Man Overboard

One

Our story begins on the planet earth. A sleepy little planet is she, and she lives her millennia year after year the same; on the routine elliptical path around a great ball of fire. Despite her peaceful exterior, she houses a warring people. America, one of her youngest children, is closed away from her family, the moody teenager of Earth's brood. This country has a different view from the rest, you see; the male species was eradicated from America 127 years ago. No one with a Y chromosome has been born within the American border since 2040. Lesbianism skyrocketed, and men simply weren't necessary anymore. Indeed, those who remained tried to resist. Resistance was futile. The leaders had tried to take care of the issue peacefully, but men were a fighting breed. They wanted their rights, and women, when presented with the power that they had been denied for so long, weren't about to give it up. Shoot down the weak, said the women. Let them taste their own medicine.

The last man, a man named Obadiah Smith, tried to surrender in 2039. He tried to make peace with women, apologizing for all that his gender had done in the past, but the women had tasted blood. They executed Obadiah Smith at midnight of December 31st, 2039, marking the new year as the first year without men.

At last, women had free reign in America. The first thing they did was close the borders completely, because hey, the rest of the world was angered. You can't just kill of an entire gender! They protested. Your way of life will crumble!

America, ever the teenager, laughed at them and stuck out her tongue (for America can now freely use female pronouns) and said, I don't care!

Since then, every child born in America has been born to two women, one having housed it in her uterus for the expected nine months, the other having provided the impregnating sperm via bone marrow. Single mothers can even self impregnate! All children are dutifully recorded- it would be impossible to have a child without the labs, so why not take advantage of the easy way to keep track of the citizens?

One such girl was born, born to Amelia and Therese West. Her name was Mayabelle, and while she was a sweet baby, she grew up to be something of a bitch. As you might have presumed, Maya will be the focus of our story.

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"Mayabelle Harper West, you get down here now, or you'll miss your hover!"

Mayabelle Harper West groaned and rolled out of her bed. Pale feet, pocked with freckles and with the toes painted an electric shade of neon purple, hit the floor. These same feet hopped over to a dresser, taking quick, nimble steps at the coolness of the slick hardwood. The brightness of the chipping violet polish was swiftly muffled by a pair of thin white socks. A pair of cropped denim shorts was secured at the waist over a set of stick-thin legs, and a raspberry camisole was thrown over her head, sticking tight to what little curves existed. Several strands of wavy red hair floated to the ground as a hairbrush was yanked mercilessly through a sea of their neighbors, then twisted and pulled into a messy knot at the crown of the girl's head.

Maya was a thin girl, but that didn't necessarily make her pretty. She had large, dark-lashed blue eyes, a button nose, and multitudes of freckles made her cheeks appear two shades tanner than they actually were. She had tight waves of scarlet hair that floated to her shoulders, and stayed surprisingly smooth despite Ridgecrest, Florida's humidity. In the winter, it appeared almost brown, but in the summer, blonde undertones made their debut. Her face was angled sharply, high cheekbones and a narrow chin giving her a very haughty appearance. Maya was had small breasts, but they were there, and that's what mattered.

Maya swaggered into the kitchen on the Friday morning on which this adventure takes place. Her mother, Amelia Jane West, was attempting to shove an apple into an already overflowing lunch sack. Her mother, Therese Olivia West, was sitting at the counter, kicking her bunny-slippered feet and commenting on Amelia's progress, occasionally saying things like, "I told you, love, it's not going to work."