Trophy

For the past several years, Nicole had won the club’s annual tournament, though the competition hadn’t been exactly fierce. Most of the other girls at the club snubbed their noses at athletics. “Oh, I hear you’re playing the games again. Do you actually enjoy it?”

Golf and tennis were the reasons Nicole had consented to join the club in the first place. Greg didn’t care what she did, as long as she made appearances from time to time, so she took long walks on the golf course, and practiced her forehand and backhand against various walls. She wasn’t sure what the other wives did, but they spent all their time at the club at the clubhouse. Playing bridge? Sipping margaritas? They probably sat around talking about what a disgrace she was, to the club, to the aristocracy and womanhood. She hoped that’s what they talked about.

“Hey,” came a voice behind her at the tennis court. “You want to go a round?” Nicole turned. Her first thought was, “I didn’t think they’d let a black girl in here,” but that was an acknowledgement of their racism, not her own. She said, “Sure!” and introduced herself.

Bethany had an amazing serve. Once they got a rally going, they seemed evenly matched, but Nicole could barely get to the ball from a standstill. “Where’d you learn to hit like that?”

“Oh, I sleep with the tennis instructor,” the woman said, but she was joking. She was tall and beautiful and quick-witted. Nicole smiled.

“Looks like I’m going to have some competition this year.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

She was only joking, Nicole told herself. She was only joking, she told the other wives, her cards face-up on the table, her cocktail salty.

#athletics, #big-fish, #classism, #jealousy, #leisure, #microfiction, #racism, #sexism, #small-pond, #sports, #the-best

Witch

As the judge passed his verdict, the accused, then the convicted, now the deceased, breathed a sigh of what looked like relief. She had seemed bored all through the proceedings, even as various men of the community recalled with torrid detail her seduction tactics. Goodman Jonas wept as he recounted the spell that compelled him to lock his children in the barn and expose himself to everyone he met.

Hers had been the only relaxed face, and when asked to verify the troubled man’s testimony, she replied with a smile and a quick, “Who am I to deny the word of a man?”

Other stories piled up. She was hollow inside, her opening a beehive, her breasts filled not with milk, but honey, which she force-fed to young boys who strayed from their homes. She was four thousand years old, occasionally a dragon, occasionally a monster made of cobbled-together human flesh, which she tailored using snake-tooth needles.

No one had ever caught her in an immoral act, but that was part of her treachery. She altered the memories of her victims, making their personal problems seem like their own faults. Alive, her skin seemed white and pure, but when it burned, it revealed her true colors as of the race descended from Cain.

The men who grabbed her later complained that they enjoyed the feeling of her body. The evil was sucking them in. Those who lit the flame were soon made to feel regret, the last of her inhuman insubordinations. We in the community must remember, she needed to go. She was the cause of our suffering, and though we may be no longer capable of future progeny, at least we are safe.

#doom, #groupthink, #microfiction, #misogyny, #mythical-creatures, #racism, #sexism, #stopgamergate