by Nicole Brogdon

Aye in Houston Texas feels like salty water is sloshing in her gut and bowels. It’s the lithium, the mood stabilizer—she’s not supposed to get pregnant on this drug. But the ex-boyfriend knocked on her door with a bag of chicken tacos—salsa, no condoms— and a hungry grin. She let him in. She’s pregnant.

Most Texas men are not that concerned.

Some pregnant female named Bea is thinking, how handsome he looked, during the sex. Bowed over her curvy body, wielding his organ, a flesh-covered spade. Plowing the earth. She felt special lying there, the man focused, compelled, dipping into her center well, a farmer working his land. Plunging rhythmically, giving it some shoulder. Another woman felt like crap, taking it from him again. Now some women are housing the gossamer beginnings of tenants between their hips—and secretly planning evictions.

CeCe clutches a crumpled piece of paper, the word “Albuquerque” written on it in black ink.

“I can’t talk about it aloud,” the kindly doctor had whispered, writing the word. “I could be arrested, Go there,” he pointed at his printed “Albuquerque”.

 “Where is this?” CeCe frowned.

“In another state. Ask for help.”

She couldn’t say the long “A—“word. Was no good at reading—not since the car crash, head injury. Couldn’t protect herself from men.

“A city. Across the state border. Shhh.”

The Greyhound bus drives on and on, carrying CeCe up Interstate 40. Her belly lurches, rumbling, a battle starting inside her.

The story—a hybrid of non-fiction and fiction—is based upon real life current reproductive rights concerns that many of us hold, in the state of Texas.

About the Author

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