Suffrage

Armed and Ready

Flora and Eve glanced around nervously, bouncing their knees with the rhythm of the rickety carriage. I stared out the window at the setting sun, trying to still my shaking palms. Patsy was the only person sitting still, choosing to deal with her nervousness by stuffing it deep down inside her stomach and lidding it with a hunched back and a silent mouth.

The sun sank deep under the mountains, encasing the carriage in darkness and leaving us with only our own thoughts. I tried to calm myself by quietly reciting a list of Arabic curses, but they ended up turning into a jumbled mess halfway through. Why did I agree to this? Blast!

Ever since the feminism rally, the newspaper had been writing endless amounts of articles about whether or not Rikkard Ambrose's secretary was insane and mentally disabled. There was simply no way a sane man could support feminism. Reporters came up with the most exaggerated excuses: I had a very bad case of the flu, I had just visited a witch who had hypnotized me, or one of the ladies who participated in the rally threatened me beforehand with castration. The articles put just about every possible (and impossible) reason for my "incredibly incorrect opinion" on feminism. Any article involving the words "Mr. Linton" and "feminism" automatically sold 10 times better than any other article.

Soon, the demand for articles about me grew so much that when my dear employer decided to walk up to his window, clasp his hands behind his back, and stare at the gray London landscape (which he did quite often), his gaze would not be drawn to the winding streets covered in stacks and stacks of office buildings, but instead to the homeless men, women, and children banging on the doors of his office building, demanding that I speak to them so they could write an article about me and receive a bit of money and fame. Piles and piles of pneumatic tubes formed mountains on Mr. Stone's desk, all asking for more reinforcements around the office.

Eventually, the mobs grew so large that a small carriage could not drive down Leadenhall street and the workers on the first floor started quitting due to the unsettling sound of 500 people clawing and banging on windows. Mr. Ambrose, faced with the monetary loss and wasted time of hiring new workers, decided to stop the mobs once and for all by... drumroll please... shutting down the entire feminist movement. A truly marvelous idea. And how was he going to do that, you may ask? Simple. By challenging every single feminist to a debate. Everyone who dared to face him would line up and argue until they could no more. He was even generous enough to pay for every single table and chair required for the debate. The venue ended up costing nothing as Mr. Ambrose's figured that the audience could sit on the ground while he and his victim stood up front.

Today was the third day of the event and the line was finally dwindling. Half of the people in line had walked up to Mr. Ambrose and ran away immediately, frightened and silenced by his cold, hostile glare. The other half only managed a few sentences before they were exhausted of arguments. Honestly, I had expected better of my fellow feminists. The event had turned into a joke, with the audience betting on how long the next victim would last. Mr. Ambrose had truly satirized the feminism movement.

However, he was not prepared for me. I would not run away. I would stand there and spit the truth until feminism spread far and wide across London.

The carriage jolted to a stop. It was time to show these men what a strong, smart woman could do.