Tuesday, November 29, 2011

flash fiction

The Prevention of Sasquatch

She misses the forest in her shorts, but, you know, the wolf. There. Waiting to make pretty girls dogs in the dark.

Once, we heard about a woman with sasquatch under her arms. My friend came with me, on our bikes to see. Gross. We looked through the launderette window and saw a fat woman make change, sell suds and empty machines. She stopped, slipped one hand under her arm to stroke sasquatch’s head, calm as petting a cat.

‘Do you think it feels soft?’ my friend said.

I didn’t know. Something like that could bite a hand. Undergrowth must be controlled. On the way home, we stole Nair from the drugstore. Smooth. We thought it would be easy, but losing the forest we heard hair like felled trees. Rustling. Rabbits ran for cover and found no place. The log cabin burnt. The wolf sloped, tail between legs. We are safe, but some nights, stroke fur on our sleeves, lonely for wolves serenading moons. I know my friend misses leaves, red streaking through shade. Just knowing the wolf’s there is something, red cap on its tracks, cape held above her head like she’s made a kite of her arms.


This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.

("FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now" should link to http://bit.ly/femflash)

feminist flash writing competition

The Incident




The night of Miss Military Beauty, we crossed the line. A brick wrapped in a blanket, our baby, hushed a smashed window, in we went. Beauty rushed past us, girls twirling the baton of talent, smiles bikinis strung over flaws. Feet tap-danced towards nodding Gods, judges with scorecards of how easy they were to love. Then, there was us.

We rushed the stage, faces drawn, not our best sides, just what was fired onto the spot. Here, once, only, us, no captive of appraisal’s loaded gun. Our skin held its match to oil paintings we’d never be, triangles ironed between our legs. Odd mouths, lipstick pink scars took tiny bites out of the lean meat of vanity. We just couldn’t hide the cut of evenings we wore, the pearls of burns, glitter in our bones. Blink, and miss our speeches; they were scored to our face.

Only one woman spoke. Veil lifted her veil to bare roses, corsages scalded to her breast, she said only, ‘I forgive.’ We waited, for applause, bouquets, to accept cuffs on our wrists gracefully as being lead to dance.

We lowered our heads for tiaras of broken glass, tears in rust smelling rooms, our crown.



This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.

("FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now" should link to http://bit.ly/femflash)


Monday, January 31, 2011

About Me

Poetry is like having an imaginary friend, who still forgets your birthday.