Creative | Posted by Jules C on 01/30/2015
When I was a little girl my grandma told me that there were princes. Sitting in our house in the Sunset, the N rumbling by, the sky grey and the ocean roaring, she’d tell me about them as I sipped my soup and tore off bread to dip. She said the princes were scattered around, trapped in skyscrapers and under bowling alleys and hidden away in train stations. Some had green eyes, some had black hair, some had baby faces, some were short, some less so. But they were all waiting. They had nothing to do but sit around, doing pushups, combing their hair, shaving their beards till they were just roguish enough for a princess to save them. For a princess with an AK-47 and a leathery attitude to …
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 …
Feminism | Posted by Talia on 07/21/2011
Feminist Essay Contest on Star of Davida!
for the feminist writers out there
As a financially needy student who wants to go to a really great college, I’ve been obsessively looking for essay contests to win so I can build up my résumé and get some money for that hungry college fund. As a feminist, I’ve tried to find contests relating to feminism, but I haven’t been so lucky. I actually found an essay contest whose title was “Why is Abstinence Before Marriage the Best Choice for Teens Today?” Needless to say, it made me gag, but it didn’t stop me from writing the most pathetic essay I’ve ever written and submitting it. (I won honorable mention. Go figure.)
It really bothers me that I have never stumbled upon an essay contest even remotely related to feminism. …
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 …
Creative | Posted by Ilinca N on 10/29/2010
Blood On Her Mind
Tonight she cannot sleep because there is blood on her mind. It’s on her hands as well and on her nails. Pretty soon the sheets she wraps herself in will be stained with it and sweat; then the stench will fill up the room with sour, tangy vengeance.
They were pink this morning, her hands and nails, but now there’s red to show underneath the paint and sludge she covers her appendages with so that they are merely long and oily instead of long and chapped. The ad-woman says it’s hard to keep hers smooth and attractive. On nights like this, with the iron taste on her tongue, the redness on her body, she can almost believe that, she can almost bring herself to trust the ad-woman and her perfection. …
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 09/17/2010
How To Be Casual
Eat slowly, but finish everything. When he asks about school tell him it’s OK and then neglect to return the question. Stare at the cheap candle in between the two of you as he talks about himself, unprompted. Deliberately glance around the room at other couples.
Close the menu. Focus on a point roughly three feet above his head. Trace the red and white patterned wallpaper with your eyes. Move on to count the number of lights.
He asks if you like his new sneakers. Shrug. They’re at least two sizes too big. Begin to hate his 3 Days Grace shirt. Begin to realize you have his wardrobe memorized.
He tells you that you look sexy in jeans. Wear a skirt the next day. You hate skirts.
Cultivate a knowledge …
Creative | Posted by Hannah S on 09/10/2010
Half The Sky
Over the summer, I read Half the Sky. The entire book was incredible, but I was moved by the chapter on the sex trafficking industry. I wrote this story as a way to try to imagine what that experience must be like. After all, though I am American, with just a slight twist of fate I so easily could have been one of these girls.
There is a fly buzzing by my head. I can see three more scuttling on the wall. In my peripheral vision there are posters hanging pathetically. I try to ignore the pornographic images. I already know the images too well. Far better then any girl my age should. My own experiences are burned into my memory. Painted behind my eyelids.
I try to keep my …