Political Fiction Flash Stories
© Copyright Cupideros, Monday, March 7, 2016
1,141 Words

Tessie “Pinkie” Zange decides to rush and enroll in How to Fly A Marshmallow Kite Feminist class after her disastrous agreed date Cliff where he constantly asked her to talk about how she gives blow jobs.


Tessie “Pinkie” Zange was doing something for feminism, working on her women’s studies as a graduate degree.  Long ago, she took her first feminist class.  At that time, she, however, did not want anything too researchy or that required some hard thinking.  Many students had been fooled into thinking Feminist classes were easy and been surprised.  She heard from Monica Poindexter her, tall, gorgeous History graduate student best friend that the experimental How to Fly a Marshmallow Kite Class, however, was easy and fun, too.  Monica was auditing the class.  She already passed one year ago, when it was first taught in Spring Semester. 

Tessie sat in front.  Retouching her red lipstick, Bri “Brianne” Dinwiddle, former Sex Worker, sat to Tessie’s left.  Tessie wanted to scream lipstick is not empowering, but since she spent an agreed on evening date with Cliff talking about how she gives blowjobs, sympathy for Bri won out. 

Pink bottoms and black top, usually yoga pants, but occasionally a skirt and top combo-girl, Ava, former high school track sprinter sat behind Tessie.   Ava’s heterosexual friend, Pazia Katz sat next to Ava’s right, as pal and confidant in adventure or fun. 

Monica sat at the very back center with her notebook out, ready to take copious notes. 

Other girls, of various hues and shapes, and degrees of beauty or not, filled out the rest of the class. 

They all sat around waiting for the class to begin, but Monica simply smiled and gave a curt nod to the older woman with the big fluffy, bouffant hairstyle reminiscent of the late 1890s Gibson Girl.  Her stature and pose intimidated any of the girls from making fun of her hairstyle, but one girl named Cia Rose, wearing a super-bright orange sweatshirt and tight blue skinny jeans, cast a disparaging look at the older woman.

Nine o'clock in the morning came and went and some of the girl’s mumbled, “No wonder women can’t get anything done.  We have to spend one hour doing our makeup before class.”
A black woman said, “Correction.  You have to take an hour to do your makeup.”

Bri stopped retouching her lips.  Hardly anyone was in the class when it first met; now, wall to wall the classroom remained stuffed like a preteen girl’s bra.  Annoyed, Bri took a brig breath and told herself to respond not react, as How to Fly a Marshmallow Kite book suggested.  "The enemy will try to get you frustrated and this tactic is to stop you from thinking clearly.  It is a dirty tactic, but life is not fair.  If it were the sun would avoid shining on evil people, right?“
A Japanese girl said, "I guess everything is experimental about this class, including showing up to teach your students.”
People laughed.  Though, some did so, hesitantly.

Bri said, “Is anyone else an ex-sex worker like me?”

Together, the women grew quiet. 

Bri knew better than to treat their silence as a no; female sex workers grew like sunflowers in colleges all around the country.  Being a sex worker was, the poor gal’s way out of eternal poverty.
“She will be here.  Every semester the class happens, students learn and understand,” Monica offered in defense,
Nearly every female face turned to fashionably dressed Monica.  No one dared criticize her combination of shoes, dress jeans, blouse and jewelry.
“How do you know that?” Cia Rose asked.
“I am auditing the class.  I took the first class taught last spring.”
Now all the women grew excited and focused in on Monica.  Beautiful, tall, gorgeous Monica did not look like a feminist.
“You’re supposed to be ugly,” said a mousy woman wearing fragile gold-rim glasses, her pale blue eyes being her most beautiful characteristic.
“Yeah, you should be dress in grunge or something.  I am not dressing grunge like just to get a higher grade in this feminist class. I have to take this for my law degree–but that is it!” said a girl dressed in a Native American top.
“Quick, before she gets here, How do you Fly a Marshmallow Kite?” the short bubbly girl held up the big book.  With the ridiculous white Marshmallow flying in the sky held by invisible kite strings and a woman, smiling, flying it, tugging on the strings, making the Marshmallow go higher still.
“Tell us!” Ava said, right after rubbing off a smudge on her track shoes.
Pazia Katz added, always defending and supporting Ava.  "We’re sisters.  We all should bond together.  Tell us the answer.  We will not say anything.  I need to raise my GPA.“
"I’m in a sorority, too,” said another preppy girl.  "We girls can keep a secret.  Tell us before the teacher shows up.“
"Well–I should redo my hair, while I’m waiting for this—?”
But all of the women turned and came together instantly, and the well dress sandy blonde woman sitting on the outside row by the door stopped talking like a flicked off light switch.

Tessie turned back inward.  Funny how in all her graduate Women’s Studies programs so far, “Define Your Terms” never surfaced in the conversation.  Every woman and man knew we talked about feminism, and its components.  Over and over, all Tessie kept thinking about was “Define your terms, define your terms.”  Eaton, also still, repulsively stirred up her romantic fantasies, if only she could divorce his nasty personality from his hunk body.  She felt almost sick thinking of all the lies about blowjobs she told Eaton for an hour. 

Even though he did not deserve the truth, now she had to monitor the lies she told him.  What a freaking comedy hour, Tessie remembered the uncomfortable situation?  Why didn’t she just friendzone him for using unfair tactics?   “Well we might as well define our terms,” Tessie started very much unaware of how much leadership skill she possessed.

The older Gibson-hair woman stood up.  She wore blue jeans and black T-shirt that read in pink Franklin Gothic Medium letters “Knowledge is empowering, but Wisdom is Power.”  All the women scrutinized her after expressing gasps and awes and laughter at her observing them secretly.  Their professor’s jeans showed no panty lines, so they assumed she wore a thong like modern girls.  Her flats were not sneakers or ballet flats but Doc Martins, which pretty much made her some kind of girl who never grew up out of high school into the impractical high heel and barely able-to-stay-on-strappy shoes most modern adult women wore. Suddenly, slightly self-conscious and in order to hide their impractical shoes, the women instantly crossed their feet at their ankles.

Their professor’s black blouse, the most striking thing of all, baffled them.  If “Knowledge wasn’t power, then what held Power?“


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