Strange Beasts

by Susan J. Morris

Men like him are entirely too quick to call a woman mad or monstrous just because she can do something they can’t. Don’t do it for them.”

“Good, good.” His voice was fat with satisfaction. And why shouldn’t it be? Sam was back in her place, playing her part in his story. In the past, it would have given her relief: it meant she was invisible, it meant she was safe. But safe from whom? From him, a small voice whispered. And the realization made her sick.

Fury that she had to live in fear that someone would uncover what she could do and imprison her for the sin of having a power that didn’t come from them. Fury that the Mr. Wrights of the world forced her to play the part they’d written for her in their stories⁠—because it was always their stories. Never hers. Fury that the world forced her to choose between being herself and being safe.