Pink goo in a vat, oozing into the empty corridors of the mould as the scientist tilts and pours. Not thick, just a layer to coat the base. The process will do the rest.

Leave in a dark damp place to rise, like bread dough with added yeast. DNA begins to fizz; fermenting juices bubble and hiss. Slowly the mould fills, goo becomes jelly becomes flesh and muscle and bone. Machine whirrs and clacks, stamping the paper pattern across the top. Snip, snip, scissors on dotted line, dressmaking for dolls: a dancing chorus line of paper dolls, joined at finger and toe and hip. The scientist cuts again, once, twice, six times, and the dolls are disparate. Dormant and lacking in life until he applies the spark, then air gulps into newly-inflated lungs. Blood pumps, awareness awakes, uncertain eyes open on bare white walls and gleaming chrome.

Flex of tentacles: a satisfied shrug. Another successful batch of humans for the laboratories and mines.

Copyright: © 2009 Fiona Glass

Fiona Glass writes darkly humorous fiction from a pointy house in Birmingham (the original one in the UK). She's recently had stories published by Mslexia, Byker Books, Ink Sweat & Tears, Flash Me Magazine and The Pygmy Giant, amongst others. You can find her online at


  1. Blast those alien mad scientists!

    -Brian Barnett

  2. Thanks for the feedback. Glad you enjoyed my somewhat sick sense of humour. ;)