My Dad: Kind, Curious and Fearless

Dad died two months ago today. Every day I am thankful that he raised me on the principles of kindness, curiosity and fearlessness. I will always try to live my life in a way that would make him proud.

I’m delighted to announce that I have an agent!

Francesca Barrie at Johnson & Alcock will be representing my first novel, Rust and Stardust, as well as (hopefully) whatever comes next. Short story collection? Novella? Genderqueer burlesque mime show? Watch this space…

She says: Flex your knuckles. Drop to your knees. Make me unmaid.

He says: You want a prince’s esteem, you want gallantry and grace.

She says: Princessing is not a process. I have skirts to be lifted.

He says: You have not checked under mine.

She says: Oh, now you complicate.

S/he says: Kings in tiaras, queens in the mud. We drew the line ourselves.

S/he says: I do not want to cut my hair.

S/he says: So don’t. We’ll make bridges of it.

S/he says: Skin can still cover secrets. You, I, we.

Saying: Unprincessed, unkinged.

Saying: Unmaidened, unmanned.

—

This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.

open your mouth            wide                        wider

make sure they can hear that scream

all the way             to the back             of the cinema. aim

to deafen the projectionist.

look behind you when you run                        up to the attic

or down to the basement            or whichever way

leads to snapping jaws. turn to the camera so your hair

flips             just right. pull

your dress tight             so your tits bounce.

leave a trail of potential weapons

dropped from your shaking hands.

you must always make it easy for him to follow.

later there will be a girl who will grab a weapon

and not let go.                        but this is only the third scene. you

are axe-fodder. you should not have

fucked           smoked            cursed         filled the shape of a woman.

next time only sign on if your character            has a boy’s name.

—

This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.

oh gahd, not Josh says Cassie with her

throat tilted just right and her glass angled

to spill. we all shuffle our boy-cards because

it’s late and Josh is the hot one. Cassie cradles

the loaf-sized phone — pinker than any girl —

and dials. he’s not wearing a hat says the phone

and we all scratch our pencils on the boy-list.

we played this game before we had tits or spots

or periods or stretchmarks or hangovers. now

we’ve had them for so long we need the game

to be those girls again. a handful of girls to a

fistful of women and really what’s changed?

we drink harder and compare one another’s

dark roots. you’re right says the phone.

I like you. Cassie giggles into her empty glass.

we crumple our lists,

our boys.

This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.