MookyChick Flash Fiction Runner-Up. YEAH BOIYZ!

Yes, I used the word ‘boiyz’. Which, firstly, is not a word, and secondly is meant to be ironic, seeing as the MookyChick Flash Fiction competition was feminist.

I feel like sometimes I should explain Feminism (why thank you, A-Level politics, I remember this module). But you can clearly Google it. As long as you don’t automatically think that Feminism means we hate men, we don’t wear bras, we don’t shave our legs and we automatically believe that anyone with a penis is stupid. These are not feminists. Well, maybe the old-school ‘burn your bra’ femmies did have a point, and I’m sure that high heels are instruments of mass-torture. Also, shaving your legs is just a pain.

The point, dear hearts, is that the modern day feminist is an egalitarian (equality! Woo!) who happens to be interested in female issues. Because, most of the time, we are female.

So, there endeth the lesson. You should check out MookyChick’s site here, because it’s super-fun, and pretty much encompasses all the stuff I love, like writing stuff, and making stuff, and how to protect your house from ninjas. Yep. Oh, and this is my piece.

This is their Mission Statement, which is awesome:

Mission Statement

Mookychick believes that climbing trees and riding giant turtles is more fun and girly than worrying about make-up. But if you want to worry about make-up instead of turtles? Fine by us. Be you feminist, witch, vegan, horror junky, intellectual, Xtian, corset queen, geek, unicorn, sea monkey… be you into alternative style, comics or jock culture… we will always love you.

I’ll also point out that this was the first actual money I earned by writing. So I’m going to go right ahead (or ‘write ahead’- chortle!Gah Hah!) and start calling myself an actual Writer now. Sure, ‘Barista by Trade, Writer by Nature’ has always been my kind of summary, but let’s face the facts. It’s not always about the money. So far, from writing I have gained various free festival tickets, cinema showings, the chance to debate climate change at The Eden Project, and a private gig in my back garden. Not too shabby.

This is me. Making a face. With a cheque.

But somehow, money feels like a ‘real’ achievement. Because that, in this capitalist age, is how we define  success. (I’m not complaining, I have some money! Real money! That I didn’t make through serving coffee, but by putting words on a page. Sheesh!) So even if I don’t make any more Writer Money for a while, I shall know, that I once came runner-up in a competition, and won £25 for writing less than 300 words. And that, apparently, they were good words. Like, with a point, and everything.

So there’s my little explanation on how it feels to make money for the first time as a writer. And that I’m calling myself that now. A professional writer. Oh yes. And it feels good, my friends, it feels good.

I’ll also be uploading a new short story called Numbers. It’s about the outcome of giving a rather nice guy a fake number. Intrigued? Sure you are! You can hover over the Fiction tab to find it.

Oh, and you can jump on over to Pop Culture Playpen to see my article on Rihanna, and how she’s a bit unnecessarily sexy (in keeping with the feminist theme). Maybe next week I’ll do one on how Adam Levine is the boy-whore version, you know, just to be an egalitarian. (See, aren’t you glad you were listening?)


Feminist Flash Fiction- Mookychick Competition Entry

She loved the fifties. Polka dot dresses, black eyeliner. She loved red high heels that punished her as she walked. She liked the click clack noise. It made her feel powerful.

He liked her to wear the heels to bed. She agreed. She felt desired.

Now, she wears them in the kitchen. They clack as she walks to the door, his martini in hand. She wears polka dot dresses whilst preparing his dinner. Flutters her black-lined lashes as she asks about his day and never gets asked about hers. She tries not to think about how much her feet will hurt at work tomorrow.

She wonders if it’s her fault, for loving the fifties. If the first night she cooked for him, the first night she waited up for him, the first night she cancelled on her friends to spend time with him was the beginning of the end. If it’s her fault that her friends keep trying to remind her how powerful she once was, how brightly she shone.

She used to feel invincible, in those bright red heels. But they don’t look so shiny anymore.


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