by Amy Berg
What reviewers and readers are saying about empower: fight like a girl—
"Even non-girls will feel empowered by these stories about ordinary, flawed characters finding their own strengths. Highly entertaining and original."
—Lee Goldberg, New York Times bestselling author of The Chase and King City, whose mother lost her hearing to lupus.
"Reading Empower: Fight Like a Girl’s quirky heroines overcome zombies, evil, and Hollywood scumbags is a treat. With so many different narrative voices there’s a rich mix of styles and tones… each one compelling."
—Carole Kirschner, Director of the WGA's Showrunner Training Program and CBS Writers Mentoring Program, author of Hollywood Game Plan, entertainment career coach: www.parkonthelot.com
empower:
fight like a girl
a collection of short stories by:
Amy Berg
Cherry Chevapravatdumrong
Akela Cooper
Liz Edwards
Jane Espenson
Shalisha Francis & Nadine Knight
Lisa Klink
Pang-Ni Landrum
Lauren LeFranc
Kam Miller
Jess Pineda
Jennifer Quintenz
Lisa Randolph
Kay Reindl
Kira Snyder
Jeane Wong
Dedicated to Maurissa,
all the unsung heroes battling lupus,
and the loved ones
supporting them in this fight.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
“Outlaw” by Amy Berg
“Healthy Happy Hailie!” by Cherry Chevapravatdumrong
“Hallelujah” by Akela Cooper
“Three Minutes” by Liz Edwards
“INT. WOLF—NIGHT” by Jane Espenson
“XAYMACA” by Shalisha Francis & Nadine Knight
“Collapse” by Lisa Klink
“Suzie Homemaker/Apocalypse Ass Kicker” by Pang-Ni Landrum
“Positive Symptoms” by Lauren LeFranc
“Dangerous Stars” by Kam Miller
“Home” by Jess Pineda
“Stolen Child” by Jennifer Quintenz
“Still Waters” by Lisa Randolph
“Martyoshka” by Kay Reindl
“Bat Girl” by Kira Snyder
“Crystal Brook” by Jeane Wong
About the Lupus Foundation of America, Inc.
Acknowledgments
When we set out to organize this project, we knew it would hinge on the support of a community of writers—without whom we would have no book. The enthusiastic response to our initial inquiry overwhelmed and touched us. These generous women took time away from busy lives, development and production schedules, and their families to share their talents with us. Our sincerest gratitude goes out to each and every writer who contributed a story to help make this anthology into a stronger weapon in the fight against lupus.
We are also indebted to two editors, Julie Van Keuren and Lisa Benjamin Goodgame, who generously donated their time and expertise to go over every story for this volume.
Special thanks to Sophie Yan at the Lupus Foundation of America, Inc., whose support has been invaluable throughout this process.
To our own families, we couldn’t have put this together without your encouragement and mad kid-watching skills.
And, of course, to Maurissa Tancharoen Whedon whose remarkable strength and unflagging spirit inspired the entire idea behind this collection… stories about strong, badass women, written by strong, badass women, in honor of a strong, badass woman.
- Pang-Ni Landrum & Jennifer Quintenz
“Outlaw”
by Amy Berg
The only glimpse he caught was a dress in the wind. The marshal leaned out of the car for a better look. It was exactly what he thought he saw: a woman in full sprint, her buxom bosom bouncing wildly with each step, kicking up dirt with her boots.
“Slow down!” he shouted at the conductor, keeping one eye on the woman.
The train had just left Charleston, bound for the West with a freight of settlers embarking on new beginnings. Apparently one of them was a little late getting started.
She caught up to the train even before it slowed, throwing a suitcase past the outstretched hand of the marshal, who grabbed her and pulled her inside.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t—” he started, unable to finish. Seconds after planting her feet, she smacked him upside the head with the suitcase. Already half-out the door, the blow carried him the rest of the way. She grabbed his revolver from its holster as he fell, then watched as he landed hard in the dirt just outside the tracks.
She dusted herself off, then dumped out a handful of rocks from the otherwise-empty suitcase. She held it open as she walked down the aisle past wide-eyed passengers.
“No one needs to get hurt,” she said with disturbing grace. “But in case you get any ideas, you should know I ain’t no stranger to killin’.”
As she passed, billfolds, pocket watches, and other valuables were tossed into the case. A moment’s hesitation was greeted with a pistol whip.
At the end of the car was a door to the engine compartment. She didn’t bother to knock.
The conductor turned to find a revolver a few centimeters from his face. He stepped aside, allowing the woman to pull the brake lever.
The screeching sound was deafening. The conductor clutched his ears and peered through the window. A hundred yards up the tracks, where the train would come to a stop, was a horse tied to a tree.
“Thanks for the ride,” Josey told him. “But I’ll be getting off here.”
The excavation started five paces past the cactus to the west of the trail. Ridley paused to remove his hat, using his sleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. He glanced around nervously, anticipating unwanted company. His instincts were correct.
Across the trail were two unseen observers masked by the cover of night.
“You were right,” Josey said to her partner. “He led us right to it.”
In the distance, Ridley hit something with his shovel. He reached down to brush aside loose dirt, revealing a metal box. He peeled off the lid and smiled. It was all there. Stacks of $5 bank notes and dozens of silver coins. This wasn’t someone’s personal savings buried out in the middle of a prairie; this was a criminal haul.
“What now?” Josey asked.
“We set the trap,” her partner replied. “Go ’round and come up his backside… surprise him.”
Josie nodded, disappearing into the dark as her partner stepped out into the open.
He pulled his revolver from its holster and carefully approached the scene.
“It’s over, Ridley,” he shouted. “I’m taking you in.”
A gunshot rang out. The two men stared at each other until one of them dropped. Ridley, unarmed and unharmed, remained on his feet.
In front of him stood Josey, a trigger at her fingertips.
“What the hell?!” he exclaimed, recognizing her in his final moments.
After dispensing with him, Josey picked up the metal box, wiping away blood from its lid. She opened it, smiled, then walked away, pausing over her partner’s body.
“Thanks for the tip, Mr. Pinkerton.”
The tea leaves spit out like chewed tobacco. The soothsayer stared into the bowl, illuminated by candlelight, analyzi
ng the messages within. Suddenly she recoiled, her silk shawl receding enough to expose the shock in her eyes.
“What is it?” the client asked, jumping to his feet.
“I—I can’t say,” she replied.
“I’m paying you to say!” he shouted. His attention was quickly diverted to the sudden scrambling of footsteps just outside the door.
“It’s okay,” the soothsayer assured the source of the scurrying before turning back to her client. “I don’t believe in violence,” she said. “But I can’t speak for my associates.”
“Please,” the man pleaded, “I need to know.”
Tom Ridley was a businessman with the countenance of a gunslinger. Normally he was in control of his emotions, but not on this day.
“I’ve seen this configuration before,” said the soothsayer. “I’ve seen it exactly, in fact. Not two days ago. A woman was here, concerned her husband was unfaithful.”
Ridley paced behind her, listening intently but saying nothing.
“Your wife,” the soothsayer offered. “Did she tell you about our reading?”
“Never mind that,” he replied. “What did you say to her?”
“This pattern here is the goat,” she said, indicating a collection of leaves near the base of the bowl. “It symbolizes betrayal, but not in affairs of the heart. Have you reason to suspect an associate has deceived you?”
“That lying bastard,” Ridley grumbled, slamming his fist on the table so hard it overturned the bowl. He tossed two coins on the table and stormed out.
Moments after his exit, another man entered. The soothsayer stood up from the table to greet Mr. Pinkerton, yanking the shawl from her head.
“How’d I do?” she asked.
“Very well, Miss Wales,” he said. “So well you’re starting to make me nervous.”
She removed her robe, revealing a collared shirt over dirty corduroys. Pinkerton handed her a gun belt with a shiny new Colt .45 in its holster. She smiled, admiring it.
“You earned this,” he said.
“Do I keep following the woman?”
“She’s done her job,” Pinkerton replied. “Now it’s his turn.”
The man paced in front of the cell, keys jangling from his belt next to the revolver nestled tightly in its holster. “Not gonna lie,” he sighed. “You’re a hard one to find.”
“Wasn’t trying to make it easy,” came the reply from the shadows.
“I’d like to know how you found him.”
The prisoner spoke with an uneasy calm. “Same way you found me, I reckon.”
He expected resistance, but not an opportunity to gloat. “My men tracked him for weeks but were always a day behind.”
“You need better men,” the prisoner responded. She stepped into the light, her dress soiled from days of trudging through mud. Her skin, overexposed to the elements, pink and peeling. She ran a hand through her hair as if that’d make her suddenly presentable.
“Hardin’s a coldblooded killer,” she said. “You may’ve paid your men well enough to find him, but to bring him in? That’s a price even you can’t afford.”
“Who is it you think I am, Miss Wales?”
“I know you ain’t no lawman,” she replied.
She nodded at his revolver. “Barrel’s got years of rust, but the handle’s still smooth,” she noted. “And your holster’s too far back for a quick pull.”
He glanced down at his belt. She wasn’t wrong. About any of it. “Don’t need to start a fight if you can win an argument,” he offered.
“So you just talked the sheriff into giving you them keys?”
“I’m a recruiter,” he explained. “I work for the Pinkertons.”
“The guys who sort it out when the law can’t.”
“That’s right,” he said plainly. “So I guess you figured out why I’m here.”
She nodded. “You need better men.”
He smelled like whisky and horseshit. Every inch of James Hardin made her want to vomit, but he was too drunk to interpret her grimace as anything but seductive. His dry, calloused hands ripped at her skin as he ran them up the back of her legs.
“I’m Josey,” she offered, nervously licking her lips as she straddled him in the chair, her too-tight dress hiked up to her waist.
Hardin pulled off his Stetson, revealing sparse strings of hair glued to his scalp by sweat. He offered a crooked smile, placing the dirt-stained hat atop her finely coiffed hair. “We goin’ for a ride, Josey?”
She gently coaxed him out of the chair, leading him past the crowded bar, the tuneless upright, and the other whores gunning for marks. As they ascended the rickety staircase, Hardin glanced back at his men, their thick beards soaking up much of the liquor their mouths couldn’t manage to haul in.
“Don’t wait up, boys,” he slurred, before disappearing down a narrow hallway.
Josey’s hands shook as she unlocked the door to a back room, allowing him to stumble inside. By all appearances, this was her first time.
Hardin crudely bounced on the cot, testing its rigidity. “You scared of me?” he asked.
“Used to be,” she replied, steeling her nerves. “But I ain’t no more.” Hardin’s eyes narrowed, scrambling for recognition, then widened just as suddenly.
“Well, shit.”
Downstairs, the music drowned out most conversation, let alone the thud of a body hitting the floorboards above. The only evidence was the small puff of dust between two beams and the slow drip of blood through a knothole.
“Third time this week,” said the old man, staring at the hole in the barbed-wire fence. “We lost a half-dozen already.” He turned to his grandson. “Hand me those pliers.”
Luke was only ten, but already an experienced farmhand. He was ready with whatever tools his pops might need. “Maybe they’re biting through it?”
“Cows are dumb,” the old man replied. “But they ain’t stupid.” He pointed to the section of wire around the hole. “See how clean the edges are? If I had to guess—”
The lesson was interrupted by the sound of galloping horses drawing near. The hairs on the old man’s neck stood up.
“Take your sister back to the house,” he urged. Luke, confused, glanced at his younger sister picking daisies near the herd. Hesitation was his first mistake.
“Need some help?” shouted the lead rider as the group pulled up alongside the fence.
The old man shook his head. “Thank you kindly, but no.”
“You sure?” the rider replied with a spine-chilling smile. “Looks to me like you got a poacher on your hands.” He studied the old man closely, following his gaze to the rifle leaning against the fence ten feet away and then to his grandchildren. Both men knew this would only end one way.
“Let the kids go,” the old man pleaded. “You can have the cattle.”
“I’ll have ’em either way.”
The old man took one square to the chest. He stutter-stepped for a moment before falling to his knees.
Luke went for the rifle. That was his second mistake. He was already bleeding profusely by the time his sister reached his side. She pressed her hands against his stomach.
“What’s your name, girl?” asked the ringleader, stepping down from his horse.
“Josey,” she said, trembling, a small puddle forming near her feet as he approached. “You gonna kill me?”
“No,” he replied, kneeling in front of her. “Know why?”
Josie shook her head. The man leaned in. He swept a lock of hair away from her face.
“’Cause if you kill everybody,” he explained, “ain’t no one left to fear you.”
About The Author
Amy Berg is a writer/producer/geek hyphenate. She's written for numerous television shows including Person of Interest (CBS), Eureka (Syfy), Leverage (TNT), and The 4400 (USA) and is the creator of the popular digital series, Caper. She's currently attached to several television and feature film projects she can't yet name lest she lose contact w
ith vital appendages. Aside from lending her awkward public speaking skills to such geektastic ventures as w00tstock, you can occasionally find her on the convention circuit shilling shows. Berg has scripted kiddie comedy, soap operas, period pieces, crime dramas, science fiction and has also dabbled in comic books. She plainly needs to focus.
Follow her on Twitter: @bergopolis
Watch Caper on Hulu.
“Healthy Happy Hailie!”
by Cherry Chevapravatdumrong
HEALTHY HAPPY HAILIE!
a food, fun & fitness blog!
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October 8, 2013
You guys, I’m gonna cut and paste my “About Me” section here because it’s hilarious. What was I thinking? How dumb was I back then? Read this. Even if you have already, read it again, because I just did and I basically want to kill myself:
ABOUT ME
Hi, I’m Hailie, and welcome to my blog! This is where I post my favorite recipes, fitness tips, and also just write about the general craziness that is my life! I used to be an actress, but now I blog full time, and it truly is a rewarding career. I eat paleo, I stay active, and I try my best to be healthy and happy! Come share my journey!
I mean…right? What was I doing, injecting 100% pure sunshine into my veins? Because if I’d been telling the truth, it would’ve gone a little something more like this:
ABOUT ME
Here’s what you think is going to happen when you, the prettiest girl at your high school (as voted by your 1,800 fellow students) three years running (freshman year you hadn’t grown boobs yet), put all your belongings in a car and drive from West Bloomfield, MI to Los Angeles, CA:
