Women's Writes - Works

So I wrote. I wrote about the punchbowl. I wrote about being told I should be flattered when harassed. I wrote about my doll (well, actually, she’s a great memory. She belonged to my grandmother, a strong woman who taught me a lot, and tried her best to teach me how to have confidence in myself when everyone else was trying to teach me the opposite. She failed, but it wasn’t her fault).  I wrote about the struggle with anorexia. I tried not to hurt as I wrote, but sometimes that’s not possible. I tried not to cry as I wrote, but sometimes tears are the only way we can communicate. I tried not to die inside as I wrote, and I think I did achieve that. I have a great husband who gives me fabulous support, and it helps to know the husband, the dog, and the two cats are all rooting for me, waiting for me at the end of the line, hoping I will cross that tape, even though I will not be first. There have been so many marvelous women there before me, so many incredible women who have been relegated to the dustbin of history in spite of their important contributions.

Ladies and gentlemen, I know what you have heard here has been damning. The victim was knocked down, his wallet snatched. Our witnesses are unimpeachable. The defendant signed an affidavit the night of the arrest. Yes, he had been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk, not enough to exclude the confession. It must seem to you like we’re wasting your time, making you come over here and listen to this, when you could be home with your loved ones. I agree. I think it is a total waste of your time. This case should never have been brought to the court at all.

Emily struggled against the straps. She screamed, letting everyone know she was still here, and still alive. No one had been around for quite some time, ever since they strapped her down. Where was Ethan? He had left her here to die, to be killed, to be treated like a criminal. How could he say he loved her, and then subject her to this torture?

A sound behind me alerted me that I and my coffee were no longer alone. I whirled, and found myself staring into a familiar pair of blue eyes. “How did you get in here? Go away”, I told the asshole in front of me. “You don’t belong here.”

MAN 2: You realize you are taking the job away from a man who needs it, don’t you? A man who needs to feed his family is unemployed because you are sitting in that chair. A man much more qualified than you.

FEMINAZI:  I am quite qualified. My transcripts are on record in my personnel file. I have ten years of experience working for Dexter, Masters, and Michaels import/export business. I will lay my credentials alongside any of the other applicants, and I trust I will not come up short.

Elena shook her head. “That play is saying something that has been heard forever. It’s heard day in and day out in courtrooms all across the country, in the news media, everywhere you look. Everyone is saying it, and everyone has always been saying it, and frankly, I’m sick of hearing it. Do you honestly believe that women who are molested are to be held responsible for the actions of the men who molest them?”

"No, of course not. But that’s not what this play is saying. It’s saying that women who go into the world dressed like they want it, flirting with men and leading them on, are responsible for their own behavior, and that they should think about how they dress, how they act, and how much they drink.”

One more week to go, and I have writer's block. So I decided to write about it, sort of a stream of consciousness poem.

The mail was late that day. Of course. That was the day the package was arriving. “What is the package”, Alicia wondered. The note was cryptic, simply telling her she would receive a package. It was unsigned, but the paper was fine, like that used for résumés or official documents. It looked like it might have come from a lawyer, or someone in the business world. It wasn’t the sort of paper she was used to receiving notes on; most notes she ever got were on Post-It notes and hung on the refrigerator. They were not stuck through the mail slot on fancy paper. So she waited.

The first day she came, she stood outside and shouted the password. She knew it was the correct password; it had been given to her by a reliable source, an insider, and she heard others say it when they wanted to enter. No one seemed to notice, except one small boy, and he just laughed. The doors remained closed, shutting her out while the others entered.

Renae clutched the bag that contained the only items they allowed women to carry inside the clinic. She made a mental inventory. In addition to the bottle of sticky red fluid, there was six pair of underwear and an airtight container in which she discarded all her menstrual napkins. It wasn’t the first time she ached with longing to roam free on the savannah, naked and free, not treated like a criminal because she lived in a woman’s body.

No one ever dreams
They are going to be
The next one…

Plastic woman
Sitting on a shelf.
Formed into a shape
So perfect, so unreal, so…
Deformed.

It was late in the evening of the first millennium. The gods were all sleepy, having drunk enormous amounts of wine and eaten large meals. Little God, a small, immature god who had not yet learned to behave himself, and who was not yet allowed to drink, being less than eighteen million years old, found the entire thing so booorrrring he decided to play a joke.

Today I was picking berries,
Pink, ripe, juicy berries
Just the kind you like.
I was picking berries for you
While you hunted the mammoth.

Every head turned when he walked into the room. He was tall, handsome, and dressed to kill. The tight jeans, the muscle shirt, the swagger, all spoke of someone who knew what he wanted, and had no problem getting it. Right now, what he wanted was a girl. He moved through the crowd of women gathered in small groups, looking each of them over, nodding approvingly when he saw one he found delectable, until finally his eyes lit on Jeanette.

Regina paled as Al’s voice boomed through the wall, humiliating her in front of some unknown other. She cringed as she imagined his hands creeping up her dress, trying to get a feel of what he termed “forbidden fruit”. She had asked not to be seated next to him anymore at corporate meetings, but it was no use. The seating chart was determined by the structure of the hierarchy, and the higher ups had decreed who would sit where by job title. She had put all her dresses in the back of the closet, and started wearing pants, so at least he couldn’t find much except cloth for his searching fingers.