When the Republicans Return to Mars
I wrote this social satire about twenty years ago. It’s still relevant.
Hester leaped into the living room of her apartment and closed the door quickly, locked the deadbolt, and leaned her back against the door, as though to prevent a swarm of demons from rushing into the room.
She looked around at the comforts of home: the fireplace covered with little pictures of fairies, the large Alice Paul and Ida B. Wells posters, the row of vintage frames without pictures, the bright and sparkly fabric draped over nearly every surface, the furniture acquired from dumpster dives, the potted plants and her vivid paintings, some unfinished, scattered throughout the room, and the tall bookcases overflowing with books.
A Virginia Woolf shrine covered a wooden knick-knack shelf, with books faced out with a photo of the author and a London-style telephone booth bank. Above it was a small painting Hester had created, with the quote, “The purpose of women novelists is to kill the Angel of the House,” weaving snakelike through the abstract painting.
“May I become a Buddha, so I can save the world from Republicans,” Hester said with her eyes closed. When a furry flank rubbed against her leg, she opened her eyes and followed the purring cat toward the couch. She called, “Hi, honey, I’m home!” She calculated at least one of her…