Liam Perrin

The Bumble King sat atop his amber throne. His eyes combed the chamber, every thought venomous and barbed. He had killed to achieve what he’d achieved, and he’d kill again if need be. Beside him, an adviser droned on, whispering honeyed words in his ear.

Out in the fields, among the pollen baskets, there was a buzz of disaccord.

“He’ll be the last, sisters. In a thousand years, no one will know that men once occupied the throne.” She had been busy pollinating a revolution. It was finally taking wing.

Drunk on the nectar of progress-promised she declared, “I see a future where every woman is a queen!”

Too late they realized she meant to kill every woman who wasn’t.

It had been made clear to her: Because she was a girl it was not okay to enjoy girly things. She didn’t want to betray her gender, so she took a job as an assassin. It allowed her to dress up provided she pretended to hate it. The friction between facade and true self stoked a burning resentment which she channeled into white-hot dagger-points of vicarious retribution.

On holiday, she daydreamed about another time when she could’ve happily managed a greeting card store. But pining was for Mary Sue’s, so she took to scrapbooking secretly and left delightful handcrafted notes on her marks: “It’s not me it’s you;” “I’m not sorry it had to end this way;” “No we can’t still be friends, obviously, winky-face.”

She found a way to make it work. She suspected that’s what heroes had always done. Villains too, perhaps – successful ones anyway.