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Equality:A Short Story (warning: graphic content and dangerous ideas)

Libby lives in a peace enclave for a reason. Here, her beliefs live and breathe, forming a cocoon. They embrace her like a mother’s loving arms. Peace. Security. Social consciousness. All in one place. Twenty-four-seven.

Coming home late one night, she walks through the park, happy and secure.

Until a man with a mask and a knife jumps in her path.

Will Libby survive the aftermath, the shattering of her beliefs?

“You call that a dick?” a strange, distant voice said.

A flash broke through the veil of crimson pain. The smell of hot metal, burning sawdust and dirt scorched its way down Libby’s throat. An awful ringing swelled in her ears. And then … silence. Silence and darkness.


February 25, 2036

Libra Baingana adored the beauty of the sweeping arches that circled this part of “The South’s Most Romantic City.” Despite the lack of lighting and the lateness of the hour—it was past midnight—the arches gave the perimeter of this heavenly little district a distinctly positive and empowering atmosphere. Much better than walls or fences.

The cab came to a stop in the turnabout, alongside the “Welcome to Clinton—A Peace Enclave” sign. The brand-new, exclusive, inclusive community boasted a plan optimized for walking and cycling. The cab driver could take his vehicle no further. Only electric vehicles making deliveries that benefited the entire community were allowed on the few streets wide enough for cars.

Libby swiped her watch across the billing scanner. Ordinarily she prided herself in giving drivers a generous ten-percent tip if they went above and beyond. Sometimes she’d add a bit more if they were willing to listen to her sing the praises of the Enclave. But she’d not opted to sing tonight—the driver, a man with the boring name of “Joe” looked about as MAGA as they made them. Had she had a choice, she’d have called for another driver, but her app said none would be available until morning. It would be better for everyone if she invested his tip in some carbon credits instead. Besides, with gas as cheap as it was nowadays, there really should’ve been a discount, but greedy people like him insisted on overcharging those who needed their services.

She slammed the door shut and stepped away, expecting him to peel out and leave her choking on a cloud of carcinogens. Instead, he eased that criminally oversized four-seater into gear and drove the five-mile-per-hour speed limit all the way out as if he didn’t care at all, which he wouldn’t if he habitually overcharged. Not tipping had clearly been the right decision.

She took a deep, satisfied breath and started walking. It was an easy twenty minutes to her cottage even in heels and a dress. She set out across the community park with its exercise-encouraging footpaths. When the motion-activated solar lights failed to keep up with her pace, she slowed.

The glass of the framed certificate in her bag rattled a bit so she pulled it closer. She couldn’t wait to get home and put it on her wall, right above the ranking belts. They were like a rainbow—white, yellow, gold, orange, green, purple, brown and red. The final rank, black, was the reason she was out so late. She’d gone out to celebrate with the rest of her karate friends. But none of them lived in the Enclave. And her Enclave friends didn’t care for her karate friends’ violent ways. Which was completely ridiculous. There wasn’t a violent bone in their bodies—or hers. Karate was about discipline and conditioning. She loved moving through the forms. She’d even sparred. It wasn’t that hard and she’d only been bruised a couple of times. Karate had shown her the power within her own body. It had shown her that she was as strong as anyone else. Fierce. Independent. Equal.

Something caught the edge of her vision as she passed the communal composting drums. The small building that housed one of the park’s restrooms was up ahead, its blue, police call-box shining like a beacon. Usually she loved the Enclave’s energy-consciousness—it felt a bit like celebrating Earth Day every day—but the stupid path was so poorly lit, she’d have felt safer with a pair of light-up shoes. The hairs on the back of her neck stood, insisting that something was wrong.

Stop it.

Libby took a deep breath and shook off the trepidation. That MAGA cab driver had really gotten to her. She walked faster. In just fifteen minutes, she’d be in her own cottage, enjoying the—

A hulking silhouette stepped out of the dark and into her path. She spun and bolted without thinking.

The blow to the back of her head sent her reeling.

She dropped to her knees. Her palm scraped the sidewalk as she pushed up with one hand and drove her elbow back. It connected with a meaty thud and bounced off a wall of muscle and bone. There wasn’t even a grunt.

Fingers bit into the back of her neck, shoving her forward again as her voice caught in her throat. Freshly laid sod cushioned her landing.

She twisted and kicked under the pounding of piston-like fists.

They just kept coming, driving each and every breath from her body.

“Stop.” Blood gurgled into her throat.

Her arms were a meager shield. Pain exploded from her cheek. Her nose. Her jaw.

She fumbled for the watch with its SOS app, but it was gone.

His grip nearly yanked her scalp off—


—as he dragged her across the grass.

Light seared through swelling eyes.

She’d lost her heels. Her hose had torn. And then they were off and she was bare against the tiles.

Crimson dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision.

Straddling her hips, he looked down at her through a black morphmask.

She flailed under him going for his face. It was out of reach.

His hands wrapped around her throat.

She tried to break his hold, wedging her arms between his, but he was too strong. She punched from the side. He blocked with his elbows.

Adrenaline-powered knees pounded into his back. Once. Twice.

He didn’t buckle.

He didn’t budge.

The morphmask closed in until the reek of his breath was all she could smell.

He smacked her head into the tile. The world swam around her. Something wound around her neck and then the smell didn’t matter anymore.

All that mattered was air. The air she wasn’t getting. She could no longer feel the harsh unforgiving tile beneath her, could no longer see the uncaring light around her.


You can download the entire story for free via Bookfunnel, by clicking here. Select your favorite format (mobi for Kindle, ePub for iBooks, Kobo, Nook, or PDF). If you haven’t already done so, please consider signing up for my newsletter. Free download ends on 12/31/18.

Copyright 2017 by Monalisa Foster

Original date of publication: Nov. 4, 2017
MAGA 2020 & Beyond

Free story

  1. OldNFO says:

    Oh well done! WELL DONE! Thank you!!!

    1. m2foster says:

      You’re very welcome. Always happy when a reader enjoys my work.

      1. Tree Mike says:

        I just discovered your site today. Found it on the side bar at Feral Irishman. You’re a very good writer, I’m a good reader, happiness for me. Thanks. Tree Mike

  2. ANNE HALL says:

    Wow. Should be required reading for a lot of people! Not only a beautiful piece of writing, the scenery and dialogue is well balanced, but the subject is deftly and convincingly discussed.
    I sometimes think that a lot of women are amazingly lucky, they never come across the unalterable fact that there are guys out there who are bigger and stronger than them. And sometimes women too. And that is even before you add in the interesting effects of drugs.
    Maria is wonderful, but I particularly liked the point about the fact that the attacker didn’t shift backwards like all of her practice partners had.
    My partner is the gentlest guy I know, but I can’t even close my hand around his wrist bone. It is a simple fact of biology! I’d always lose if I went up against someone his size.

    1. m2foster says:

      Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it and that it resonated with you. Unfortunately we don’t live in the choreography and special-effects world of Hollywood where a 100-lb woman can knock around a guy twice her size.

  3. Nylon12 says:

    Came here courtesy of the OldNFO blog, glad I did. Started reading this just before I had to be somewhere and was late but I didn’t mind at all. A well written tale, thank you.

    1. m2foster says:

      You’re welcome. And thank you for taking the time.

  4. Rick T says:

    Very well done, and something I need to meditate on for the training at my Aikido dojo. Something about more realistic resistance when we train the smaller women.. Another referral from OldNFO

  5. Orvan Taurus says:

    Well met!

    And that last line feels just a little familiar somehow. I presume ox tripping over the idea not long ago was mere coincidence and a Greater Mind (yours) thought of it – and applied it – rather earlier.

    1. m2foster says:

      It’s s gun culture thing. It did not originate with me.

  6. John Sage says:

    Great short story, and teaching tale. Liked the “size does matter”, especially with the way many martial art forms are being taught “responsibly” so that no one actually risks injury.
    Very good introspection and development of awareness.
    I came from a very old school (NEA/CTA) liberal background in Cali, and on moving to S Louisiana at 22, had to learn to deal with police 25 min out, and expecting me to have solved the problem by the time they got to me.
    It took 2 months to accept the knowledge that if all I did in life was self support theough commerce or employment, and commit no crimes, that my life was worth more to society that that of someone who would attack me.
    Got here fron Old NFOs blog.
    Will be back. John

  7. Merlin says:

    Another one from oldNFO’s blog.
    Wonderful story. Well written, gets the message across. Unfortunately, the people who most need to read / hear that message are the very ones that won’t read it. But I did, and I’m glad you wrote it. We can only hope that the message gets through to some who need it.

    1. m2foster says:

      Thank you. As for the people who won’t read it: You cannot wake a man pretending to sleep (Navajo proverb).

    1. m2foster says:

      I’m glad you enjoyed it.

  8. Julie Pascal says:

    Feeling guilty for not feeling guilty… I think you figured out human nature. Well done.

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