Miscarriage

There was a large glass jar with a domed lid. A small glass bead sat
atop the lid like a cherry on a Sundae.

The jar was placed on a white formica shelf and held a poor scalded
thing. It lay sucking a jelly thumb, comforting its short
existence.

Poured from a cold steel pan it hung in its life blood, suspended as a
fly trapped in amber. Later, down conspiring corridors the red raw
shape was taken for its only walk. Every so often curious arms rotated
the jar.

It was placed on another shelf, shoulder to glass jar shoulder.
Reunited with its brothers and sisters, the refugee from life waited to
tell its story.

A man in a white coat listened and made careful notes. Pencilling
calculations in the margin he gasped at the growing numbers.

He informed officials, who informed government ministers, who informed
heads of state. Something had to be done. Action needed to be
swift.
The man in the white coat was sacked. Immediately.