He—or she—or it—it was impossible to determine—was scratching one of their long, pointy ears.

  A small dot could be seen on the swollen lobe, pierced through with a golden pin.

  “Hobbits. With their stupid earring-potato,” the figure muttered, caressing the sore spot.

  A sudden sound startled him, and he looked up.

  Into the room limped a waist-high, ugly creature with a long nose, a wrinkled face, and a gait that suggested chronic constipation.

  It wore nothing but an old potato sack.

  The creature nodded solemnly and sat down with audible effort.

  “I’m sorry,” the tall man said, in the tone of a spoiled prince who had been wronged.

  “This wing is reserved for the noble kindred of the Firstborn. It is plainly marked.”

  He pointed at a sign on the wall that read Elves Only.

  The ugly creature looked at the sign, then back at the man.

  “Dobby can’t read,” he said.

  “The sign says ‘Elves Only,’” the proud man repeated.

  “Dobby is an elf,” the creature replied, his eyes narrowing in what might have been offense.

  “I am not just an elf—Legolas, son of Thramuin, prince of the Shadowwood.”

  “Dobby is Dobby,” the creature announced. “Dobby is a house-elf.”

  “What the freck is a house-elf?” Legolas was clearly not having this monstrosity staining the good name of elfdom.

  “An elf who serves the house-human,” Dobby said proudly. “Not Dobby though. Dobby got a sock.”

  Legolas looked at Dobby’s feet. Then at Dobby. Then back again, puzzled.

  “Well... Dobby’s sock is not where it should be. Dobby misinterpreted.”

  Shamefully, he looked down.

  Legolas frowned. This was also an elf?

  Not at all like the proud, immortal beings he had been taught all elves were supposed to be.

  A small goblin child from the other waiting room peeked around the corner.

  “Are you real elves?” he asked, mouth agape and eyes twinkling with awe.

  “Well, yes,” Legolas replied, striking a regal pose with his hands on his hips.

  Dobby gave a cheerful wave.

  “How is it working with Santa Claus?” the child asked.

  Legolas sat down, crossed his arms, and pouted.

  “Dobby thinks there are some supremacy issues in this one,” the house-elf said, nodding toward Legolas.

  “Dobby knows about those.”

  ***

  Mary entered the waiting room, carrying a brabbling, waving Syril.

  The six-month-old looked in perfect health.

  Mary looked like her bedroom was located next to a fanfare rehearsal hall that practiced 24 hours a day.

  Legolas glanced from Dobby to Mary, sighed, and muttered,

  “Ah, forget it.”

  He picked up a gardening magazine.

  “Elf with sock up his arse, examination room three, please.”

  Dobby flustered, adjusted his limp, and shuffled off toward the assigned room.

  “Elf with turd-tinged tinnitus, room one, please.”

  Legolas set the magazine down, bowed graciously to Mary, and walked with dignity toward his appointment.

  ***

  Syril suddenly fell quiet.

  Panic began to creep into Mary’s eyes.

  A loud burp echoed through the room—

  —and with a flash of light, Syril vanished.

  Mary let out a deep sigh, stood up, and prepared to begin yet another search.

  From the goblin room down the hall came a chorus of gasps. She followed the sound, entered, and found a squat, bug-eyed goblin wearing a helmet two sizes too big, giggling like squeaky brakes.

  He stood in stunned surprise, staring at the baby now sitting in the middle of his cluttered lab.

  “But... nobody said the rhyme,” the goblin muttered, puzzled. “I don’t think this is allowed? I have to check with Jareth.”

  Mary stepped inside, offered a quick apology, and gently retrieved the brabbling child from the very confused little goblin.

  Syril gave a cheerful wave, which made the moment even more awkward.

  “Please stop,” Mary begged.

  “Mother with the child of destiny, room five, please,” a friendly but thoroughly smoked-up voice invited.

  Mary quickly went, hoping the nightmare would end soon.

  ***

  “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” said the bald man in the office.

  He smiled, but it was a programmed expression—practiced, automatic, and devoid of actual warmth. His posture was too straight. His tone, too smooth.

  Mary recognized him: the Emergency Medical Hologram. Version whatever. Still smug.

  “Syril teleports when she burps,” Mary said quickly.

  “I see.” He nodded. “How long has this been occurring?”

  “About two days.”

  “Please return when it has persisted for two weeks. There is a statistically significant chance the condition will self-correct.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mary blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

  “It is standard medical protocol to wait a minimum of fourteen days before consulting a physician for non-life-threatening conditions. Premature consultation overloads the healthcare matrix.”

  He made a graceful gesture toward the door.

  “But she teleports,” Mary insisted.

  “Is she currently in mortal danger?” the hologram asked, cocking his head slightly.

  “She could teleport out of a window and fall to her death!”

  “Yes. If she falls, that would constitute an emergency,” he replied, now scanning his console. “At present, this is a condition.”

  Mary sat there for a moment, looking around in disbelief.

  Syril let out a shriek—something wholly inhuman.

  The windows vibrated.

  Then vibrated harder.

  Children outside the room began to cry.

  And then, with a sound like reality tearing, all the windows shattered.

  Glass splinters flew in every direction—right through the doctor.

  Mary shielded Syril with her arms, ducking low.

  “Ah,” the doctor said calmly, unfazed. “Perhaps you should see Dr. Mulder for this one. I’ll write you a receipt.”

  “Gaga,” Syril said as a thank you.

  “Great,” Mary muttered, flustered. She took the note and looked.

  Of course it was on the other side of the building.

  ***

  After an hour—and three separate searches for wherever Syril had burped into—Mary now sat, truly exhausted, in yet another waiting room.

  A sign on the wall read: For X-Files Only.

  Dr. Mulder was in.

  Across from her, a donkey and a dragon were sitting calmly, waiting their turn.

  Mary blinked at them, her expression drifting somewhere between confusion and defeat.

  “Yes, hello, hi, good morning!” the donkey said brightly, hopping over. “What a beautiful child!”

  He leaned in, sticking his nose uncomfortably close to Syril’s face.

  “A cootchie cootchie cootchie,” he added, wiggling his ears.

  Syril grabbed them.

  Firmly.

  “Okay, that was fun,” the donkey said, voice rising in panic. A single tear trickled from his eye.

  “You can let go now.”

  Mary struggled to pry Syril’s fingers off the floppy gray ears. It took a full minute of fumbling before she succeeded.

  Syril was not amused. That had been the best toy she’d had all morning.

  She inhaled.

  Mary’s panic rose with every tiny lungful she saw expanding.

  And then—

  Burp.

  Flash.

  Gone.

  Syril rematerialized on the lap of the dragon, who was sitting on a reinforced chair in the corner.

  “Oh my,” the dragon gasped with joy. “Donkey, darling, look!”

  “Wow, looks beautiful on you, babe,” Donkey trotted over, beaming.

  Mary was very confused. Also, she was seriously considering just taking a nap.

  The dragon noticed.

  “Yes, well—love knows no boundaries,” she said gently, cradling Syril with the utmost care. The care of a mother with a child.

  Mary relaxed a little. She didn’t feel any rush to take Syril back.

  “We’re trying for a baby ourselves,” the dragon added, blowing tiny rings of smoke around Syril, who was visibly and audibly delighted.

  “But we do have... foreseeable difficulties,” she continued.

  Ah no, Mary thought. I am not asking.

  “We’re waiting for the results of our first IVF,” Donkey chimed in cheerfully, keeping a safe distance from Syril. His ears were still sore.

  “Did you conceive naturally?” he asked.

  “Donkey! That is not polite conversation,” the dragon scolded.

  “I’m sorry,” she added to Mary. “Talking donkeys are notoriously hard to shut up.”

  Mary didn’t know how to handle this situation. She still really wanted that nap.

  She gave an ‘it’s okay’ hand sign and shut her eyes.

  She was awoken gently by Donkey, who nudged her when she was invited into Dr. Mulder’s office.

  ***

  “Mary! Good to see you.”

  The man offered a hand and pointed to a seat.

  Mary took both. She sat down and looked around.

  On the wall was a poster of a flying saucer. Someone had scribbled on it in red marker:

  I (don’t) want to believe (anymore).

  Next to it, a postcard featured a strange-looking alien with a second jaw inside its mouth.

  Greetings from Vulcan, it read.

  Local cuisine a bit bland.

  “So,” the man began, flipping open a folder that contained a single sheet of paper.

  It had three words on it: Child of Destiny.

  He sighed.

  “Great. Another one,” he muttered flatly.

  “Teleportation?”

  Mary nodded.

  The man jotted something on the page.

  “Shrieking?”

  “First time this morning,” Mary replied.

  “Good, good. Nothing to worry about.”

  He opened a drawer in his desk. “Pretty standard, actually. Child of destiny. Great changes in your realm. Possibly entire societal upheaval.”

  He pulled out a ring and held it up to the light. “Shrieking, huh?”

  He set the ring down and took out a small bracelet instead.

  “And then she dies,” he added, noting a number from the bracelet onto the file.

  “WHAT?”

  Mary jolted upright, fully awake now.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said calmly, fastening the bracelet around Syril’s arm.

  Syril stared at him with the unimpressed expression of someone denied their chaos.

  “Don’t worry about what? She dies? That seems... worrying,” Mary said, deeply offended.

  “Well, yes. But ‘don’t worry’ is the strongest reassurance I’m authorized to offer. Anything more is bad for the heart.”

  He adjusted his glasses. “The bracelet stops her from teleporting.”

  Then, looking over his glasses, he asked:

  “Now, are you from the only country in the entire multiverse where there’s no universal healthcare?”

  Mary shook her head and stood up, relieved this part of the nightmare was over.

  “Good,” Mulder muttered, already turning back to his files.

  “Now—back to the IVF. Let’s see if Debbie’s magic worked.”

  ***

  Mary had a little Babshee,

  Her scream was sharp and wild,

  And every time she loosed a burp,

  Reality was riled.

  She vanished from her cradle bed,

  Then reappeared in space,

  Or sometimes in a goblin lab,

  Or on a dragon’s face.

  It followed her through portals torn,

  With chaos in its wake,

  And every nurse who heard her shriek,

  Required a small break.

  literary, dramatic, and deeply human.

  The Burp That Broke Reality to three of them.