Dream Lessons: #23 – Alacrity 

[Had to write this from a real life, rather than dream, point of view, so it would make sense.]

#23

If your housemate’s (real life) alarm has pervaded your dream, the zombie you’ve just shot will try to help you locate the source of the beeping, but ultimately fail.

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[Help me pick a name for this piece?]

[Didn’t name it when I wrote it for the last of my dys fem flash fic pieces. Suggestions welcome. I’m considering ‘Grit’. Wrote a longer version before trimming it down, and foolishly didn’t keep it.]

[TBC (Grit?)]

My father told me I was a fighter, just before he lost his own fight. ‘The most beautiful fighter he’d ever seen.’ He imbued in me not only his resilience, his spirit, but years of training. I clip my hair short to mimic his own style. Joining the Forces seemed natural. I sailed through the Academy despite the snickers of my male peers, and graduated with the highest distinctions… then I asked to fight. They said no but I pushed back, then the media got involved. General Barnett, head of the Eastern conflict, publicly condemned my request: “No girl will fight while I’m in charge.”

So I’ve gone off the grid. Disappeared. Dad was gone anyway, who else cares? Now I fight alongside my brothers, albeit from a distance and under a cloak of anonymity. The soldiers tell stories of the ‘Shadow Sniper’, a brilliant rogue marksman. Little do they suspect. I lead the Forces’ best men by 14 kills. The desert is unforgiving, but my ‘weak’ female body survives. My father’s spirit, his training, lives within me.

I bide my time. The kill count rises, and the story finally breaks in the media. I’m a household name, once more in the papers. Who is this ‘strong, mysterious figure’? Strong. Too right. My crosshair falls upon its final target. General Barnett collapses to the ground and I smile. A week later, I walk into camp, to turn myself in…to a hero.

 

Glass Houses

[More dystopian feminist flash fiction. But it’s not really, is it? Nah, fair play to Alan, who told me it wasn’t. I still think it’s a neat little story though.
Confused? Click here.]

Glass Houses

We proved it. The claims stood up. Our trap had worked! My friend Mike and I had put two years into this. We got jobs at the same company, and matched each other stride for stride. We posted the same sales figures—if he had a bad month, I’d ease up in the next one, and vice versa. By the end of the two years, I’d even clinched 2% more sales than him. Our records were virtually identical. We made sure we both chatted with managers, attended the same number of work functions, even our ‘sick’ days matched.

And yet Mike was shortlisted for the new managerial role. What’s more, he was apparently ‘top of the list’. I was not on the list. Surely I should’ve been joint-top, at least second? We made sure to compare everything. Nothing separated us but a Y chromosome. Maybe ‘Felicity’ just isn’t a managerial name? They interviewed eight internal candidates, all from our level, and I was nowhere to be seen. So we took them to court. And we won. It was a landmark victory, and swathes of new legislation followed. I was a feminist icon.

The pay-out was good, and we both left the company with its reputation tattered. I got offered a strategic position well above my experience level. Mike doubled his pay moving across town to a rival firm. We kept an eye on our old employers. Things went downhill for them. Mike and I were walking past months later and saw employees leaving. They’d just announced serious losses and had cut dozens of lower-level jobs in their ‘slimming’ process. Admin staff, receptionists, cleaners…all women. I looked at their tear-streaked faces. What a great job I’d done.

Dream Lessons: #22 – Fishing for Likes

#22

There are ingenious ways to catch fish.

Like throwing a tennis ball into a net that then forces water out of an organ-like array of pipes, into other pipes which may or may not contain fish.

That can catch fish!

Not particularly efficiently, but it worked somehow – one girl caught three in one go!

Food and drink you need for a party

[The following list has been compiled from empirical evidence gathered by the author during recent study in the field of annual vivocelebratory hosting of young adults. The information given represents informed conjecture and has yet to be statistically proven.]

1. Spirits. Like way more than you think. Let people B their own B when it comes to beer and cider and wine, but make sure you have copious gin and jäger and vodka.

2. Chocolate cake. Healthy salads are great and all but Point 1 of this extensive and exhaustive list means people will develop strong feelings about chocolate cake over the course of the evening.

Bottled Up [Drabble]

He walked to the window, pushed open a chink in the blinds.

Nothing.

He took a swig from the bottle. The cheap gin should’ve burned on the way down, but he barely felt it.

His nerves were shot, and he was just waiting for the rest of him to catch up.

They were coming.

He fingered the safety on the pistol strapped to his hip. He kept it on him at all times.

He walked to the window.

Nothing.

Swig.

He paced across the room that was fast becoming a cell.

He walked to the window.

They were here.

Finally.

[100 words]

Life Beater

[A dystopian feminist flash fiction story. Need more intro than that? OK. Thoughts?]

Life Beater

All her life Elizabeth dreamed of being a wife. What could be easier than being kept comfortably in a nice home, with your only responsibilities making a handsome man happy? After school she’d bake and sew. She polished and knitted. Her fellow schoolgirls didn’t see the appeal. They were headstrong, tomboys, playing baseball in the dirt and learning to code in the lab. She took no notice of them. They wouldn’t find a nice husband.

In college, she studied English—why not?— and made friends with plenty of fine young men. They loved coming over to hers for freshly-baked cookies, or asking her advice on laundry disasters. She helped them all and politely waited for their advances. None came. Her old classmate, Rebecca, who now called herself Red—what kind of name is that for a woman?— worked on robotics and patented her first household helper. She named it Lizzie and told Elizabeth it was based on her. Elizabeth took no notice of her, silly girl.

She met Chase, and knew he was the one. He was tall, handsome, an economics professor. Perfect. Theirs was a whirlwind romance, he proposed impulsively and she couldn’t refuse. They made wedding plans and the talk turned to the future, after her graduation. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘I’ll be your wife, of course,’ was her reply. Chase laughed. He showed her his own Lizzie robot, how it cooked and cleaned and mended his clothes. ‘What’s your back-up plan?’ he asked. Elizabeth said nothing.

[What’s that? They’re getting shorter? Yeah, my client did have a rough word count, which I massively exceeded with the first two, and trimming them down made me sad…]