We're starting Women in Horror month 2020 with the first of several entries by some of our amazing Women authors. Today's installment comes from Christine M. Lajewski. It's a satirical fiction piece. Hope you enjoy.
WRITING THE FEMALE CHARACTER
OR, FICTION IS WRITTEN BY THE
VICTORS
©
2020 Christine Lajewski
The
statuesque woman sat in a chair placed in a circle of desks in the classroom. Her
closely cropped dark hair was flecked with gray. She wore boots and cargo pants
that suggested she’d been hanging out with some Central American guerilla squad.
Six men of varied ages filed into the room, clutching tablets or composition
books, and chose seats. The professor took attendance, then cleared her throat
and began:
“Good
evening, gentlemen. I’m not into titles,
so please just call me Ellen. I’d like to welcome you to Writing the Female
Character in Horror. I’m sure you’ve all read the syllabus and came prepared to
present your ideas for female killers—serial killers, supernatural creatures or
monsters. I want to hear her back story and motivation. I’ll go down the class
list and call your name. Art’s not here, so let’s start with Dave.”
Dave
flipped open a notebook and read: “My character is Meghan, an alluring, you
might even say sexy, serial killer who seduces and murders men.”
“And
what’s her motivation?”
“She’s
filled with crazy rage. She was kidnapped, held hostage and raped.”
“Okay.
Irwin, what have you got for us?”
“The
youngest member of a coven of Salem witches goes on a rampage,” Irwin said,
“conjuring up horrific spells against the farmers and merchants in town. Each curse
is more grotesque and gruesome than the last, indicating she has a warped imagination.
Her reign of terror leads to the Salem Witch Trials.”
“Why
did she go on a rampage?”
“The
other members of her coven were raped and slaughtered.”
Ellen’s
face betrayed just a hint of a scowl as she read the next name on the class
list. “Jeffrey, tell us about your character.”
“I’m
writing about a vengeful spirit. She’s
able to move objects or scare her victims so they run right into situations
where they die horrible deaths.”
“How
did she become a spirit and why is she vengeful?” Ellen asked, wincing at what
she knew was coming.
Jeffrey
shifted nervously in his seat. “Um, she was raped and murdered.”
The
classroom door opened, and a tall arthropod shambled into class. His segmented
body was armored with glossy black scales, and an intimidating scorpion tail
flexed over his head. He found an empty desk and spent several minutes trying
to comfortably seat himself, a task complicated by his long, spiked tail. He
settled for sitting sideways with the appendage draped over the back of the
seat.
“Art,
I remember you from my comp class. Welcome back,” Ellen said. “I see you still
have a penchant for tardiness and dramatic entrances.”
“Sorry,”
Art replied. “No one would give me ride.”
“There’s
a Green Line stop in front of the campus,” Dave said.
“Yeah,
I know. They wouldn’t stop for me,” Art said.
He sounded testy and the men seated next to him edged their desks, ever
so slightly, away from his.
“Talk
to me after class, Art,” the professor said.
“I’ll see what I can do. Moving on. Let’s hear from Russel.”
“I’m
doing a twist on the vengeful female killer,” Russel said.
“How
so?”
“She
wasn’t raped. She wasn’t murdered. She wasn’t held hostage. She took a job in an
assisted living community.”
“A
medical setting. Is she a poisoner?””
“Not
exactly. She follows some of the staff members home and hacks them to pieces.
See, her father was a helpless Alzheimer’s patient. Someone suffocated him with
a pillow.”
Art
interrupted. “Was he raped?”
“What?”
“You
said you have a twist. Is the twist she didn’t get raped but her old man did?”
“No.
No. Absolutely not,” said Russel. “Not even a little bit.”
Ellen
sighed. “Nice twist. Wallace, you’re next.”
“My
character is undead,” Wallace said. “But she’s not just a mindless eating
machine. She’s retained her intelligence and she’s cunning. She prefers to eat
men. . .”
Snorting
laughter filled the room. Ellen fixed her best teacher glare on the men. They
ducked their heads and fell silent.
“She
prefers to prey on males,” Wallace corrected himself, “because, um, because. .
.”
“Because?”
“Because
she was raped and murdered.”
Ellen
sighed, “Has anyone created a character who was not raped?”
Zach’s
hand shot up in the air. “I have a young
woman suffering from PTSD who is dominated by her well-intentioned boyfriend.
He forces her to accompany him to this primitive commune he’s researching. Turns
out the commune does weird rites that include human sacrifice. They pressure
her into becoming a fertility figure which everyone like, not rapes, but has
sex with. In the end, she chooses her boyfriend to be the sacrifice and cuts
out his heart.”
Ellen
rubbed her temples as if they hurt.
Zach
persisted, “So she’s not really a victim. She just kind of drinks the Kool Aid
with everyone else.”
“And
is pressured into having sex—repeatedly,” Art said. Viscous saliva dripped from
his savagely toothed mouth and congealed into a gelatinous mass on the desk.
The men in the class slid their desks back a few more inches.
“You
have something better?”
“I
don’t know. You tell me.” The arthropod wiped away the jellied spittle with the
tip of his jointed tail as he rummaged in his bag. He retrieved a sheaf of
creased papers which he spread out on the desk. He ran a talon down a page of
bullet points as he read, “The setting is a distant planet where a clan of
nonnatives is trying to establish a colony. They are a matriarchy and their
leader—their queen, really—is laying several large clutches of eggs. While she
is doing this, a ship from another civilization lands and human explorers
attempt to set up a competing colony right on top of hers. When her warriors
attempt to defend their claim, the human invaders waste them. Finally, the
female leader, the humans’ best fighter, hunts down the colonists and their matriarch.
She takes a flame thrower to the defenseless eggs and very nearly kills the
queen. Her motivation is nothing more than greed and a thirst for conquest.”
“Your
warrior woman sounds like a badass. She kills without mercy just to get what
she wants,” Ellen commented. “But what makes her authentically feminine, rather
than a woman character who acts like a man?”
Art
replied, “She has a girl child, who accompanies the woman on the hunt. She
shows maternal tenderness to the girl, even as the child repeatedly witnesses
indiscriminate violence. And of course, she wants to reproduce, too.”
“Fascinating.
And what about the queen?”
“Well,
she’s a warrior in her own right. I’m thinking of writing a trilogy, where it’s
womano a womano until the end. But I don’t know how it all ends.”
“So
you have two fully fleshed out female characters: the killer and the defender
of the colony.” Ellen could not disguise her approval.
Wallace
covered his mouth and muttered, “Suck up.”
Art’s
tail whipped above his head like a lasso, then lashed out and punched Wallace’s
shoulder.
“Hey,
that fuckin’ burns!” Wallace cried.
“I
just grazed you,” Art said. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“Knock
it off,” barked the professor. “This assignment
is about writing believable, fully developed female characters who do evil
things. Art has an idea that moves
beyond the neurotic victimized woman. Art, could you share your process with
the class?”
Art’s
black, helmet-like head bowed over his desk. He was silent for a minute, and a
single tear slid down his face. It fell on the surface, where it hissed and
pitted the laminate.
“Hey,
man, you okay?” asked Irwin.
Art
waved away his classmate’s concern. “I’m good. I’m good. To be honest, the
story I plan to write has autobiographical elements. My Mom’s a warrior. She
went through something like this. I’ve been listening to her stories since I
was a little face hugger. She’s shared her pain and her triumphs, but also her
admiration for the genocidal Warrior Woman.”
Dave
leaned forward, pondered a moment, then said, “I feel for you, bro. But we
don’t all have mothers and sisters who went through something like that.”
“Well,
Mom taught me to listen. I’ve learned that all females have important stories
of injustice, of pain, of anger that aren’t rooted in abusive relationships or
sexual assault. I think this has helped me develop unique backstories for the
characters I write.”
Art’s
classmates nodded and murmured their support.
An animated discussion ensued in which the men tried to recall things
the women in their lives had shared with them, and how these confidences could inspire
horror literature with authentic feminine perspectives.
Ellen
checked her watch and said, “This was great. I’m excited by the ideas I’m
hearing. I think this is a good place to end class. Please continue working on your
characters and back stories. I’ll see you all next week.”
As
the students ambled into the hall, Ellen beckoned to Art to remain behind. Tall
as she was, the arthropod towered over her.
“You’ve
come a long way, Art,” she said. “I
appreciated your input. I’m sure the guys will come to appreciate it, too.”
Art
ducked his shiny black head and averted his gaze. “Thank you, but let’s be honest, Professor
Ripley. I’ve been schooled in the subject in no uncertain terms.”
“Yes,
you have.” Ellen smiled. “Say ‘hi’ to your Mom for me. Okay?”
End
If you'd like to get a hold of Christine, here are some links for you to follow:
Website:
Amazon author page:
Read the first 60 pages of BONEBELLY at:
www.divertirpublishing.com/books/bb.html
