Generation F. Girls Write Now
wife’s serial killer was happy as can be, now that he was free.
He did not have to hear any whining or have any fighting. He could go to a bar and look at another woman’s boobs and not get slapped across his beautiful face. ’Cause, boy, was he handsome. At least, he’d like to think so. He could also watch baseball without having the channel changed because it was “too boring.”
Over time, this happy state started to fade. He missed the whining and the fighting. Because, apparently, it is really hard to talk to people buried in your backyard! Turns out, they’re no fun. He wanted someone to change the channel because baseball is, actually, really boring. He no longer wanted to stare at another woman’s boobs because none were as good as his late wife’s . . . so this sad and depressed “widow” husband decided to go out and get himself a new wife.
And he did. She was a maid who he once paid to clean his house. She had beautiful brown hair, green eyes, and the reddest lips he’d ever seen. Her beauty was incomparable to anything or to anyone. He made sure that she wasn’t close to anyone so they wouldn’t interfere. He hated when people “interfered.” He was so in love he thought, You know what? I might keep this one. This gorgeous woman.
But he soon realized that it wasn’t because of beauty or bad habits or personality. It had nothing to do with her at all. It was simply because he liked it.
Saony and I love horror movies. So one day, during a weekly meet-up, we decided to write a Generation F–inspired horror fiction prompt—a piece of writing that would explore feminine power and sexuality. These were our results.
Tanya awakes with a start. Her blond hair cascades over her sore and sweaty body as she looks at her phone, which reads 3:03 a.m. A strange man’s arm hugs her waist close to his chest. “Who the hell is that?” She gazes at his pale, white skin, perplexed.
This wasn’t like her. Tanya did not have one-night stands. Tanya did not get drunk. She was pragmatic. She was disciplined. She was a law student, after all.
She gets up and stumbles to the bathroom, “Oh Christ,” she quietly roars, she’d stubbed her right toe on a heavy textbook. “I must still be drunk,” she whispers.
In the bathroom her red eyes looked back at her. Hauntingly. Odd, she thinks. Is that a bite mark on my neck? She peers back into her bedroom, where the strange man rolls over to one side and drags a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Reds on the nightstand.
With a switch to the left, the shower faucet turns on and out comes steamy, hot water. She jumps in and puts her face under the faucet, letting the water wash off her mascara and her eyeliner and “What on earth?” She looks to her ankle and sees a fresh tattoo of a vampire bat staring back at her. “Impossible . . . it can’t be . . .”
Suddenly the shower door slides open and the strange man stares back at her, cigarette dangling from his fangs . . . his fangs . . .
“It can’t be,” she says.
“Move over, babe, let me get a chance with the hot water.” She catches sight of her reflection in the shower door—a pair of matching fangs stare back at her.
“It just can’t be.”
He winks at her.
“You look pretty without makeup, Tanya. I like you this way.”
“It can’t be.”
“Let’s go hunt after this, what do you say?” He kisses her on the cheek.
She looks at him, at his fangs, at the tattoo on her ankle. “I am never drinking margaritas again,” she declares, decisively, and turns off the shower.
REBECCA CEDENO
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: H.E.R.O. High School
BORN: Bronx, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I didn’t know what to expect from a program like this. It is a little more than what I have expected. When I first met Lucy, it was during this icebreaker game, but I did not know that she was my mentor yet, and I was so surprised because it was a cool coincidence. I have bonded a lot with her and she helped me grow more in my writing. I really appreciate her as a friend and a mentor and I am going to miss her and being in Girls Write Now.
LUCY FRANK
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Writer
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (Schwartz & Wade, 2014), 2011 PEN/Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship recipient
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: The very first time we met, Rebecca showed me her notebook, filled with stories. Even so, I came to our first session with a bunch of writing prompts. It was instantly clear Rebecca does not need writing prompts. She is always writing, always has another idea. I have pushed her to take each piece further, deeper, and each week her voice gets stronger, more confident, more daring. And more funny, which makes working with her even more fun. She is inspiring me to be more daring in my writing, too. Thank you, Rebecca. I cannot wait to see what you come up with next!
I always thought that writing was about writing something that makes you feel vulnerable. So I wrote about how I was tormented in middle school about my appearance. I think that anyone can relate to this, female or male. I hope this helps. Be yourself, fuck everyone else.
Okay, so here is the thing. In middle school, I bought Jordans. The shoes, those retro 13s, or whatever number they were, but I don’t really care because I honestly hate Jordans. They are just really ugly to me. (For all the sneakerheads reading this, please don’t slit my throat. I just think it is a really overrated kind of shoe.) Every time I think about how I actually went and got those shoes, it just makes me cringe so hard. They are literally the same style with different colors and the cycle goes on. They are not really new shoes, just a new color. They were pretty pricey. I think for my size they cost $120. Worst of all, I bought them only to be accepted by people I don’t even like.
I got these Jordans because I wanted to be cool. I wanted the bullying to stop, too. A lot of kids in my class would always spit insults at what I wore, especially my shoes. Like, fuck you, I can wear whatever I want. (Of course, I only said that in my head because why cause even more conflict, ya know?) I wanted to be unbothered. Also, I wanted friends, but that did not turn out well for me because they still made fun of me. A waste of money, right?
I was made fun of for having hair on my arms. It was very noticeable, so a lot of kids in my class called me “wolverine” or “werewolf.” So I shaved my arms because I wanted to be cool. I shaved them anytime I saw the hairs growing back at a certain length. I could not risk