Majority Rules!

Lady Fortune (Servalan, Blake's 7)

2008-06-14T17:34:38Z

Title: Lady Fortune
Character: Servalan, one-time President of the Terran Federation
Fandom: Blake’s 7
Prompt: Fortune and Her Wheel

Notes: Gentle reader, take care: Blake’s 7 can be quite a dark fandom...

Lady Fortune

One

When President Conol’s private guard stormed the Commissariat for Pacification and Public Order, Sleer was waiting crouched and head-bowed behind her magnificent desk. As the door buckled and burned, she rose from her chair, arranged herself and her feathers, and stood with arms stretched out, fingertips light upon the black glass. She had been here before; she would be here again.

The door broke, falling like a palace of cards. A dozen troops streamed in, forming a semi-circle around her. Sleer smiled at them, in turn, patient and forgiving as a goddess.

And watched them all waver, more or less.

Two

Conol came to see her in captivity. He liked her caged, but didn’t know what to make of her, and didn’t know what to do with her. “Did you honestly believe you could go around unrecognized? Somebody must have helped you! Who helped you?”

So far, he has gone away unanswered—

“Or are you mad?”

—but returned often. Unable to resist. She was irresistible.

“Servalan!”

She lifted her eyes, huge and dark in a sun-starved face. Gestured him closer. Only a whisker between them. “Let me tell you all about it,” she breathed. “Let me tell you all my secrets.”

Three

Residence One may be more comfortable than prison, Madame is heard to remark these days, but it has certainly faded since she was sole occupant. Since she was ‘Madame President’.

In the banqueting hall, the President bores his allies with complaints. She sits regal and untouchable at her end. When Conol stops to drink, Servalan dabs white linen against scarlet lips, then drops the cloth upon the floor. Two guests and three guards dive to retrieve it for her. When she speaks, wineglasses and allies and enemies and candlesticks quiver, to a man.

“Poor Conol. Always so tired, these days.”

Four

One sultry night, they walk together beneath the cold stars of which she was once Empress. Bodyguards follow them: two young men – discreet, anonymous, loyal.

She takes him to a secret garden. Red roses soften the air. He tells her that he worships her. She clasps his head between her hands, kisses him. The young men obey her signal.

All these boys, she thinks, as they drag the body away – they are her own. They know her for what she is; they know she will use them, but never waste them. It is very like love, she thinks. Only honest.

Five

The day President Servalan took office again, she stood alone before the Presidential Palace, and swore an oath to serve and rule, to judge and protect. She looked pale and vulnerable before her black-clad guard.

But it was not an unequal partnership. If they kept her here, if they never wavered, they knew she would take the stars back for them. And if not...

She had fallen before. Yet here she was again.

Servalan stood upon the threshold. Her office was made of light and air, black glass at its heart. Beautiful, she thought, and turned the handle once more.

TWW FIC :: "Honestly and Openly" [CJ/Ainsley, NC17]

2008-06-14T03:01:28Z

Title: Honestly and Openly
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Feedback address: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Date in Calendar: 14 June 2008
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: CJ/Ainsley
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2407
Written for: AJ's Lusty Month of May 2008
Recipient: celievamp
Prompt: babble mode
Written for: majoritython
Prompt: "She dealt her pretty words like Blades" [poem] & "Man-Size" by PJ Harvey [lyrics]
Summary: You're finally living your life honestly and openly. There are no more lies to live behind.
Series: Get What You Need
Sequel: Takes place directly after "PDA"
Spoilers: post-series
Warning: Established lesbian couple. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Advertisement: Part of the FSAC:DD08

Disclaimer: “The West Wing”, the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of Allison Janney or Emily Procter. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.

Author's Note: I couldn't help but continue on with the whole concept of CJ outing herself for Ainsley. Plus? I've never written smut for these two women yet. How sad is that? I took the first line of the poem, which is the same as the title, and the line "Got my girl and she's a wow" from the PJ Harvey song as my inspiration for the ficathon. And then there was celievamp's great prompt, too. *hee*

Dedication: My muses, as usual…

Beta: shatterpath, as usual

"Honestly and Openly"
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter

What in the hell was I thinking today?

Semblance Protective (Battlestar Galactica, Laura Roslin, President of the 12 Colonies of Kobol)

2008-06-06T14:28:48Z

Title: Semblance Protective
Author: Trialia
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: T
Word Count: 525
Beta: cincoflex
Character(s)/Pairing(s): President Laura Roslin
Spoilers: Captain’s Hand
Challenge: majoritython, prompt ‘separation of church and state’
Summary: In some situations, one really has no choice.
A/N: To those who will recognise the title but aren’t sure where from (I know there'll be at least one!), it’s paraphrased from a lyric on the Epica album Consign to Oblivion. I thought it fit.

Dr. Gaius Baltar’s calculations. She detests the man, mustn’t show it. Doesn’t trust him. On the down-low, as Admiral Adama calls it, she asks Bill to have Mr. Gaeta check the numbers with the data gathered on births, deaths and related statistics in the fleet.

The results serve only to make her feel even worse.

He was right. At the rate they’re losing people, the human race will simply fade into extinction within the next eighteen years. And that’s if they don’t lose any more people to Cylon attacks, something she is certain won’t happen. Their dwindling medical supplies can’t handle the weight of a pandemic, should one spread throughout the fleet.

It’s unavoidable, the fact spinning in her head. The fleet, and humanity, will die out in less than eighteen years’ time, unless something can be done.

Laura knows that many people don’t want to bring a child into their present situation, and she knows why. People are waiting for Earth.

But… what if it takes them too long to find it?

There’s only one solution that really lends itself, as far as she can see; she hates the bare thought of it. Her nausea at the idea of doing what almost everyone is telling her she needs to do is profound: she can’t stand the thought of denying even one woman control over her own body, let alone making a general statement to the effect that she will. She won’t, she’s sure. She can’t.

Caught in irresolution, Laura thanks the gods that the crisis is not on her doorstep; that she has enough time to think. Not the full eighteen years, but… enough. Even Bill Adama seems convinced that they must ban abortion if they’re to survive, quoting her own words back to her.

Until Rya Kibby is brought to her attention: a young, pregnant and terrified stowaway, begging to be allowed an abortion against the wishes of her parents. It makes her decision that much harder, but forces the President to reach a conclusion.

If she does not make abortion illegal in the fleet, as a race humanity will die out before they ever reach their ‘promised land’. She knows her decision will be seen as pandering to the one ultra-religious colony of the Twelve, but that is a lesser consideration, now.

There is simply no choice.

But she’ll give Rya back a measure of control over her own body, as a last act of regret for what she knows must be done. No matter what Sarah Porter and the Gemenese think of her for doing so. That girl’s suffered enough.

Laura may see the literal truth of the scriptures in her visions, but she’s still Caprican, and as such, despite the proclaimed unity of the Colonies and their people post-genocide, she is at odds with many of the Gemenese interpretations of law and religion. Children being ‘property’ of their parents… that’s one of them.

Rya is nobody’s property, despite her youth. Her choice should be her decision to make, and as her decision, be legally binding.

It is.

But after this, when it comes to abortion, no one else’s will be.

-fin

Fic: The Queen and the Soldier

2008-06-03T06:39:44Z

Well, it's 3 June this side of the pond - not sure when the US gets there, but having for once managed to write the fic before the deadline, I don't aim to miss it! The prompt was "The Queen and the Soldier" which is apparently the title of a song by Suzanne Vega, and the story's gen. Thanks for organising the challenge, btw - enjoyed it.

Quick explanation: Gunnhild Mother of Kings ruled Norway, through her husband and sons, for over two decades in the 10th century. Depending on whom you believe, she was a clever, imperious woman or a nymphomaniac witch. Sagas tell two tales of her birth; she was either the daughter of King Gorm of Denmark, or of a Finnmark chieftain and brought up among the "Lapland witches". The custom of fosterage at the time makes it vaguely possible (if unlikely) to cobble both legends together. In 1835 a body exhumed from a peat bog was thought to be Gunnhild. In fact it was an Iron Age woman, but since sagas say Gunnhild too was buried in the bog, and peat does indeed preserve bodies, she may yet reappear...

The Queen and the Soldier

The hesitant scratch at the door is welcome. She has been long enough alone in the apartment to which she was conducted; her brother the Danish king is certainly taking his time deciding whether to receive her. He always was a ditherer. She calls a gracious permission to enter.

Her visitor is a man, young and tall, his fair hair tumbling to his shoulders. Broad shoulders, she notices, and long legs. She eyes them appreciatively. She has never seen why being what the world calls old should change the way she looks at handsome young bodies.

He carries a short-sword and wears the colours of her brother's guard. Also he does not meet her eye. She is used to this; she says, amused, "Come, I shan't put a spell on you." He flushes to the roots of his hair and looks up shyly, under his eyebrows; he really is irresistible.

She smiles. "Do you believe those stories, then? The witch-queen from Finnmark?" He stammers a denial and she takes pity on his embarrassment. "My father was Gorm the Old, who was father to your own king Harald; I am your countrywoman. But it is true that I was fostered in Finnmark."

Maybe more than fostered. Gorm's daughter, but not his queen's…. She can see the young soldier eyeing her doubtfully, weighing up the clear, sharp Nordic features, so like his own and his king's, against the eyes that look nothing like Harald's. Her hair, once dark with a glow of redness, is grey now, but her eyes are still that deep peaty black a man could drown in.

She slows her voice, softening and flattening the consonants a little: d for t, g for k. "I have passed most of my life in Norway, ever since I married Eirik. But here I was born, and they say folk hanker at the last for their kin, and their old ways."

She sees his face relax, registering the familiar accent, and knows that he believes her. Indeed she has not told him a word of a lie, though what she means by "kin" may not be what she has let him think.

He would call them Lapps, the people she grew up among, but that was not their name for themselves. It was a name others gave them, those who feared their wandering, ungovernable ways and their knowledge of leechcraft, of plants, animals and stars, the habits of the land they lived in. On their own tongues they were the Sami, the People of the Land.

Was she born here, in Gorm's hall? She supposes so; she has no reason to doubt it, but no memory either, or not from childhood. All her childhood pictures are of tents, cloth in brilliant patterns of red and blue, reindeer breath steaming sweet on the cold air, and the vast, unending distance of the Finnmark sky.

The People, whom she was with but not of. She played with the other girls, learned with them from the old women how to weave bright cloth and brew herbs into bitter concoctions, but there was always a distance. Staring into a lake, she would see their eyes, their hair, but a different shape to the face and, under the sunburn, a paler skin. Assur, her foster-father whom she could have loved no better had he been of her blood, made sure she always kept in mind that she was the daughter of a king, way down in the south, from a people she was of, but not with.

Her first memory of this hall dates from when she was seventeen, and rode in through the gate with Assur, because her father the king had sent for her. She remembers being presented to him, realising where her firm jawline came from. Meeting her brother for the first time; his fair hair and pale blue eyes so like their father's, so unlike hers. Even then, she thought his face a weak one; maybe after all it was his dead mother he took after. Everyone around her so tall, so blond, so pale; her eyes went past them to Assur's dark, strong face on the edge of the circle, his black eyes laughing in response to hers.

The young soldier coughs politely. "Ah – King Eirik Bloodaxe…. he was a very great king, was he not, madam?"

She gives him her sweetest smile, recognising a born hero-worshipper. "Well, he was a great fighter, certainly." She sees him longing for more; obliges. "And very handsome; I thought I had never seen a man so handsome." From his face she knows what story is in his mind and goes on calmly, "When first I met him, here in King Gorm's hall, as it then was."

That old tale. The young prince Eirik, heir to Norway, wandering with his friends in Finnmark, meets a beautiful girl in company with the Lappish warlocks who are teaching her witchcraft. She falls in love with him; puts a magic sleep on the Lapps so that he and his friends can kill them, and he brings her back as his bride.

Rubbish, all of it. He was with her father and brother the day she came to the court; how not, since it was the prospect of this marriage alliance that had caused her father to recall her existence and send for her from the north? She had been prepared to hate this enforced bridegroom. But when they were introduced, she looked up into eyes that were a darker blue than her brother's, in a sun-tanned face framed by hair the colour of ripe corn, where Gorm's and Harald's hair was like pale straw. He smiled; he looked bold and merry. And he would be king in Norway after his father; he would make her a queen.

No warlocks, no magic sleep, no killings. That was all the invention of the Icelandic skalds, who have always hated her. As if she would ever have sold the People of her childhood to the pale southerners.

Only sometimes, even now, she thinks of the taste of reindeer milk, the smell of hide and seething herbs, Assur's sad face as she dragged her eyes away from the handsome Norwegian prince, and it seems to her that the story is true after all.

She lets her eyes rest on the soldier, feeling a flicker of pleasure at the way he flushes and looks down; do her eyes still have that power? "Has King Harald sent you to say he will receive me?" she asks.

He looks ill at ease; she can guess why. "Ah. My brother was always a… cautious man." A vacillating trimmer, she thinks, and the slight curl of the young man's lip at the word "cautious" suggests that he has had the same thought. "King Eirik and I were more for action; such folk make enemies. Harald thinks it will be embarrassing to have me about his court." Or dangerous, perhaps, if he too believes in witch-queens. She smiles winningly. "Yet what harm could I do him, an old widow woman come back to end her days at home?" She is half-waiting for a flicker of surprise and denial in the soldier's eyes at the word "old", but sees none. This is disagreeable; seeing her age reflected in others' eyes is the only thing that ever makes her believe it.

But she must concentrate on charming this young man. Irritating as her brother may be, he is the only place she has left to go; it will be inconvenient to say the least if he turns her away. If she cannot get sight of the king, she must make sure his representative carries a favourable report to him. "I have no other family left", she says, managing a catch in her voice, "my sons are dead - I had four sons kings, did you know that? " She smiles wistfully at him. "You have a look of my son Harald Graenske."

Actually he reminds her of the chieftain Olaf Hoskuldsson, who was one of her lovers, long after Eirik died, when she was ruling Norway through her sons. But she has a feeling he doesn't want to know that. She winces: telling a handsome young man "you remind me of my son" is another guaranteed way to feel old. But he looks flattered, though she can see he is trying to work out which son Harald Graenske was. She has trouble remembering which was which herself, sometimes.

"The one who was killed by the usurper Haakon Sigurdson," she tells him helpfully, and his face clears. "Haakon the heathen," he says and she nods fervently; she has already noticed the cross he is wearing. For herself, the only thing that mattered about Haakon was that he killed her son and ended her rule in Norway; what set of gods he favoured strikes her as supremely unimportant. For the People, everything had a spirit, a force of life from the earth or sky or sea that bore it. "King Eirik and I took the true faith from Bishop Wulfstan, when we ruled in Jorvik," she says, with what she hopes is the proper enthusiasm. Of course the sky and the earth and the sun and the thunder are immortal, but to give them names, like God or Thor, to worship them, as if they cared for such a thing? If there is a point to that, it has always passed her by.

Anyway the mention of Jorvik has rekindled a different enthusiasm in her young listener. "That was a great thing, that he could say he had been king in three countries: Norway, Orkney and Northumbria".

And ruled in none of them, she thinks, I did that. It had taken her a while to see that bold, hot-headed Eirik was, in his way, even weaker than her hesitant, calculating brother. Not in battle: he could fight well enough for a kingdom, but what to do with it when he got it was another matter. She smiles ruefully. "It might have been better if he could have held on to Norway and not had to go seeking a kingdom elsewhere." She sees the soldier's face fall and adds, "But yes, he took three countries and wherever he went, he looked like a king." She feels oddly reluctant to disappoint this young man in any way. His face lights again at her words. So simple, to bewitch a man, as they say. And it takes no potions, no spells, just the magic of pleasing, the trick of feigning interest, of telling him what he wants to hear.

And the other potions and spells some accused her of using, on men she hated rather than loved? That Icelandic poet Egil, whom Eirik had promised to pardon if he composed a praise-poem in a night; he claimed she'd disrupted his composing by coming to his window in the form of a swallow and twittering all night. She almost laughs at the simplicity. That ill-will can travel she does not doubt, but has no one ever noticed that it only works if the man you wish ill knows of it? No doubt, in his mind that night, every bird-call, every drip of water or rattle of wind, was Gunnhild the witch-queen.

And anyway he got his wretched poem composed, did he not, and the king listened graciously while she seethed, wondering how even Eirik could fail to hear the mockery behind the empty words of praise. But he let the man go, to spread lies about them both that would outlast their days. All my life, she thinks, I have been surrounded by weak men.

Talking of which, there is still her brother to be persuaded. From the pouch at her girdle she takes a heavy brooch, gold with garnets; Harald was always a having sort of man. "I wish," she says coaxingly, "you would take the king my brother this from me and tell him, as you have seen, that I come in all kinship. He need not turn me away."

The room seems suddenly colder and stiller. The young man does not answer, and the look in his eyes, before he stares downward again, is unmistakable; it is fear, but not of her.

"Oh my," she says softly, "Harald fears me indeed. He did not send you to turn me away, did he?"

The lad gazes fixedly at the floor, his fingers working on the hilt of his sword. Not just for decoration, then. He does not like his task, she can see, but he is a king's guard; it will take a lot to make him refuse a direct order from his lord. Even a few years ago, when her hair was still dark and her step more supple, she might still have tried and succeeded. But now… it would have to be pity she stirred in him, pity for a harmless old woman, and she is not sure she wants to live on those terms.

She raises her chin. "Well, I will not beg." She holds out the brooch to him. "Take it; my kinsman has jewels enough. I wish I might see him lamenting at my funeral; no doubt it will be a splendid one." She laughs, but the silence in his face warns her again. "What is it, boy?"

"Why did you come in secret, madam, and alone?" he blurts out, and she is taken aback by the seeming irrelevance.

"Why… there was some trouble in Orkney; I found it best to leave suddenly -" She stops and breathes in, catching his drift. "Ah. There will not be a funeral. He will say I was never here. I drowned on the voyage, no doubt, or met with brigands. So much simpler. A tidy man, my brother. What are you to do with my body?" Even at this moment, the double-entendre makes her smile.

"There is a bog, madam, nearby; many miss their way and drown there…."

Oh, yes. Earth or water must hold a witch, lest her ghost plague you. Primitive little king. And he knows nothing of them, nothing.

She laughs out loud, with real joy, and the soldier looks her in the eye, astonished.

"No, my dear, I am not mad. And I do not fear the earth from which we all came. Have you ever seen a dead body taken from a bog?" He shakes his head. "I have. There is a virtue in those places; it preserves what is put in them. I saw a man they said was many hundred years dead. He was not beautiful; he was like tanned leather, but he was whole, not fallen to bone. It may be, after all, I shall outlast my brother, and even the lies of poets."

She presses the jewel into his hand. "Now," she says gently, "you must hold me close and strike upward, as I show you, and I shall die quickly. And then you will take me and give me to the earth. It is lucky I was always a small woman; I shall weigh light when you carry me." His face works with grief and she strokes his hand. Then she closes her eyes and nestles, for the last time, in a handsome young man's arms, and it feels as good as it always has.

Eleventh Hour

2008-05-28T19:45:35Z

This is your official reminder that majoritython entries are DUE ON JUNE 3, which is less than one week away!

You can review your assignment here and the overall Process and Procedures here.

Comment with last-minute questions, defaults, requests for extensions, and so on. Otherwise, post away...

Campaign Season

2008-05-07T18:02:40Z

Whether or not you're busily writing for the challenge right now, you can contribute to the cause! We'd like to invite anyone and everyone to post "briefs" on interesting women and/or people of color in politics (real or fictional) -- there's a fantastic collection of ideas in the brainstorming thread. Just make an entry here at majoritython telling us a little about someone. If you want, you can fill in this optional framework:

SUBJECT: [brief] Person's Name

Who are they?
When did they live?
What did they do?
Why should we love them?
Where can we find out more?

Marching Orders

2008-04-18T23:02:56Z

Prompts have been assigned to everyone who signed up! You should have received them in a reply to your signup comment. Comments are screened, but you can still view your own with replies.

Please let us know here if you have questions or problems with your assignment. We did TRY to dole out prompts advisably so each one was at least distantly possible to match with your person.

Finally, a HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who contributed prompts! We ended up with a pretty perfect selection, and we couldn't have done it without you.

Posting is open on an ongoing basis! FINAL DEADLINE: June 3

Internal Memo

2008-04-10T03:52:39Z

Just a reminder that SIGNUPS and PROMPTING close on April 12, which is only days away! If you were considering participating, don't miss your chance! The time is also ripe for any final efforts in pimping or cajoling your friends and fandoms.

In case you got here early, the "who counts?" section of the FAQ has been edited to read: "Our focus is civil government, excluding authorities whose position is solely military or solely staff. But the taxonomy is necessarily elastic, and in the case of borderline characters, if you plan to write about them in their capacity as political leaders, we wouldn't turn you down!"

Town Meeting [BRAINSTORM]

2008-03-25T05:51:16Z

Got an idea of a character/person who is perfect for the MAJORITY RULES CHALLENGE-A-THON? Need an idea for a character/person to claim for the MAJORITY RULES CHALLENGE-A-THON? Got no idea about whether your character/person fits the challenge? You've come to the right post!

There are comment threads below categorized by general area; please put the fandom or country/institution as the title of your reply. Remember, the imperative is to list characters/people who are women and/or people of color who hold elected or appointed civil office, or who govern or rule a sovereign territory.

From here, you may want to proceed to challenge SIGNUPS, PROMPTS, or RULES.

Electoral College [PROMPTS]

2008-03-25T05:43:32Z

Every government needs citizens, folks, and that's why we're inviting YOU to generate the prompts for the MAJORITY RULES CHALLENGE-A-THON. Contributing does NOT obligate you to participate in the challenge as a writer or artist, so what are you waiting for?!

Comment here with any number of provocations for fanworks in the form of a LINK to a song, poem, image, wiki entry, web page, video, etc.

Some examples:
TEXT
SONG
IMAGE
VIDEO
TOPIC
SITE

Due to the large and often obscure ranks of characters/people covered by this challenge, it's impractical to take specific requests. We thus ask that you orient yourself to prompts that are fairly general, as in not tightly tied to particular fandoms or individuals. Be creative! If you have your heart set on a public figure, you can make the suggestion in the brainstorming post, or better yet claim them yourself.

PROMPTING CLOSES ON APRIL 12. Complete Process and Procedures.

Voter Registration [SIGNUPS]

2008-03-25T05:07:56Z

To participate in the MAJORITY RULES CHALLENGE-A-THON, comment here to claim a female and/or non-white character or real person who holds elected or appointed civil office, or who governs a sovereign territory. If you need inspiration, check out the Town Meeting. The only required information is:

[Name and title/office], [Fandom OR Country]

You may also include an address if you prefer to be contacted by email, and any questions or requests for the mods related to your signup. Please refer to the Procedures post for general questions.

SIGNUPS CLOSE ON APRIL 12. At that point, comments to this post will be screened. By April 15, you will receive a comment reply with three prompts for you to choose from when creating your fic or artwork.

You may pair your chosen character/person with anybody or nobody. If you plan to work with a pairing where BOTH individuals fit the stipulations of the challenge, you need only claim one of them here.

ROCK THE VOTE!

SIGNUPS CLOSED / PROMPTS ASSIGNED / COMMENTS SCREENED

Majority Rules: Process and Procedures

2008-03-25T04:32:00Z

We are very pleased to introduce...

THE MAJORITY RULES CHALLENGE-A-THON!

To celebrate the possibility that (at long, long last) either a woman or a person of color will be the next American president by producing fanworks about people of color and women in positions of political power.

This could include:

Slash, het or gen fic about a woman and/or person of color in any fandom who holds elected or appointed civil office, or who governs or rules a country, planet or federation.
RPF about a historical or contemporary person of color and/or woman who holds elected or appointed civil office, or who governs or rules a country or sovereign territory.
Icons, graphics and vids about any of the above.

Rules, dates and other business:

The claims post will be open for sign-ups until April 12. To participate in the challenge, leave a comment with the name of the character or person of your choice that you're committing to create a fic, artwork, or vid about.
The prompts post will be open for submissions until April 12. Comment there with provocations for fanworks in the form of a LINK to a song, poem, image, wiki entry, web page, video, etc. Contributing prompts does NOT obligate you to sign-up for the challenge.
By April 15, we will assign each participant three prompts to choose from as the basis for their submission.
Stories, vids, icons and graphics are due on June 3 (the date of the final Democratic primary).

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Why are you doing this?
In response to sexism and racism in politics throughout time and space, and particularly in response to the ongoing US election campaign, which is spreading negativity about women and people of color in power, we crave positive stories and images of them.

Why the title?
While US Democratic voters' choice between a white woman and an African American man represents progress, it is also proving divisive. Together, women and people of color make up a majority, and here at the Majority Rules Challenge, the majority stands united.

Can I participate if I am a Republican?
Please do! Feel free to write RPF about Condoleeza Rice or other Republicans, we'd sure like to see it.

Can I participate if I am not American?
Again, please do, and feel free to write RPF about Maxine McKew, Benazir Bhutto, or other non-US politicians.

Can I write a fic in which Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama is EEVIL and destroys the world through EEVILNESS?
Um, please don't. Moral ambiguity is good, exciting, and encouraged. Character bashing is not. If you want to write a fic in which one candidate defeats the other, fine, but please treat the defeated character with respect. In other words: negative campaigning is not welcome here.

Can I write Clinton/Obama BDSM porn?
Yes, we think that would be an excellent idea, and good for the American people.

For the purposes of this challenge, does X, Y, or Z count as a woman and/or person of color in a position of political power?
That's open to debate -- please post the question in comments on the brainstorming post, and we'll try to arrive at an official mod-approved answer. Our focus is civil government, excluding authorities whose position is solely military or solely staff. But the taxonomy is necessarily elastic, and in the case of borderline characters, if you plan to write about them in their capacity as political leaders, we wouldn't turn you down!

In general, we prefer to use self-identification as the primary mode of categorization: that is, if X presents themselves as a woman and/or person of color, they count. In the case of science fiction, either racial or ethnic "others" as rendered in the universe's own terms (e.g. Mister Spock counts as a "person of color") OR characters played by non-white actors in our world's terms (e.g. Admiral Adama counts as a "person of color") are acceptable.

PLEASE PIMP THIS FICATHON FAR AND WIDE, IN ANY FANDOM THAT HAS PEOPLE OF COLOR AND/OR WOMEN IN POSITIONS OF POLITICAL POWER.

Sincerely, your mods:
projectjulie
deborah_judge