Creative | Posted by Charlotte P on 06/21/2013
It could not be said that the moment was unusual. There was a room and within it there was a table. The weather outside was unimportant, as the temperature within the house was tolerable aside from a chilling air of contentment. Courtesy disguised relevant tasks as temporarily trivial; the will of her late husband could be settled later. Voices spoke in urgent laziness.
“She likes the floral.”
“I do think the floral is nice, yes. I like the floral.”
“The floral clutters the room a bit.”
“She does like the floral though.”
There were three women in a room. One was distinctly older, while the other two were nearly half the age of the first. You could see that there were three, yet your eyes gravitated toward the woman in …
Creative | Posted by Tiffany C on 05/3/2013
Let me ask you this:
What do we teach our daughters
When the bestselling doll on the market, Barbie,
Has a made-up face and mascara-ed eyes and lips as pink as grapefruit,
But not enough ambition or intelligence to calculate her net worth?
What do I tell my daughter
when we pass through Toys-R-Us
And she wants that artificial décolletage in a box,
This trickery, chicanery of Mattel
who fashioned this doll, this plastic piece of shit
With a serial number lingering on her lower back like a tramp stamp
Above slim thighs which gap and disproportionate legs,
Legs, I tell her, that would snap beneath
Barbie’s weight if she were real
That would make her fall at the slightest step,
Only for the purpose of mass-production and consumerism
Creative | Posted by JoThro on 03/22/2013
A Nameless Woman
A woman is silhouetted against a blue backdrop. She is sitting down and we see her from the waist up. She is talking to someone sitting opposite her, smoking as she does. When she talks a cacophony of images that might be seen in women’s magazines flash above her head, pictures of celebrities and clothes and beauty products, which change too quickly to be seen. The images cease when she pauses in speech. Her manner of speaking flips between that of a comforting older relative and a bitchy gossip reporter. She reads out the phrases in capitals in a completely different manner, she becomes stiff and sounds like an advert voiceover, before seemingly forgetting all about it. She has a warm voice, A Southern English accent.
I’ve missed you lately. …
Creative | Posted by Carson R on 06/22/2012
Everything Was Okay
*Trigger warning: the following story may be upsetting to survivors of / those sensitive to descriptions of sexual assault*
Eve is a palindrome. Reverse the order of letters, and the word remains the same. You’d never notice anything wrong with a backwards eve.
Eve is a marketing consultant. She lives in a narrow townhouse in Seattle. Her cat, Charcoal, roams the metal stairs and hardwood floors. In her living room, a whiteboard of scribbles rests on the black sofa. On the kitchen counter, a stack of invoices bears coffee stains. This is her office, where the computer is always on. Every morning, she comes downstairs and shakes the mouse, and the monitor casts a glow upon her face. The sky is just beginning to brighten as she types out her …
Creative | Posted by Julie Z on 12/30/2011
Winner of FemFlash 2011: Male Privilege
I recently had the honor of co-judging a Feminist Flash Poetry and Fiction contest (called FemFlash) for the website MookyChick. The winner of the contest was recently announced and I’m proud to cross-post the winning poem: “Male Privilege” by C. Askew. Read the other finalists here.
by C. Askew
Give me the shovel.
Give me the tattoo gun’s kiss on my skin.
Give me the hard day’s work.
Give me the graveyard shift.
Give me the white van.
Give me lager and the night.
Give me the warship and the race car.
Give me the walk home alone.
Give me the chainsaw.
Give me the streetlit alleyway.
Give me the roadmap’s cryptic veins.
Give me the fearless midnight park.
Give me the swagger.
Give me …
Creative | Posted by Talia on 07/1/2011
He Promised Her A Rose Garden
It was 1976.
Peak of the women’s lib movement.
New York, New York.
Peak of the peak.
She was going for a PhD in psych.
She could, thanks to Betty Friedan.
“After you finish your PhD,” he told her,
“We’ll move to Long Island.
Have three or four kids.
Buy a house.
With a white picket fence,
And a rose garden.”
She was nineteen.
She fell for it.
A week after the wedding
He got fired.
It wasn’t such a surprise.
Between the mental illness
Never showing up
And long sick leaves
It was just a matter of time.
“I won’t get a job immediately,” he told her.
“You can type anywhere.
I have to do something important.
I have to have a career.
I’m the man of …
Feminism | Posted by Sarah M on 12/28/2010
Hey, You! Go Make a Zine!
Are you interested in writing, creating, drawing, and DIY (“do it yourself”) ethics? Then you, my friend, should write a zine. A zine is a self published mini-magazine that can be about anything you want. Zines can be written, typed, drawn, xeroxed – it is all up to the creator. Zines have been a part of feminism to spread DIY punk feminism etc through local communities.
Zines can be traced back to riot grrrl bands, who created zines to spread their messages to their fans. Zines have recently been in decline because of blogs, but zines allow you to make a messy, imperfect, raw, funny, and inspiring piece of art that stands out in a world that obsesses over perfection and cleanliness.
To get started on a zine, …
Creative | Posted by Lindsay T on 12/3/2010
All You Wanted
I cannot be what you want.
It is this thought that wakes me, that draws me from a fitful sleep in sweat-dampened sheets, that pulls me down the hall. My eyes are closed still, shut tightly against what will come next. I am safer this way. The real monsters do not invade my dreams. The real monsters haunt only during consciousness.
But it doesn’t matter if my eyes are closed or not. I know this route too well. I know that tonight will be like all the nights before.
My fingers are shaking as they close around the pewter doorknob, twisting it open. I slip inside. It is just a whisper of a movement made by a whisper of a girl. The door closes silently behind me. I am good …