Margot Wood thinks that all horse art should be burned.

Special Delivery (November 20, 2010. Issue 22.)

She swore something was living in her stomach. Within her organs she could feel it throbbing, day after day. She knew her husband had wanted a child, but the last thing she wanted to be was a walking uterus. Every time he brought up the idea of conception, she completely shut down. For all she knew, he had impregnated her. Or maybe it was immaculate conception. Unless this was all in her head. Perhaps a parasite; wouldn’t that be lovely. Tapeworms had always been her greatest fear. Being female was her second. The idea that a human life could be festering inside of her was so terrifying. So alien. She felt it was eating her up inside; destroying every square inch of her womb.

She needed to get it out. To be put out of her misery. To remove the misery from within, in the most literal sense. She couldn’t let him know, though. Then they would have to keep it. She was nowhere near convex enough for it to be ready, but her desperation grew with each inner jolt. She studied every method to induce labor. Except for sex - that wasn’t a favorable option. But she did try Castor Oil. Raspberry tea leaves. Enormous consumptions of potato soup. Excessive exercise.

Some combination of these things must have done the trick, and finally her water broke. She rushed to the bathroom before being detected by her husband. Straight to the bath tub. A water birth. Before she knew it, it was over. What startled her the most was that it didn’t hurt a bit. Until she saw what had been born of her. Out of her womb and into the bath tub had come not a baby, but a penis. A penis that she could call her very own. She couldn’t have asked for anything better. And now all she needed was a needle and thread.