This week, make a forceful case for… something.
My uterus, my decision.
In the beginning I would like to thank all wise and startlingly male commentators regarding the abortion law that is maintained in Poland. Your opinion is so valuable, I’m sure, since you have uteruses, jajniki and periods each month yourselves, you regularly go into labor every 9 months, you can really appreciate poor females situation. I’m so happy that we can properly discus the miracle of labor, of pushing a watermelon through lemon wide channel. It’s nice that you know how comfortable it feels to have a body squirm on your bladder and the crazy hormones induced morning sickness. It’s also heartwarming that you feel the pain and shock of damaged life that suddenly is located inside your body. Not to mention that you can relate to the forced intercourse, when another man pushes hard rod inside your delicate organ. Yep, glad that males and females can talk about such experiences as equals.
And now let’s be serious because it’s a serious matter. Polish abortion law is one of the most strict laws in modern Europe. It’s as strict as Irish and Maltan law. And that’s it. In all liberal, democratic and modern countries the government doesn’t stick the nose up women vaginas.
In theory a woman can terminate the pregnancy in three cases: when she was raped, when the pregnancy is threatening her life and if the fetus has a lethal defect. That’s theory. In practice the doctors and pro-life activists will try to deter and postpone the decision until often it is too late.
Now, I’m not intending to persuade anybody to get an abortion. Why? Not because I think it is evil or inhumane or unchristian, but because simply IT IS NOT MY BUSINESS what anybody does to her or his body.
I don’t understand this need to look between our legs and make the space there a public business. It is not public. It’s a private area get that finally!
For today’s challenge, try a twist on a technique Ray Bradbury used to beat writer’s block.
The fog was like a cotton white blanket that hung low over the surface of the lake. The night was dark and damp. The cool air made even the crickets all eerily silent.
In the darkness that surrounded the lake valley, the only source of light was a single lit window. Be brave dear traveller and step through the mists and windows of the universe.
If you hear the fog horn cry, it means you are very late, as late as a White Rabbit was for a Mad Hatter tea party.
Run as fast as you can, cower and jump over the ravine rocks. Try as you can but you can never outrun the deadly pale scythe of fate.
Boarding the night train will scarcely help you, it will only buy you more time. But time is precious isn’t it? And as the carousel of life twists and turns in the brightly coloured carnival of life, no man can forever sit securely in a lush compartment of destiny.
Today, we challenge you to create a compelling setting for your story.
Braxton was a typical small, sleepy town located in a godforsaken part of a prosperous country. It was a home to all sorts of strange individuals as well as some entirely regular folks. They all mingled on the main market square, stopping by a century old wishing well to drop a coin or two out of habit mostly, as no one local believed in superstitions and omens. But it was good for the occasional tourist.
In the early twentieth century Braxton was voted as the most boring and dreary place in this part of a country. The dwellers of Braxton couldn’t agree more.
However you would be mistaken if you thought that there was completely nothing to see in this hollow shell of a town.
For starters the town was circled by a tight ring of various kinds of trees and bushes. The wild paths were often crossed by brave animals and even braver hunters with rifles.
On the most south side of Braxton one could find pleasantly small lake with nenuphars and water lilies. It is a place frequented by all – people and animals.
When you entered the town from the north, you were welcomed by a towering shadow of the small basilica consecrated to Saint Mary. The silver dome of the basilica towered above the town as the highest peak in Braxton. The white walls shone from a far, guiding the weary traveler home.
Tell us about a conversation you couldn’t help but overhear and wish you hadn’t.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us SECRET.
Memories are fleeting and whimsical creatures that can bounce aimlessly inside our skulls and clench our hearts in a painful twangs of reminisce.
As we recall the secrets that have been, willingly or not, bestowed upon us we discover a world of choices.
Should I know about this? Is it alright to hear this? Do I really need this knowledge?
Tell us about a time you found out after the fact that you’d been mistaken and you had to eat a serving of humble pie.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us REGRET.
I have a short temper, I am hot headed, I lack patience. My behaviour often is radical and irrational. More often than not I find myself regretting words that tumbled out of my mouth before I could think them through.
Life is too short to spend it on regret. Let’s fix the mistakes we made, let’s focus our efforts on mending things rather than empty regrets.