The Art of Hypocrisy

Prompt Day #240: Carve something unrelated to Halloween into a kind of Jack O’Lantern.

WARNING: Politically driven prompt written by a hardcore liberal. Read at your own risk.

I try hard not to let my politics into my writing. I try not to use it as my own personal soapbox. But I’m human and right now, politics are everywhere. When I was trying to come up with an idea for this prompt after a really awful few days at work, my daughter said “I don’t know, maybe write something from work then?” and it clicked. So, I apologize ahead of time for this if we have different opinions on this and I am in no way saying everyone whose opinion is different thinks this way. But like it or not, these people exist and they don’t see the hypocrisy in their own actions.

 

The Art of Hypocrisy

 

                They drug the unconscious girl’s body into the back alley and hefted her up into the back of the truck. They assured themselves that what they were doing was for the cause. It wasn’t really murder, it was justice. It was God’s will. They had discussed sedating her during the planning process, but decided that she should suffer. She was only unconscious because they didn’t want to struggle trying to get her in the truck. She stir a little as they gagged her and tied her up.

The artist refused to do the dirty work. She couldn’t stand the blood. After all, wasn’t that what this was about in the first place? She was only here for the greater good. The point they were making was more important than one ignorant whore’s life, wasn’t it? Yes. It was. She knew in her heart it was. And so she turned her back while the man gutted her. The others prayed as the girl moaned and screamed through her gag, bucking and flopping like a fish. And then, there was silence.

The organ, hollow but still enlarged was cleaned and drained of blood. It was handed to the artist who went to work on her carving. The man and his wife, the unspoken leaders of the group, worked to sew up the corpse. The others ooed and aahed over the carving as the artist used her God-given talents to make a statement to the world.

When night fell, they set up the tableau in front of the clinic and drove home. They needed their rest before returning first thing in the morning with their protest signs and their hate-filled cat calls. Judgement begins when the clinic opens its doors to women from all walks of life.

On this day, the clinic does not open on time. On this day, would-be patients and protestors alike arrive to find the body of a young woman sitting up against the door. Her knees raised and spread out in a vulgar pose. Blood pooled between her feet, her skirt hiked high to her waist. In her hands which rest against her pubic bone, she holds an enlarged but empty uterus. Carved into the uterus like a morbid jack o’lantern is a fetus. The corpse wears a sign around her neck declaring that “All Life is Sacred.”

 

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