Womb with a View – satire

Lobbyists in the womb – a fanciful look at The Rights of the Un-Born (fiction I hope)WombWorldWomb-World

“I just met with sixteen hundred of our new potential constituents, in the first trimester,” Carol said.

“And are they with us?”

“I did my best. A little over one thousand have detected that they are unwanted being carried by either by unwed mothers or by mothers who aren’t sure they want to carry their babies. One thousand want to return to the “before-space” mainly because it’s not cramped. They report that the corporeal form they occupy is very primitive and brain function is minimal. Some are hoping for miscarriages because its the easiest way to release, but in leu of that abortion is okay. They don’t want to be here and are not interested in joining any political party. If they are forced to stay most would choose anarchy, but some would be socialists. I gave some of them vouchers, about two hundred souls or so.

“Of the remaining four hundred and thirty four, three hundred and two have declared themselves independents and aren’t interested in politics and think money is funny or stupid. They could be potential progressives. The others are divided into two or three categories. One group is definitely with us and about a third of them have vouchers. Another group could go in any direction and will ally with their families, some with the mothers and a smaller percentage with the father. They refused vouchers.

“The last group were very grumpy and claimed to be related to a guy I’ve never heard of – William F. Buckley Jr. I had to look him up. He was this elitist conservative type. They not only didn’t want vouchers and thought we live more in a welfare state than ever before. They wondered why we were soliciting voters in the womb.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Of course I did… But I have to tell you that this ‘Before-Space’ is a very appealing place. I’d go there tomorrow if I could. No money, no stress, no weight gain, no weight, no body. You can have sex there without any consequences, no children at all. They call it blending. I used to get blended in my 20s and the hangovers, well I don’t need to tell you. Expanded consciousness is the best thing. I guess death is something we can all look forward to.

“I asked them why they would want to leave the ‘Before-Space’ and they said it had to due with some weird attachment deal, a. Catch 22 thing. If you want to stay they boot you out, If you want to go,- trying to stay-  well you go but its a trick apparently.

“The people that don’t come back have the widest choices but they choose one thing over and over.”

“What? You’re killing me.”

“Its stupid. Its Love.”

“Well you know I’ve always loved you,” and Bob started his grab-ass thing.

“Get off me, you pig,” Carol pushed him away.

“You know what?

“What?”

“They want to know why we are courting their votes in the womb? And I told then the history. That in 2017, the GOP declared that they were citizens who could have funding to go to college and that’s when it all started.”

“What was their response?”

“They said that womb-life was too cramped and making promises was bullshit and they should be left alone by political parties and everybody else.

“I did see some conservative lobbyists there promising them fiscal responsibility. I heard giggling…”

“I gave them the survey and 100% of them said that Mom has a right to choose to send us back for another shot later when we are wanted.”

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On Writing

EssenceFlameEternal

My Father had a rich vocabulary that my sister and I would put to the test every month with Reader’s Digest “Word Power” quiz. Invariably he would know the definition to most every word. I grew up within the richness of a word cornucopia without realizing it until much later in life.

When I was eleven years old my sixth grade teacher assigned us to write a short story. Mine was called The Great Race. It was about a Yawl (a kind of a sailing boat with two masts – a main and a mizzen) sailing around the treacherous waters of Cape Horn in South America.

My teacher, Mr. Smith failed me because he said I plagiarized the story. I asked my Father for help. My Dad met with Mr. Smith and explained how I knew many a nautical terms due to Sunday sailing on my Uncle’s boat in Long Island Sound, how I had a rich imagination and how I have used a thesaurus during the writing process. Mr. Smith held his ground and continued to claim that the work was not mine. My Father asked him to cite the work that I had copied from, but he could not do this. He failed me.

My Father referred to Mr. Smith as a little man with a cloud over his head.

Rather than take this as a failure I let it go to my head. “I must be a pretty good writer if I had fooled him into thinking it was stolen when I know it had not been.”

And thus my passion for writing stories was launched.