In the end, not many men were left. Our world had already been tipped against them, with the inferior gender accounting for less than half of the population. After the invasion, they were fewer than one-tenth.
Women had died too, of course. But we had less to lose and, once we knew who our invaders were, so many of our sisters lost their taste for blood and simply, quietly, put down the guns and the knives and sharp kitchen tools that they’d either grabbed or had thrust at them when the first attacks occurred.
The men exhorted us, and when that didn’t work, insulted us. They tried to control us with anger and name-calling and violence–as if so many of us hadn’t learned that language from the cradle and hadn’t already adapted to it through the years. We’d already evolved beyond it, but hadn’t yet realized.
At the end, they’d reverted to pleading–tugging on our taut and fraying heartstrings. After all, weren’t they our fathers, our brothers, our husbands, our sons? I confess: The pull of emotion was nearly impossible to resist. Love had once been a driving force in my life, and the memory of it had not yet faded.
But that was before: Before the cheating, before the tears, before the female aliens–who I had named Amazonians in my head–set their sights on Earth. They came, and taught us power. And power, once taken, is seldom returned.
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I’ll admit – I digressed from the photo prompt, letting my mind just wander. I thought about the moon and symbols and soon I was thinking of gender and space. So there you go. The start of feminist sci-fi?