By Steven C Davis

Fingletip Newtdrop was a man unlike any other. He lived in his island home of Hopeless, Maine, and he was an inventor. Even as an orphan he had an insatiable appetite for words, and this hunger for words was most looked down upon. He scavenged the sea shores and often found fragments of books and other oddities and from them he learned many words at too young an age. His favourites, before he fully knew what they meant, were perineum and moist. He liked the taste of ‘moist perineum’ in his voice, filling his throat, and this led him, once he learned what they meant, to a most singular pursuit.

There are some who, upon learning of his intent, kindly called him a doctor. Some called him a thoughtful and caring man. These people did not really know him. At best, some would call him an inventor. At worst, there are other words for him, which you are too young to learn about in this tale.

Fingletip was most interested in the act of birth. It was something that fascinated him and he should probably have been kept well away from, but midwifery was all but non-existent and he had some thoughts on the matter. He thought the current process – with the poor be-bedded ladies handling it themselves, was both unsanitary and could definitely be improved.

He spent many hours – days – years – in his workshop creating something to aid the process. It was a grand idea – of potential construction – with scythes and saws and blades and rotating things and all kind of things that had no place at such a delicate time. However, Fingletip’s reasoning was that a good fright would often aid the process along.

In such things, Fingletip felt he was on firm ground. He liked giving ladies a good fright – or even a bad fright. Gentlemen, not so much because they could always punch him out, but to frighten a lady – now that really appealed to him. It appealed to him rather too much – well, you know how after his life ended, how those tales of a certain nature stopped.

So he constructed this machine, like a steel octopus that rotated and whirred, but unfortunately, the materials available were far below what he required. A rotating liquid-metal screw, required to give the delicate area a massage, had to be replaced with a stringy, wet, frond. A cutting blade, meant to sever the cord between mother and child, was a glistening of damp bark, torn from a dying tree.

He could see the words, the materials, the ideas, gleaming in his mind, but unfortunately – or, very fortunately – he could not bring them to fruition. However, there were many poor ladies whose time escaped the few who could help, and thus, finally, Fingletip got the opportunity to test out his machine.

The hovel itself was rather damp, having but three walls, and tree branches and mud for a roof. The lady in question seemed to have overlong, sticky, legs, and be of a rather damp persuasion herself, but that was neither here nor there. He set his machine in operation – having to re-attach the wet frond several times first.

When she finally opened her eyes and saw him – and the machine – she did indeed let out a scream and a new life slithered out and raised its head and Fingletip lifted it up, praising his machine, noticing, and commenting, that the machine had caused the last outie – there would henceforth only be belly buttons that went inwards, thanks to his wondrous invention.

Unfortunately for Fingletip, and fortunately for every lady thereafter who has no recourse to a wise woman, witch or lady of the night, the newly born creature took affright at being lifted up, and tore his throat out.

His machine, however, re-purposed, was found to be quite good at salad tossing or, as the locals called it, “throwing grass and weeds into the air and hoping it came down a meal”.

Thus ends the tale of poor Mr Newtdrop, who we probably should have kept safely locked up.