Memento

Ok, so I am going to start by saying this is in no way autobiographical. All of my posts this week are part of asexual awareness (acceptance) week, and while this is not my story, I think it is probably someone out there’s story, and apparently I was inspired in a strange direction. Oh and this was based on the girlontheedge six sentence story prompt of keepsake.

She kept the ring as a keepsake of the time before she knew that she was not broken, and that there were others out there like her.

She, like so many others, had been raised on princess’ and happily ever afters, and even though she had been raised to be self sufficient, those around her often waited for a man to help grace her life with meaning.

She had tried to accommodate them, but six month’s after she had said yes, the idea of being with George for the rest of her life gave her a shudder of disgust each time she thought the thought.

It wasn’t fair to her to go through with it, and even more importantly it wasn’t fair to George, sweet devoted George, who deserved someone to want him the way she never would.

She explored after George, after all, she knew she didn’t want George, but there were other people she could want, other things, and she fell into a spiral of desperation each thing she sampled becoming a little more desperate as each one failed to fit, going through life feeling increasingly like a square peg being told the world was full of circles.

She made herself small, small enough to go through life as a square masquerading as a circle, and it was another ten years after George before she saw the flag with it’s grey and black, and understood while at one percent she was among the minority, that meant there were millions of them, and all of a sudden a square didn’t seem to bad.

Witches Abound

This started funny, but turned a little sad at the end. I wrote this based on a tumblr prompt, in 15 minutes, and for Ace Spectrum Awareness (or Acceptance) week!


“This is getting ridiculous.” Samantha hissed.


“What do you mean?” Elsie asked, feigning ignorance, as she walked towards the refreshments.


“Just take off that stupid hat!” Samantha said a little louder this time, and Elsie stifled a giggle at Sam’s resulting flush when attention was drawn their way.


Elsie hadn’t wanted to come to this stupid party, it was Sam’s idea. Samantha was obsessed with landing herself a husband, something about not wanting to die alone.


Elsie on the other hand, had actual aspirations in life. She didn’t want to be remembered as So-and-so’s Wife, or the Mother of that important person. She wanted to be the person who people remembered, and do something memorable.
Sure, most medical researchers died without having made that single important discovery, but even if she didn’t, she would have contributed something to the world, well, something other than half her genetic material.


Besides, people like Samantha would be doing enough of that for the both of them, with a lofty goal of five children. Elsie could be the wine aunt, and well, set an example other than the 1950’s ideal for what a woman was.


The problem with this, is to continue being Sam’s friend, it meant supporting her. Not just with the late night phone calls, and the emergency break up chocolate, but by going to over the top parties like this one, which were basically meat markets.


Elsie had agreed to come, and to wear something nice, ie. Not her usual jeans and a graphic tee. Elsie had gotten a little miffed though when Samantha showed, took one look at her little black dress and kitten heels, and made a comment about making a effort, and standing out not being a bad thing.


Elsie, in a fit of pique, had grabbed the “autumn” hat her mother had bought her one year prior, and proceeded to wear it. It wasn’t a witches hat per say, but an argument could be made in it’s favor. Elsie had only worn it a few other times, mostly as a joke, but tonight she wore it as a statement. This whole thing was ridiculous, and she was not taking it seriously.


It was her most fervent hope, that by the end of the night she would have made enough of a spectacle that she was so well known, that Sam wouldn’t want her to come any more. Oh how wrong was she.


The side eyes she got from the fellow women said, what the hell, but the guys seemed to be weirdly into it. Apparently it meant she was into some “kinky shit”, and after an hour and half Sam finally let her out of it, not because of the spectacle, but because she didn’t want the competition.


Elsie went home and threw the witches hat directly in the garbage, and took a long bath as if to wash the unwanted touches from her skin. She had gotten what she wanted, Sam would not be asking her to join again, but this had come at a higher price than she had expected to have to pay.

Transcendence

This week I am posting stories that go for #aceweek. I wrote this initially for a contest that called for 300 word queer stories based on the word ink. I came up with the idea of trancedental ink, which is in line with the idea of soulmate marks, but marks taken by choice, and how this changes society. This actually has a background file that is about twice as long as the story, and might be a longer piece of a world later on.


Brighid stood alone with arms wrapped around herself, in a twisting line of couples. They were all clinging to one another, excitement palpable in the air despite the wait.

It was a marking day, the first one in three years.  Transcendental ink had been developed over 100 years ago, and became scarce shortly after. Too many people had taken advantage of the ability to get the perfect marking, exactly as you imagined it, down to the tiniest detail.  

Nowadays there was a limit: 36 square centimeters of ink per person, done in a single session. It could be anything though, a 6×6 centimeter square to a 1-millimeter line wrapping 3.6 metres around your body. 

What started as the ultimate self expression, had become an expression of commitment. Rings could be removed, but this was for life.  72 square centimetres across two bodies forming a single flawless work of art. There were of course break-ups among the marked, but far fewer than the non-marked population.  Brighid suspected that it was less to do with love, and more to do with the stigma that came from dating someone with a mark that didn’t match your own.

No one cared if two men walked down the street holding hands, but if those clasped hands had mismatched marks… Well the looks and comments got ugly.  Brighid had even seen a woman cover her children’s eyes and hurry them across the street lest her children be exposed to such abhorrent behaviour.

Her entire life Brighid had been told to save her mark for the right person, but part of her always knew she was different.  She stayed quiet, never admitting she didn’t feel that drive to be with another person. 

As she stepped out hours later, alone and freshly marked, she felt free.