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

Lois Lane

This afternoon, in what would have been a lunch break for anyone else, Lois Lane typed another entry as usual into the portfolio of her inevitable Pulitzer Prize. Despite interruptions from junior staffers, she was able to maintain her concentration, relating another improbable but true adventure of humans beyond humans.

“So how about that Superman?” middling journalist Clark Kent interrupted, stupidly, jaw simultaneously square and slack.

Setting a professional example, Miss Lane ignored his vague and unnecessary question, instead writing a vivid description of the malfunctioning cyborg that destroyed John Kennedy Luthor Elementary School this morning. Mr. Kent, lacking emotional intelligence, dignity, or both, continued to harass Miss Lane with dull conversation, begging for the attention surely denied him by his adoptive mother.

“Have you seen him lately? What do you think of him? He’s pretty great, huh?”

Miss Lane, growling a dismissive affirmation, checked her notes for a quote from one of the hundreds of freshly grieving parents. “I’m glad Superman got there before the fire spread, but that doesn’t bring back my daughter.” She couldn’t use that one. Superman wouldn’t like it, and she had to maintain her exclusivity.

“Aside from his powers, don’t you think he’s handsome? You should reward him for all he’s done for this city sometime. I’m sure you’d enjoy it, too.”

Lois Lane looked up from her typewriter. Her face was unambiguous. Angry, annoyed. Even as dense as the hayseed reporter was, he knew that he had gone too far, and left her alone to finish her article. If she had had heat vision of her own, the man would be cinders.

She’d tell Superman about this. He’d deal with the problem. She was certain.

#chauvinism, #clark-kent, #feminism, #lois-lane, #microfiction, #stopgamergate, #superman