Be Women Wicked?

" Women seem wicked when you're unwanted". Elton mused, as he passed by the many women staring blankly through him.

—Seeing through The Bitter Lens

Maybe it's just that the world had turned its face from him in particular.

Every morning, he walked through the city like a ghost in daylight. Women passed him on the sidewalks — laughing, arguing, carrying groceries, adjusting headphones — and each time he felt a sting, a small electric burn of resentment. They seemed wicked to him, sharp‑edged, glittering with a confidence he believed was designed to exclude him.

He carried this bitterness like a keepsake, a dark talisman in his pocket. It warmed his palm whenever he touched it, whispering that he was unwanted, overlooked, invisible. The misery told him stories: They think they’re better than you. They don’t see you. They don’t care.

Maybe he shouldn't believe it...the city did not - it always offered him a sliver of hope to be free and to support himself again.

Across the street, inside an old converted studio painted in peeling turquoise, Maria and Janelle were arguing over a shipment of clay. Elton didn’t know their names yet. He only saw two silhouettes moving through the wide windows, gesturing with the urgency of people who had somewhere to be and something to build.

Inside, Maria’s voice echoed off the rafters.

“This clay is too wet. It’ll slump before the students even touch it.”

Janelle wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. “We can wedge it. We’ve done worse.”

“I’m tired of doing worse,” Maria said. “We need funding. Real funding. Not patchworked pieces of miracles.”

Their conversation had nothing to do with anyone but themselves; Elton thought. Nothing to do with wickedness. They were simply two women trying to keep their community arts center alive.

From the sidewalk, he saw only their laughter when Maria made a joke about the clay supplier. He saw their closeness, the easy way they moved around each other. And the stone in his pocket whispered again.

They’re laughing at you. They always laugh at you. He turned away.

But...life is fickle...

— The Collision

The city had a way of pulling people together whether they wanted it or not.

A week later, Elton found himself standing in the turquoise studio, not by choice but by obligation. His probation officer had suggested community service, and the arts center needed hands. Maria was the one who greeted him — brisk, focused, already juggling three tasks.

“You’re Elton?” she asked, neither unkindly, nor warmly, simply verifying.

“Yes.”

“Good. We're happy to see you...and we really need someone to help move the plaster molds. They’re heavy. Follow me please.”

She didn’t look at him long enough for him to interpret anything. She didn’t soften her voice or sharpen it. She didn’t treat him like a threat or a savior. She treated him like a person who could carry things.

It unsettled him.

Janelle was in the back room, carving lines into a half‑finished sculpture. She glanced up briefly.

“Hey,” she said. “Watch your step. The floor’s uneven.”

That was all.

There was no judgment. No flirtation. No dismissal. Just a practical warning.

Elton felt the stone in his pocket cool slightly.

— Cracks

Over the next days, he watched Maria and Janelle move through their world. He saw them argue about kiln temperatures, celebrate when a student mastered a difficult technique, mourn when a grant application was rejected.

He overheard them discussing how to keep the center open through winter.

Janelle’s creative block. Maria’s mother’s declining health, the logistics of a community showcase.

Not once did they talk about men. Not once did they talk about him.

He began to realize how small his bitterness was compared to the size of their lives. One evening, while sweeping clay dust from the floor, he heard Maria sigh.

“I’m exhausted,” she said to Janelle. “But if we close this place, the kids lose everything.”

Janelle nodded. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Their determination was not wicked. Their exhaustion was not wicked. Their hope was not wicked. It was simply...human.

But something inside Elton — something brittle — began to unravel.

— The Breaking Point

His breaking came from their accountability, not from kindness toward their plight.

Elton's pent up loneliness snapped one afternoon, muttering under his breath about “women who think they’re better than everyone.” Maria heard it. She turned sharply.

“Is that what you think of us?” she asked. “Because we’re working? Because we’re tired? Because we’re trying?”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. It was disappointed.

Janelle crossed her arms. “If you’re going to be here, you need to respect the people around you. We’re not your enemies.”

The stone in his pocket felt suddenly heavy, unbearably heavy.

He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t argue. He didn’t flee.

He simply stood there, feeling the weight of his own distorted lens.

And for the first time, he wondered who he might be without it.

— The Shift

The next morning, Elton arrived early.

He swept the floors without being asked. He organized the glaze jars. He listened — truly listened — when Maria explained how to mix slip (liquid mixture of clay and water) properly. He asked Janelle about her sculpture, not because he wanted praise, but because he was curious.

He began to see the world without the stone’s whisper.

Women were not wicked.

They were busy. They were tired. They were brilliant. They were flawed. They were trying.

Just like him.

And slowly, quietly, he began to try too.

...................................................................

LC's prompt.

Dollar Challenge - Quote Me Baby (Women's Edition)

An incel is a member of an online subculture, primarily heterosexual men, who identify as unable to find romantic or sexual partners despite desiring them.

The Bechdel test evaluates whether a work of fiction features at least two named women who talk to each other about something other than a man.