revolutions can be tender

This is an entry for the FEMFLASH 2013 writing competition from Mookychick Online. Enter now.

It’s us, half-drunk on the icy air. The police station car park is deserted. I bend to tug a loose brick from the wall.

‘Oh my God,’ she says. I press a finger to my lips. We look at each other. Her eyes widen, anticipation lighting her up like merry dancers in the sky. She nods once.

Weighing the brick in my hand, I count to three before I lob it at the window of the nearest police car.

There’s the smash of the glass and the alarm rings out. No-one’s coming after us yet but we run, high heels clacking on the pavement, until we get to the play park, gasping and laughing and collapsing into each other.

And then we’re still, just breathing, and neither one of us is pulling away.

So I do it, and when our lips meet, her hands slide down my waist, fingertips pressing into my hips.

I feel a thousand riots inside me. I feel the centuries we’ve fought with our words and fists. I feel the world shifting. It’s worth an eternity of struggle.

It’s us, with our love and our rage, skin aglow from the orange streetlights, and it feels as though we’ve won.

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to our dear oppressors

trigger warning: gore/violence

This is an entry for the FEMFLASH 2013 writing competition from Mookychick Online. Enter now.

the best part is you know you deserve it.

the ones you tortured glide in and out of your present:
those shadowy, taunting ghosts
who know just what you did.

maybe you wronged us, or dream of wronging us. you can’t tell
if you are fascinated or repelled by us, and that is why
you try so hard to ignore us.

we are the vampires and the succubi
and the sirens and the mermaids. we are your hell.
we are here to castrate you.

we are here, plunging our fists
into each and every one of your gaping chests, ripping out
that bloody, pulsating organ.

we sink our teeth in as we once did
to that sweet forbidden fruit, sucking the juices from our fingers.
you may only watch and whimper.

what was once a murmur carrying on a breeze
has risen to the pitch of a banshee’s tormented scream
and whose death, do you think, could it mean?

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