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)
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