Author's Note:  This story contains some images of prejudice and violence against men of an alternate sexual persuasion. I was born in these hills near where Old Man River runs, but I always claimed that God did not complete me when I was in my mama’s belly.

As I get ready to walk these halls for the last time, I remember thinking back on all of the painful memories of my youth. My daddy telling me that I’d never become a true man.

He was right.

I never did.

But I somehow feel that I was not at fault, because the cards were stacked against me from the start. Things were left off that should have been there and I was made to feel that somehow I was at fault for it all.

“Beau, it’s time.” The warden says as a guard opens the door to my cell. “Yessir.” I sigh as another guard collects the empty plates of my last meal.

“Bless him father.” The minister begins his blessing as the first guard attaches the shackles to my hands and legs. “As he begins his journey to you on this day...”

When I went to Ito, Japan a few years ago, I heard about these folk tales about arigata meiwaku where someone does something as a favor, but it makes the situation even more inconvenient.

Stories like Visu the Woodsman who spends all his time working until a priest points out he also needs to take time to pray.

Old Visu takes things to the extremes and quits his labors to spend all his time praying.

His family starves due to his devotion to praying. I can relate to Visu as I have spent my life working for something that will not come to pass in my lifetime.

Still there are no prayers strong enough to grant what needs to pass if men like me are welcomed into the community.

My shackles clink and rattle against the floor, I am reminded of this part of this whole lousy affair that does remind me of myself as the door opens to the execution chamber where a single fixture occupied the center of the room.

Daddy threw me out of our home when I turned fourteen, because according to the doctor, I had neither female of male genitalia. My daddy could not accept that I would never be a complete man.

“Beau Ruttlige, I have no idea why you are the way you are.” He could not look me in the eye as I packed my things. “I am sending you to a special home down near Little Rock. I reckon they can figure out what I can’t.”

I remained silent until I clicked the latches on my suitcase.

Mama stood there with her hands over her eyes to hide her tears. “I guess I’ll be moving on.” I said, lifting my suitcase off my bed.

Mama hugged me before I walked out the door.

Daddy started up the old Ford pickup truck he used to deliver his moonshine.

These were hard times for the hill folk back in the spring of 1932.

Without making moonshine, we surely would have starved, me and my six brothers and sisters.

As daddy pulled out of our gravel driveway, all six of them with mama stood on the porch waving me goodbye. I was too busy wiping the tears from my eyes to wave them all goodbye.

It would be the last time I’d ever seen them.

I wrote mama a couple of times, but my letters would come back after a while with “Return to Sender” stamped across the top.

I quit writing after that. The train stopped at Pikesville a few miles from Little Rock.

Mrs. Southernby greeted me wearing a full gingham dress and bonnet like the respectable women did back them. “Hello Beau, I’m here to take you to St. Ignatius.” She helped me put my bag in the back of the truck before we climbed into the cab where I saw next to Henry or Hank as he liked to be called.

We drove for almost an hour over the bumpiest road I have ever traveled on until we came to this small house on top of a hill. I would like to say that St. Ignatius reformed me, but the truth is Hank ended up teaching me about who I really was and I’m sure that if Father Bleecher knew what we did in the shed out back, he would have severely punished both of us.

Hank was a brutal man and before long, I decided it was time for me to move on.

Three years later, I hitchhiked into Little Rock where I lived in a Hooverville for a while.

It turned out to be the closest I ever came to living in a normal home even though the walls were canvas. A couple of older ladies took a shine to me.

I did not tell them about my peculiarities. They treated me like a boy and so I acted like one to make them happy.

This lasted for almost a whole year before the cops came running in on a raid.

We all scattered like dust to the wind.

I found this place in the seedier part of town called Vieux Temps Gay.

Lively ragtime music poured out of a player piano. Women dressed like me and men dressed like women sat at the tables talking to each other as the music filled the room.

Smartly dressed waiters brought drinks to the customers. “May I help you?” A woman wearing a man’s suit asked as I wandered in hypnotized by the gaiety and commotion. “I’m not sure.” I scratched my head. “What is your name?” She smiled. “Beau Ruttlige.” I answered, still hypnotized by everyone having such a good time. “Our show begins in a few minutes.” She led me to an empty seat at the bar. “Show?”

“Yes, a drag show.” She winked as she walked away. For the next two hours I watched as men dressed as women in fishnet stockings and short frilly dresses paraded across the tiny stage to raucous music. My heart warmed as I sipped on my drink of gin and tonic. I felt as if I had finally found my true home.

As it turned out I had.

Monsieur Duval hired me as one of the acts in the show under the mentorship of Hugo Shaville. “Daaaarrrrllling.” Hugo would greet me every day, “Put on this wig and this costume.

We have work to do.”

I learned a couple of dances including the Can-Can which is a line dance that requires a lot of kicking to reveal your frilly undergarments.

“The higher you kick, the better the tips will be.” Hugo shrugged as we practiced. It did not take long until Hugo became a close friend.

I told him about my problem. “Oh darling, half of the men in the show have the same thing.

There is no place for them in this world.” He explained with his high pitch laugh. “You are born either male or female.

Heaven help you if you are not quite either.”

“Are you a…?” “Hermaphrodite?

Darling no, but I sometimes wish I was born a woman.” He batted his long eyelashes which had become his trademark. “Stay clear of the churches around here since most of them are founded on the principle of sending us all to Hell after we dangle at the end of a rope.

Bouncy once almost got lynched by a group of them when she had the unfortunate timing of walking by when they were letting the congregation out after the service.

She is able to run fast.

That day she probably broke the speed record.”

Now accepted as one of the girls, I had the pleasure of getting to know them on my own terms. Bouncy was one of the larger members of the show, but there was no doubt she could move fast when she had to.

Known to the world originally as Big Knute Rudding who was reputed to have carried an injured heffer on his shoulders down a hill, he was the gentest soul I had ever met.

With his large meaty fingers, he was known as an expert seamstress.

Candy Kane was another extraordinary performer as she dressed in a blood red dress and shiny red stiletto heels.

Jesse Hart was once a professional tap dancer who could electrify the stage with her dance moves.

Sometimes she would wear a formal evening gown and perform a breathtaking dance, a waltz-like number with a female member dressed in a formal tuxedo.

All in all everyone of the dancers were highly skilled at what they did and I felt an honor to be a member of the ensemble.

Walter Kenning announced he was running for governor in the 1936 election against Junius Marion Futrell.

Known as a conservative with his roots deep in the Baptist church in the local area, he made it quite clear that he would put an end to the depravity that Governor Futrell had allowed to corrupt the state.

In a rally in Allsop Park near the Arkansas River, Kenning announced some plans that would put an end to the “hanky-panky” that was seeping into the souls of God-fearing Christians.

The crowd cheered when he left the podium chanting his name.

“What do you do, Mr. Ruttlige?” I was asked by a pollster who had come to my door.

“I am a dancer.” I answered, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “What kind of dancer?” He asked, smiling. “Male dancer.” I answered without thinking. “I see.” He coughed, writing my answer down on the paper on his clipboard. I could tell by the look in his eye that I was a member of the opposing team. After a brief pause, he asked, “Are you planning to vote in the election?” “I fail to see what good it will do.

Nothing ever really gets done, now does it?” I managed a smile, but it would not negate his scowl.

Shortly after that Monsieur Duval called a meeting in Vieux Temps an hour before the show for that evening.

Sitting next to Maurice, his partner since he had opened his place ten years ago, Monsieur Duval seemed quite concerned as he looked across the room at each of us.

Clearing his throat he began, “I am holding this meeting as a precaution to each of you.

Somehow we have joined the list of those scapegoats responsible for these difficult times.

Due to our immorality and disregard for Christian values, we are now under siege from those who believe we are in league with Satan.” Some of the performers began to mutter among themselves.

Hugo just shook and bowed his head,

muttering “We have gone through this before.”

“I fear this zealot will stir up the good Christian citizens against us.

We have been through this before, but when they start to bring torches and other weapons, I become concerned for the safety of my performers.” He looked around the room again. “I will not blame any of you who do not wish to continue.

I understand some of you have others depending on you.

Just tender your resignation and no questions will be asked.” He stood by the paper, but not a single person stepped forward to sign it.

After several uncomfortable minutes, he looked around yet again, “No one?

I cannot guarantee your safety, but I will support you with everything I can.” There was a cheer that rose up as he left the room hand in hand with Maurice.

A week later the trouble came.

Hugo stood next to me with nearly five pounds of costume jewelry hanging from his dress, neck and ears.

Bouncy was stretching his massive legs.

Jesse Hart was also stretching his legs and getting ready for a strenuous routine in the show that night when a group of men broke down the door. “You are not supposed to be here.” Monsieur Duval rushed from the backroom only to be clubbed to the ground by a burly man with a red beard. Maurice ran to Duval’s side, but was felled by an iron pipe brought down on his head. Blood ran from his mouth and ears onto the wooden floor. “No!” Hugo lunged for the man who had struck Maurice, but a shot rang out.

Hugo fell to his knees clutching his chest as his blood stained his evening gown. “Oh God, no.” I yelled running to his side as Hugo slumped to the floor.

Candy Kane took a bullet to his forehead falling backwards onto the stage. “You devils are going straight to hell!” The man with a smoking gun announced.

I watched in horror as one of the men carrying a torch set fire to the curtains.

Flames ran up the wall and spread like a web across the ceiling.

I ran out the stage door.

One of the men had a club, but I grabbed his arm, wrestled the club from his grip and used the weapon on him.

He grunted and fell in the alleyway next to some trash cans.

I could see the smoke already rising from the Vieux Temps. Flames burst through the windows. "Get out!" I screamed at the top of my lungs only to be drowned out by the deafening sound of the roof as it collapsed. I did not see anyone come running out of the burning building.

A fire truck pulled up, but there was nothing they could do at this point. During the morbid clean up, nine badly burnt bodies were recovered from the ashes.

Nine members of my adopted family were pulled out on stretchers as members of three Baptist churches in town watched the grim task. "Aren't you one of them?" One of the church elders pointed A bony finger at me. "Yeah he's one of them headed straight to hell!" A woman standing next to him confirmed shaking her fist at me. I felt it was best if I moved on.

Hugo, Chancy, and Candy Kane were the first to be identified by the coroner.

I asked if I could have a few moments with their remains in private which he granted with a quick nod. "I will get even for this, mark my words." I said grinding my teeth together.

"Tragic as this fire was, the remains should not be buried in a Christian cemetery on sacred ground." Walter Kenning addressed the crowd in his makeshift podium at the First Baptist Cemetery. "We must protect our communities, our children from these perverts that live among us.

They, through their sins, shall inherit the Kingdom." His words of hatred made the hairs on my neck stand up as he prettied on. I kept my hat pulled down so no one in the crowd could see my face.

Maurice walked with me still grieving the death of his lifelong partner, his hands showing the burns from his futile attempt to save him.

He must die, I thought to myself when he finished his speech that concluded with a blessing. Hypocrite. I am the bear who will rid the people of the annoying gnat buzzing about their faces by dropping A boulder on the bug.

I will deliver my own brand of arigata meiwaku and rid this community of this nuisance once and for all.

I did not tell anyone about my feelings.

Walter Kenning was tree stumping all over the state, trying to stir up the dust about how this economic depression was God's vengeance on our immortality and disregard of His word.

Lynchings began to be commonplace among members of my community. On A rainy afternoon on the outskirts of town, I saw Walter Kenning was speaking in front of A crowd.

I could no longer hold my peace.

With a single shot-Derringer stuffed in my pocket, I stepped to face him as he stepped from the podium and dropped my boulder. He put his hand to the red spot in the middle of his forehead and fell to his knees with that maniacal grin still on his face.

One of his bodyguards cursed and grabbed me with the pistol still smoking in my hand.

Walter Kenning did not make it to the hospital before he expired. Somehow, I was spared from the vigilante justice that lurked just outside my jailhouse window every night I was held here at the jailhouse.

Due to the serious nature of my crime, the federal marshals transported me to a federal holding area where I stayed tucked away until my trial was over.

The annoying gnat was dead, but in my attempt to rid our community of the pest, I ended up sacrificing my own life.

My trial was over by the end of the month with a conviction for the murder of Walter Kenning.

Two days later the judge passed down my death sentence.

From there I was transported to this federal prison where I was put on Death Row with a dozen other convicts.

The guards strap me into the chair.

I see a mirror, but I know Maurice and a couple other survivors from the fire at Vieux Temps are watching behind the two-way mirror.

The minister makes the sign of the cross before exiting the room. His heels striking the wooden floor will most likely be the last sound I will hear in this life.

I pray it will be quick. The two guards stand on either side of the door.

One of the guards signals to an unseen official.

My body jerks as the lethal voltage that surges through me.

I smell something burning as the world goes dark.


The old two-story wooden Victorian house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac. It had once been one of the grandest homes in the small town but now was in dire need of repair. The light blue paint that had covered the exterior walls was now faded until almost white and much of it had peeled showing decaying boards. Shingles were missing from the roof. The landscape that had once been adorned with beautiful flower gardens and neatly trimmed grass was now overgrown with weeds and unkept shrubs. Except for the dim glow of light that shone through one of the lower windows it was hard to tell that the old home was still lived in. But it was. Joseph Franklin had been living there for the past fifty years.

Joseph had been hired as the caretaker of both the house and the surrounding grounds by the previous owner of the home, Doctor Edward Brown, who had built the homestead in the early 1900s. Joseph kept residence in a small guest house that was behind the main house.

Doctor Brown had a medical practice in town and was married to Louise, a dressmaker. Louise had a dress shop in town where she sold the dresses she made. She had a good reputation as being a fine tailor and always had plenty of dresses ready to sell as well as making dresses to order. Louise had always dreamed of marrying and having children but after marrying the doctor and not becoming pregnant after the first two years it was then discovered that she was not capable of getting pregnant. This saddened her greatly.  At the age of only fifty-six, the doctor suddenly became sick. At first, he tried to treat himself but only became more ill. It wasn’t long before the doctor had to be admitted to the hospital where he was diagnosed with an unknown but life threatening ailment. After a week in the hospital he was then taken to ICU and put on life support. After just a few days in ICU the doctor had a major heart attack and never recovered.

Although Dr. Brown was a good man and gave Louise everything she desired, the one thing he did not give her was companionship. He was too busy working and never had time for his wife. During all the years they were married they had never gone on vacation together. The doctor had gone on business trips a dozen times but never took Louise with him.

Louise loved the doctor and did not wish to hurt him, but she wanted more than just what money could buy her. The first ten years of their marriage passed and Louise remained faithful to doctor Brown. She became more and more lonely. Because of her loneliness, Louise turned to Joseph to keep her entertained and satisfied. Joseph and Louise was often seen around town in the company of each other. On the occasions when the doctor was out of town Louise would invite Joseph into the main home with her. Most people in town knew what was going on and talked amongst themselves. When the doctor suddenly became ill and died rumors began to arise that perhaps the death of the doctor wasn’t from natural causes. Murmuring got even worse when Joseph moved into the main house within a month after the good doctor’s death. Just three months after the doctor’s death Joseph and Louise were wed.

Joseph was an expert gardener, and with the money left to Louise by her late husband, Louise helped Joseph open his own nursery business. He did landscape work all over town for people. He was a successful businessman and the nursery flourished. After their marriage Joseph and Louise took advantage of all of life’s pleasures that they could. Louise wanted to try to make up for all the years of pleasure she had missed while married to Doctor Brown. She and Joseph took a vacation at least once per year going on cruises to the Caribbean or touring European cities. They had taken a two-week honeymoon in Hawaii, a place Louise had always wanted to visit. They spared no expense for their excursions.

Louis enjoyed being one of the town’s leading ladies and often held galas and functions for the opportunity to mingle with the town’s high class society.

Joseph and Louise shared life happily together for twenty-one years before Louise became ill with throat cancer. She first underwent radiation treatments and chemotherapy. After completing those she was diagnosed as being cancer free.

After another year it was discovered Louise’s cancer had returned. It was in a late stage this time and required major surgery where she had to have her larynx removed and was no longer able to talk. She was given chemo treatments again but the cancer continued to grow and to spread. She underwent more surgery having to have her tongue removed and was put on a feeding tube.

 Joseph quit working at his nursery and stayed home to care for his wife. Louise’s health continued to deteriorate. It wasn’t long before she was completely bedridden. After another six months Louise succumbed to the cancer and died. Joseph had her buried on the property. Joseph was heart broken and never returned to his nursery. He stopped caring for the homestead and the surrounding property. He became a recluse, seldom leaving the confines of his home, only going out for food supplies. Nine years have gone by since Louise’s passing. The once beautiful home now lies in a decaying state and the beautiful landscaping now is grown up. Joseph hasn’t been outside of the house in more than a year, having his food supplies delivered. It has been said by the few delivery people who have seen Joseph that he is a very feeble man and looks very old.

It is rumored that Louise’s ghost walks the hallway in the house and after the death of Joseph their ghosts will remain in the house until it falls down.


Elle stood in Jay's kitchen looking confused. Jay said he had something important to tell her but nothing prepared her for the words that came out of Jay's mouth.”Elle I don't want a girlfriend”. Elle's heart began to break she had heard those same words from Jay thirty years ago. Elle and Jay had recently reconnected and Elle was hoping it would last this time. Jay looked down at the ground nervously as he continued “I want a wife”. All in the span of thirty seconds Elle went from heartbroken to the happiest she had ever been. Elle and Jay had been high school sweethearts they dated until their junior year. One day Jay drove Elle home. On the way home Elle told Jay she loved him. She knew something was wrong when Jay pulled over, “Thank you” responded Jay. The next words he uttered haunted Elle for the last thirty years. “Elle I don't want a girlfriend”. Elle couldn't believe what she was hearing she told Jay she would walk the rest of the way home. Elle's heart hit the cold hard ground at the same time her feet did. Upon hearing news of the breakup Elle's parents were just as heartbroken. Jay and his family moved away the following week. Elle and Jay took a few days to themselves before telling family and friends about their engagement. They decided to break the news to Elle's family first. They told Elle's family during a birthday celebration for Elle's mom. Elle and Jay's engagement came as no surprise to her family who predicted this from a conversation they had with Elle six months earlier, when Elle called from work saying “you will never guess who came into the store today”. Elle's family was elated by the news especially Elle's mom who always held a soft spot for Jay. Her family made several toast to the newly engaged couple. Elle's mom Vicki pulled Jay aside and told him she never gave up on him. She even carried around Elle and Jay's prom picture in her wallet as proof. Jay couldn't help smiling. He admitted he had kept a framed copy of the same picture on his nightstand for the last thirty years. Vicki then asked Jay to consider a quick wedding to Elle in Las Vegas. Vicki was ill with a lung disease and she knew she didn't have much longer to live. Vicki explained to Jay how she wanted to see her daughter get married and how she loved Las Vegas. Jay said they hadn't discussed wedding plans yet but he would bring up Las Vegas as a venue. Vicki smiled and gave Jay a kiss on the cheek that almost ended up on his lips. Elle walked up to her mom and Jay noticing the lipstick print to side of Jay's lips she commented “engaged for a week and your already kissing other ladies”. “Watch out for my mom she's a cougar”Elle teased. Jay couldn't help but to agree with Elle his future mother in law was one of those senior silver foxes that had aged extremely well. The next morning Jay brought Elle coffee in bed he and declared “I love spring don't you?” Elle responded” um sure but it's winter right now”. “I mean for our wedding a nice spring wedding. A spring destination wedding maybe Las Vegas, that way we can get a vacation out of it it” said Jay. “Have you been talking to my mother”? Responded Elle. “No” Jay lied “but now that you mention it your mom would love it if we got married in Las Vegas”. “True but you hate crowds and Las Vegas is always crowded” argued Elle. “I do hate crowds but when I'm with you I only see the two of us” said Jay “Awe alright you win Vegas wedding here we come” squealed Elle as Jay tackled her in the bed to seal the deal. The winter days blew by in flurry of excitement as Elle, Jay and Elle's mom planned what was suppose to be a small quiet destination wedding. Elle had no idea when her mom hijacked her wedding plans. Maybe it was when she came home early one day to find her mom's car parked in the driveway. When Elle entered her house she found Jay and her mom chasing away the winter cold. They were huddling next to a roaring fire drinking hot buttered rums looking at wedding chapel brochures. Elle thought to herself that her mom and Jay looked like a modern Hollywood couple getting ready to give a Katie Couric interview. She could see the headline Silver Fox   Beauty to Marry Daughters High School Love. Elle laughed to herself at her crazy thoughts. “Hi honey” they both exclaimed at the same time. “We were just looking over wedding chapel brochures, you should see some of these venues they are incredible. Did you know we could get married on a pirate ship plank”? Said Jay excitedly. “I had no idea, is there a hot buttered rum for your cold fiance”? Asked Elle. “You can finish mine dear I have to get going I just came by to see the brochures that the wedding planner sent over”. Stated Elle's mom as she sent them both an air kiss. “What wedding planner”? said a confused Elle “ The one I hired as a gift” said Elle's mom as she was leaving. Elle shouted “what” but her mother just ignored her and left. Elle turned her confusion to Jay “did you know about this”? Questioned Elle. “I just found out about it this morning when your mom called saying she was coming by to see the brochures”. Said Jay “Ugh why does she always do this” screamed Elle “ Elle don't be mad she just wants to be involved it's sweet, be glad she is still here” said Jay. “I know, I know I'm lucky but she always takes over everything she even picked my dress without me”! Said a frustrated Elle Jay handed Elle her moms slightly touched hot buttered rum and gave her a kiss that made her toes curl. Elle who was now soothed by the kiss said “Now let's see those brochures and pick a venue before my mom does”. The last week of spring finally came and it was time for a wedding. Elle paced nervously outside the chapel where she was waiting with her father.” “ Where could mom be?, I can't believe she would be late for my wedding.” said Elle “You know your mom it's always one more minute playing the slots. Besides we still have another twenty minutes”. Said Elle's father in a concerned tone. “Maybe mom went back up to the room can we go check?” Elle asked her father. Elle's father said “We can go check if that will make you feel better but I was just there and the only one in the room was Jay putting on his suit”. “I'm sure your mother is on her way here she was playing the Wheel Of Fortune slot machine next to the elevators when I came down. She said she would be right behind me”. “We still have time let's go check” said Elle. Elle and her father walked towards the elevators creating quite a stir. Elle in her beaded sparkling  wedding dress that her mom picked with out her and declared the perfect Vegas wedding dress.   Elle's father was dressed in his gray morning suit. Several people stopped them to offer congratulations.  Elle laughed at the confusion of having her father mistaken for her groom. Elle and her father made it to the elevators when they spotted a crowd gathered around the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. The pair managed to squeeze their way in front just in time to see Elle's mom Vicki being held in Jay's arms. Jay's mouth was firmly planted on Vicki's. The scene reminded Elle of two dancers who let the mood of the dance sweep them into a kiss. Time seemed to freeze as Elle's eyes welled up with tears at the realization that this was no kiss of passion but a kiss of life.  Paramedics rushed in and quickly took over CPR.  Jay spotting Elle in the crowd rushed to her side. Jay explained that he came downstairs and found Elle's mom playing the slot machine she asked Jay to walk with her to the chapel only when she got up she collapsed in Jay's arms.”I just started giving her rescue breathes before I even got her to the ground.”said a distraught Jay.  Elle and Jay followed the ambulance to the hospital. When they arrived Elle's mom had started breathing on her own and shortly after their arrival had regained consciousness.


The night was cold. Silvery moonlight washed over ground that was covered in the first snowfall of the season. It felt like ages since Hadeon had last enjoyed the snow, even though it had only been a year. Time felt like it had stretched longer in the depths of the church’s crypt.

He glanced around at the hills he roamed as a child, hanging off his mother’s skirts and helping her gather the herbs and wildflowers that bloomed. Nothing grew now, for winter’s bite had killed many of the plants, and the snow hid the ground from view. It looked so different, so bare under the full moon. A night his mother would have loved. Yet it wasn’t the time of year he was prepared for. Any sane person would be in their homes, keeping warm by the fires in their hearths. Hadeon, however, didn’t have that luxury. His clothes were threadbare and torn, his feet bare. There had been no time to hunt down proper clothes or shoes. No time to figure out how the bodies had gotten on the floor or how the crypt door had been blown off its hinges.

Hadeon ran over the hills, numb feet kicking up the snow. His goal was to reach the river. If he could just reach the river, he could find his way to the ruins of his home. If there was even the slightest chance that the flames hadn’t devoured the whole house, he could find something to help him, he was sure of it. There had to be. Run, run, little rabbit. A chill racked his spine as the voice filled his mind. Panic rose in his throat as his feet pushed himself forward. He had to get home. Had to find a way to rid himself of the voices. Topping a rise, he saw the White Rapids. Even in the freezing temperatures, the water churned in rushing torrents, making the river virtually uncrossable. In the moonlight, he could see the spray of water as it crashed against rocks and riverbanks alike. There was one spot that gave brave, and desperate, travelers a passage over the watery beast. His eyes traveled upriver until he saw it. The boy let out a soft cry of relief to see the rope bridge still standing. He had been afraid the town guards had burned it.

You’ll never make it. There was movement to his right, but when Hadeon turned his head to look, there was nothing. He was alone, but he wouldn’t be for long. Holding his breath, his ears strained to hear if the warning bells were ringing yet. All that he could hear was his own heartbeat and the distant rapids. Good, he still had time. He could still make it.

Another shadow crossed his vision, this time from the hill he had just come from. Wolves were common in the area, so the boy turned to be sure he wasn’t about to have a new problem on his hands. He was being stalked all right, but not from wolves. Standing on the hilltop was a silhouette. Man, he knew not. All he knew was someone was there, too close behind for comfort. Fear choked him, making him stumble as he quickly turned back around and dashed towards the bridge. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t… You’ll never go back. You’ll be safe. His best hope was his home. He could rid himself of the voices in his head as soon as he reached the safety of those four walls. He could… Hadeon felt a force barreling into him. A yelp broke the silent night air as he was sent tumbling the rest of the way down the hill. The fall sent a flare of pain throughout his body, awakening old injuries that his adrenaline rush had helped to numb. Get up, he told himself. Get up, get up, get up! He scrambled to find his footing once more, but as soon as he had his feet under him, the force knocked him back down again. No! A sob tore from his throat. He was so close! If he just had a few more minutes, he would have been free, safe in the wilds of the forest once more.

“You have the determination, little rabbit, I’ll give you that.” This time the voice was not in his head. This time, Hadeon heard the shifting voice behind him. Pushing himself upright, he scrambled away, trying to keep some space between him and the person hunting him. If “person” was the correct term to call it.

The figure was human in form, for the most part. The creature was night itself with shadowy tendrils waving about it, making its form hard to distinguish. Pitch black, it was as if the creature swallowed the moonbeams and made the surroundings grow darker. As it stalked closer, Hadeon could see the details of arms and legs, the outline of shoulders. Yet that was where all human resemblances stopped. For when he searched for a face, all he was met with was two spots that flickered with candlelight. It was then he realized that this was not the first time he had seen those eyes. He remembered seeing those glowing orbs watching him from a darkened corner of the crypt when he awoke to find his captors dead. They had been what encouraged him to take advantage of the escape that presented itself.

“What… What do you want from m-me?” Hadeon stuttered, both from fear and the cold sinking into his skin.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the shadow. “I believe the question is: What do you want from me ?” “I don’t know what you’re t-talking about.” “Oh, I believe you do.” The figure continued forward, crouching down in front of the boy. Its eyes roamed over all of him. “A witch’s son, pushed to the point of breaking, finally calling forth his birthright. You’ve just never had the chance to use me until now.” “But I haven’t-” Hadeon started. “Were you not the one begging for the dark to take you? For someone to end the torture the church bestowed upon you?” Hadeon felt his heart sink. He had, but they were just thoughts. He hadn’t said any sort of spell, hadn’t made any kind of deals. His mother had warned him that such spells were dangerous. Demons were tricky creatures, and it was best to leave them to their own devices.

“The help you were given was with you the whole time. You just had to open your ears to hear it.” We are one in the same, after all. Hadeon flinched back as the voice spoke inside his head, but it was no longer the distorted rasp he was used to. Instead, it sounded like a mimic of his own, and as he watched the figure, he could have sworn the shadows warped into an imitation of his own face. He shivered at the thought. “I-I don’t want your help,” he stated, putting as much conviction into his words as he could.

“You don’t get that choice, rabbit,” the figure replied. A flash of a grin broke the shadows. “I’m here to stay. I have always been here. You just finally awakened to my presence.” “I don’t need any h-help from you, demon,” Hadeon said. “Oh? Then perhaps I can let the search parties find you in the morning, holed up in the charred remains of your mother’s home. They can take you back to that cell, or perhaps finally hang you on Sunday for the murder of the clergy men in charge of you.” The figure stood and turned as if to leave. “You left a noticeable trail, and you’re far too weak to put up much of a fight. I’m sure you’ll make it a good five minutes before you’re bound and dragged back to the hell you came from. It makes no difference to me.” “No!” Hadeon couldn’t stop the protest from leaving his lips. He couldn’t go back to the dark cell, to the torment and starvation, to the scorn of being a “devil’s spawn.” There were monsters among those who claimed themselves holy, and he had experienced it all within his long year in their hands. Anything that the demon promised had to be better than the fate waiting for him back in town.

The shadow turned its glowing gaze back towards him, and Hadeon could have sworn he saw a smug expression in their depths. “I thought that would be the case,” it said. Once again, it came to loom over the boy, making him swallow nervously. “Do not worry. There is no more need to cower from the shadows. They belong to you.”


Lucille Lucille was a fan of schedules and sticking to a routine, she would prefer a day with feeling content than not. The day was as plain as ever, Rob’s second hand bookstore held true to its nature as any other day. The sky was overcast outside the store, but Lucille didn’t mind, in fact she was expecting it after watching the seven o’clock news earlier. The wind, being slight and barely noticeable, carried the smell of worn paper and old ink through it’s isles. Lucille was wedged between aisles three and four, which was where all of the newest non-fiction donations were deposited. With her breakfast sandwich nestled in her hand and her scarf around her shoulders, she scrolled through her phone, anxiously waiting for Tim. She looked at her watch, and it was nine o’clock, just in time for Tim’s restock. Yes, she did know his name, because she was a regular who came every Sunday and Wednesday, just as she liked it.

Lucille, or known as Lucy by friends—from the select few she had—all admired her punctuality and daily schedules. The one thing so unlike Lucy was the fact that she was meeting someone new. In fact, she was meeting them—with her friends of course, she is too nervous around new people, and they know as such—this afternoon for a brisk lunch at the park. It was a 17-minute walk from here, but it may turn into a 23-minute experience if she walked along Canal Street — Her calculations were interrupted as a box slammed with a mighty THUD beside her feet. Lucille bristled at the noise, and she was careful not to drop her sandwich—breakfast was her favorite meal of the day; she would hate nothing more than to ruin it because of a cardboard box.

“Sorry for that, these boxes look lighter than they actually are.”

Lucy looked at the man, he wasn’t Tim but he didn't look unfamiliar. If anything, he looked a lot like Tim, he wasn’t as broad as he was, but he had the same eyes and nose. “Are you Tim’s—” “Brother? Yes, I am.” “Pardon me,” she replied, “but you didn’t let me finish.” “I didn’t have to, I can read you like an open book, and you were looking at me as if you saw me before.” He bent down and went to work pulling out books from the donation box. “We have never met before, and Tim usually works here.” Lucy munched on her sandwich, because who can have a response to that . “Don’t worry, though. He will be back, I am only covering his shift for today.” With a grunt, he picked up the box and began to walk over to the next aisle. “This was a riveting conversation—” She swallowed her mouthful and finished for him, “Lucille.” He flashed a smile back at her, remarking, “Lucille. Until next time—” She stopped him. “And your name? I can’t give you mine, without you offering your own.” She didn’t know why she asked, but she did. He had to be polite after all, and asking for her name without giving his was everything but.

He set the box down, looking at her with a smirk. “Michael, my name is Michael.” “That is a wonderful name as well,” she put her phone back in her pocket, turning as she said, “now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it.” She focused her attention on the new books lined on the shelves, just as she liked. Even if she had just met someone, it does not excuse her to throw her plans out the window. She had things to do, and she couldn’t get distracted. Snap out of it , she told herself, just pick a book and get going.

She was off schedule, but nothing could go wrong as long as she stuck to her routine. Her routine was the one thing she could rely on, and she liked it as such, it made her content. The rest of her day would go as planned, she would see to it. *** Lucille Lucille’s day was not going as planned, leaving her anything but content. There was the construction off of Crane Road, forcing her to take the alternate route along Baker’s Lane, only to realize she locked herself out of her apartment. Which was quite unlike her, and she knew as such. She attempted to knock on Mrs. Danbury’s door, but the old woman was known to sleep-in until the afternoon, which was really unhealthy— but that's besides the point ! Lucy had to remind herself how she couldn’t rely on her neighbor in this predicament, and how she would have to call a locksmith. A locksmith ! She has never called for one, but here she was, off schedule, and calling a locksmith. She finished her sandwich, which was really a shame—Lucy enjoyed savoring her breakfast—but she would have to get a move-on, otherwise her lunch plans would be kaput. Pulling out her phone, she quickly dialed a locksmith, thanks to Google , and waited.

And waited. Waited a bit more. And, yes , waited anxiously beside apartment 3-B, while scrolling through her phone. Finally, when she thought she would have to cancel her plans, a locksmith appeared. Except this wasn’t just any locksmith, it was Michael , the very one she met only an hour earlier. Surely , Lucy thought, this must be due to foul play . She wasn’t one to believe in coincidences or bad luck, giving her enough reason to question if her sanity was still intact—because her schedule was already jumbled, so it would only make sense for him to be a stalker, or a criminal, robbing her of all people ! But what did she have that held value, her book from Rob’s ?

No, that would be ridiculous, he was probably a figment of my imagination , Lucy reasoned. She knew she was losing her grip with today’s schedule, perhaps it was all due to a fever. Lucy added to this notion, one horrible enough to imagine a tall man with hazel eyes coming to my rescue —wait—what was she thinking?  She shook her head, as if it would be enough to clear her mind of such nonsense. He was not really there, and she was sick, and that was the end of it. He was a guy from this morning, not prince charming coming to her rescue. Snap out of it , Lucy urged herself, get a grip! *** Michael Michael was impulsive with his decisions, he would prefer a day filled with happy unpredictable outcomes than not.

He had skipped lunch, and goodness he was hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he skipped both lunch and breakfast. Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day, and he had to skip it today, due to his brother’s unlucky habit of getting sick often. He hadn’t filled in for his brother in months, but he also had a shift today—making him regret having a brother.

He wasn’t one to complain about work, as it always gave him great joy to see new faces, just as he liked it. All of Michael’s friends knew this, and they would all comment on his need for change; how nothing about him was predictable.

One day he could be in Mexico for all they knew and they admired him for this. He was never one to sit and remain content with his day-to-day life, he was the type to do something. No day was like the last, and he was happy for it. Even if sometimes he had to skip a meal or two in the process, like today. His stomach grumbled as he walked up the stairs, and he had to place a hand on it to muffle the sound, it wasn’t much help—yet at least he did something about it. Otherwise he would only look like a sad husk of a man, walking up some stairs in hopes of finishing his work for a bite to eat—which was partially true, but still.

Michael stopped short of the door, allowing him to take in Lucille’s disheveled appearance. She was flustered, anyone could tell , with her hair out of it’s bun and her scarf uneven around her shoulders, it didn’t seem like her. She seemed like the type to know how her day would go, as everything went to plan, keeping her life intact with a strict routine. He didn’t know why he thought this, he just did. It was perhaps the scrunch of her nose, her failed attempt at trying not to show how aggravated she was. Maybe it was her phone hanging by her side, showing a bright screen of notepads and calendars, all for him to see. Michael had to force himself to say something, because he soon realized she had startling blue eyes. Not the type to get lost in , Michael thought, but the type to be aware of . He caught himself again, feeling rather sheepish, and said the first thing that came to his mind— commenting on anything else besides how she looked , “How was the sandwich?” She squinted her eyes at him. “My what?” “Your sandwich,” he adjusted his grip on his tools, and added, “you were holding one this morning.” He did like his food, so this may distract him, even if she was gaping at him at the mention of a sandwich . “Oh, yes, I suppose I did.” She placed the phone back into her pocket, and crossed her arms, making Michael believe she wasn’t one for small talk. He resumed the conversation, “Would you mind if I asked you where you got one? I am thinking of picking one up on the way back to Rivet’s, I may even snag one for the guy.” He poked around his tools, and focused back to the door. “Well actually, I made it myself.” He stopped. “Really, are you serious?” “Quite.” She straightened at the question. “I would hate to ask this of a friend—” “That is a bold assumption,” she started to laugh, and stated, “we had only met an hour ago! I hardly know anything past your name.” “ One , I was just going to say your breakfast smelled great, and I was going to ask if you could make a few; two , I would gladly pay you, if you were up to it; three , you know I work part-time at Rob’s and now Rivet’s.” The door opened with a satisfying CLICK, and he got up to look at his work with a wide smile. “I would say that would be enough to consider me a friend, I did just unlock your door for you, you’re welcome by the way.” She held up a finger, but left it there. The sight made Michael hold a laugh, she looked as if she was rebooting to form a proper response. He stumped her, perhaps he was the first to do so, and he liked it.

“Are you up to it?” She focused back on the conversation, and asked, “I beg your pardon?” “The sandwiches, are you up to making one— or two —for me to take back.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty. “I did say I would gladly pay you, and I meant it.” “Oh, erm,” she looked down the hall and back. “I suppose so—” “Thank you, this means a lot to me, I don’t often skip breakfast, but I am pulling double shifts today—” She stopped him with a look. “If, and only if , you don’t touch anything inside.” She walked over to the door, making him side-step around her. Lucille opened the door and looked back at him. “ Me included.” Michael held a hand to his chest, holding back a gasp. “Lucille, that is a bold assumption you would make of a friend—” “An acquaintance if anything, don’t flatter yourself.”

“That is much better, I would take an acquaintance over a stranger any day.” He flashed a smirk at her, as he walked inside her apartment. “Thank you again, my stomach is about to consume me. I don’t think Tim would appreciate it if I wasn’t around to cover his shift tomorrow.” Lucille sighed back, holding no response once again—Michael smiled at this—as she closed the door behind them. He was glad he was impulsive enough to skip breakfast, because if he hadn’t, he would never have been happy as he was then. *** Michael Michael began to regret his habit of being impulsive, leaving him anything but happy. It had been thirteen minutes—yes he counted—since they last held a conversation. Within the time he has: twiddled his thumbs for entertainment, checked his phone for any notifications, and looked at her wall—it wasn’t boring per se, it was just so Lucille . Every spot was squared away in a neat and orderly fashion, and all the picture frames were matching in size and color. He didn’t know why he knew this, he just did.

Staying still for so long was unlike Michael, and he knew this. His mind urged him to touch something and ask about it, but he didn’t want to go back on his word. He never held so much restraint towards himself, but here he was, regretting, and looking around her apartment. He held still, and waited. And waited. Waited a bit more. And, yes , waited beside her wall filled with picture frames, while twiddling his thumbs. Finally, when he thought he had to break this awful silence, he saw something. Except it wasn’t just something, it was him , just two weeks ago at the park. Surely , Michael thought, this must be a hilarious prank . He did believe in coincidences and fate, but this—this was extraordinary. The city they lived in was anything but small, giving him enough reason to believe someone had planned this. He didn’t know how—or more specifically why —but this was too odd, even for him. Did she plan this? Michael considered this further. He looked back at her, hunched over the stove, sticking her tongue out as she attempted to flip a fried egg, and he quickly rejected the idea with a wave of his hand.

No, this is all too crazy, it surely must be a coincidence, nothing more than that , Michael reasoned. He was just overthinking this, perhaps it was all due to his boredom. Michael added to this idea, bored enough to imagine those blue eyes and —oh no—he knew where this was going, and he had to stop himself. His shift would end soon, and he would be meeting someone on a blind date soon, he couldn’t fall for her. Even if it kills him, he would have to thank her for these sandwiches and leave politely. She was Lucille—an acquaintance—not someone he should daydream over. Let it go, Michael willed himself, stop daydreaming, and do something else! *** The Universe Michael and Lucy were going to be happy and content, and they will continue to prefer as such. Whether they both knew it now or not, both of them are destined to meet again, and at the very same park later that afternoon. Lucy will be at a loss for words, and to Michael’s relief, this was all because she was slowly falling for him. Michael would continue to be patient when it comes to her needs, even if his impulsive nature may prove this to be difficult. Michael and Lucy will extend their lunch date, and take a stroll along the park, talking about Tim and how his absence wasn’t missed one bit. They continue to debate about how I had a role in their lives, and how odd the coincidences were in such a large city. Only moments later, though, it will begin to rain; halting their suspicions of greater powers playing a role in their lives (even though they weren't wrong).

 Michael, the newfound gentleman, resolves this as he offers his jacket. Lucy will scold him for not being under as well, forcing them both to run under his jacket towards the nearest trees. They are fated to sit there for hours, both reluctant to leave, and talk through the rest of the day.

The rain will clear, reason enough for both of them to part their separate ways. They end the date in a hug—Lucy was, and forever will be, cautious of meeting new people—and she will comment on how wonderful the day was. Michael furthers this thought, and proposes the day should continue with a second date later in the evening. Lucy subsequently laughs at the the preposterous idea, and agrees. They will both be happy and content, as they will prefer as such for the rest of the evening. (And just as I plan for them to be, for the rest of their days together.)


If I had not been struck in the head by a baseball during the Yankees game and got knocked clean out, none of this would have ever happened.

I thought it ironic that there was an art display of jaguars in the lobby, because jaguars are solitary hunters who live alone in their own bounded territories. They blend into their surroundings. They prefer the cover of night. They are rulers of a little space. I feel nothing as I head into the MetLife Building to see the Human Resources Director. Walking through the revolving doors. No clammy hands. Passing the white and black jaguar statues displayed on stands in the marble lobby. No flutters in the stomach. I’d heard of this—some avant-garde project called “Jaguar Parade”—a deeply ironic concept. Taking the elevator to the 30th floor. Heart rate is steady. I announce myself at reception. I take a seat. No restlessness or sense of space closing in. I get up when called. I walk in. I sit down. I am troubled by my inability to register a reaction because my job is everything to me. In fifteen years here, Jamie and I have never met. Jamie has beautiful blonde hair and a friendly face, below which she wears a crisp white blazer, pearl necklace, black blouse, and blue slacks with a Tory Burch gold cross belt. There are signed baseballs secured in UV-protected glass display cases on the credenza. Framed pictures of Jamie with different co-workers and her boss from various company events hang on the wall behind her desk. A family photo of her and her husband with their kid Miles at Disneyworld sits on a side table. Cute kid. A large family photo taken at a First Communion too. Her diplomas from college and grad school hang on the side lefthand wall. “How do I make you feel?” Jamie asks, “are you nervous?” with a silvery voice that wobbles over the words ‘feel’ and ‘nervous.’ “Not really,” I say. “Of course, it is your condition… the—" “—Alexithymia,” I interject, knowing no one can pronounce uh-lek-suh- thai -mee-uh. “Right, that,” she says, giving a knowing nod and continuing, “that’s kind of what I want to talk to you about.” Jamie points as she says ‘right,’ and turns her head dramatically to the left side to think before continuing. You should probably know what Alexithymia is. Internally, I am a blank. Any expression of emotion feels fake. Smiling feels like reciting words in a foreign language. I learned to do it. By rote. But it is just a learned response. When someone gives me a hug, I feel nothing. At Christmas, when gifts are being opened and everyone is upbeat and jolly, I have to smile, laugh, and act cheerful. I feel like I am lying. Acting. Which I am. So it is a lie. We all have an innate desire to find connection. Except me. We need others. Thirst for belonging. I don’t. We seek fraternity. Search for intimacy. But I am no joiner. No pack animal. Isolation is my safe place. I am at home in solitude.

“Ok. Shoot,” I tell her, a bit bored. “Well, Alex, the ith-mee-uh- thingy and all, that is part of the reason we thought you’d be such a great fit at the YES Network. We were right. You are one of our best cameramen. You are punctual. [counting off on her fingers]  Diligent. Talented. You are a great employee, and your work is top-notch. But some people have gotten concerned.” “Because they saw my arm when I gave the thumbs up while being hauled off on a stretcher across the infield?” I help her. “Right. Can I see your arm?” Jamie asks. I hold out my arm to reveal a series of deep cuts forming a tic-tac-toe pattern on the underside of my forearm. “There,” Jamie says with hand to mouth, “that’s not normal, and it was televised—which makes me responsible to take some kind of action . Do you know why I feel that I have to do that?” “I understand,” I say. “I’m genuinely concerned for your well-being Alex,” Jamie says, changing her facial expression in such a way that I am meant to know that this is Jamie “the person” talking and not “the H.R. Director” talking. Then she says, “It isn’t normal. And even though you are a little different, I still have to take some kind of action —for your sake— or I’d be accused of neglect of my responsibilities . For starters, I’m giving you a week’s suspension, with pay.” She pauses, chewing on her finger, which I know is a self-soothing technique to diffuse tension—something I’ve learned in therapy but haven’t experienced myself. “I’ve been really thinking about it, and what I think would make a lot of sense for you is to make a real human connection,” Jamie says, and continues, “at first, I was going to recommend a psychologist—but, I guess, with your condition, that could be a lot like a blind man trying to analyze a Picasso—so I thought, maybe a girlfriend would be good for you… and, uh, brighten things up!” Her cheeks round and blush to show she is satisfied with the idea. “If that is what you want,” I tell her. Though I feel nothing, I do want to keep my job. I think that I should be feeling something , with my entire identity at stake, not to mention my livelihood .

I think of a starving jaguar at the end of its reserves perched in a tree branch about to pounce on a virgin opossum, which is suddenly playing dead. I imagine the regal jaguar, with its life at stake and all the power in its fearsome limbs draining away—feeling completely neutral and being present in the task of the moment—detached from the life and death stakes inherent in the encounter. Isn’t this detachment necessary to the jaguar’s primacy and dominance over its jungle habitat? “I have made the arrangements. You are to see Neve.ai, she is a Ukrainian-American-modeled dating coach with her own company, ‘The Human Touch.’ She is down at 302 W. 45th Street, right next to the Off-Broadway Production of Moulin Rouge,” Jamie commands. It is just a quick ten-minute walk to the West Side of the City. * * * As I stroll westward along 45th Street with the card for my AI dating-coach in hand, I cross 5th Avenue and then Broadway. A string of inviting pubs, like Connolly’s, dominate the scene. Signs for “The Book of Mormon” and “The Lion King” dangle from lamp posts as I approach Times Square, the very center of humanity.

I log into “The Human Touch Dating App” as I continue on my way, swiftly creating an account and a dating profile. My chosen avatar? Spock from Star Trek. My tagline quote: “Emotions are alien to me. I am a scientist.” What I’m looking for? The lyrics come to mind, and I go with it: “Logically, I just want someone to talk to and a little of that…” but omit the phrase ‘human touch’ intentionally.

I immediately select my favorite profile out of the first five I scroll through on Neve’s site. Arashi Isoarashi. 5’2”, Japanese American translator at the United Nations, bilingual, loves Karaoke Bars and puzzles, and has a closet online Scrabble addiction. Her chosen avatar? Hermione Granger. Her tagline quote: “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.” What she’s looking for: “Someone to break the rules with.” Perfect. Swipe right. Done. Walking through the gated wrought iron fence and the red formerly-church-doors of “The Human Touch,” I look to my left and right noticing this odd curiosity is nestled between the front of house entrance for Moulin Rouge and the velvet ropes and red carpet leading into Flash Dancers Gentlemen’s Club. I am beckoned in by an upbeat voice with a singsong tone that whistles over the consonants and hums at the end of a thought. “Right this wayy,” the voice says. I step into a waiting room with white walls covered in a floral scene composed of every different kind of leaf, arranged geometrically in a fascinating pattern of greens, yellows, oranges, blues, and purples. Beyond that a long hallway arch. Train tracks drawn on the floor beneath. The hall is in the shape of an arbor but depicts a Ukrainian train tunnel in autumn with leaves of various autumnal hues covering every inch. Looks like a portrait of a real place. The butler robot “Mavka” greets me and says, “Neve is ready for you now. I will take you back to her presentlyy. Would you like a beverage—some tea or coffee—before you go to see herr?” I decline. The robot is about five-feet-tall and has long green hair and yellow eyes and bears the white frame of a girl with tuxedoed lapels, and scoots around on wheels like those on a boosted scooter. The yellow eyes blink with white lashed eyelids, the small pink lips move, and she has a bowtie and an actual tray in one hand, seemingly for serving beverages. “Very well, be my guest and let’s goo.” Walking back through the Ukrainian train tunnel, with the words “Tunnel of Love” written on the crown of the arch, we arrive at Neve’s office. Neve is a Slavic lamia who sits, slender, toned legs crossed, tapping her fingers on her glass desk with a chrome “N” base. She swivels and shoots me a sideward glance—a sly Delphic glance—holding a secret in escrow. Neve is fair-skinned with freckled cheeks that frame her pawky green-hazel eyes, and her chic raven-like hair draws the eyes to her powerful and prominent collar bones. She wears a one-piece v-neck floral mini-dress exposing plump breasts that look real and firm. It is a white traditional Ukrainian Vyshyvanka with bright multi-colored flowered embroidery.

“How do I make you feel,” Neve, my AI dating-coach, asks—but it isn’t a rhetorical question. “I am incapable of feelings,” I tell her. She bites the right side of her lip and crinkles her right brow, closing the eye and cocking her head in an expression of disgust, then looks back with a mock smile. “It’s sad you so detached from your emotions—” “—It’s not detachment. I lack them entirely,” I interrupt. “That so,” she says, “then how you explain this—” and she waves her hand in the air and like magic the one wall reveals a seventy-inch wall-to-wall screen with a picture of Arashi Isoarashi. “She matches 48 out of 50 of my responses on the compatibility profile,” I tell her, lying. This draws a huge shit-eating grin from Neve. “Bullshit!” she says, “you answer ‘c’ to all question on personality profile, fill-in in 35 seconds between 5th and Broadway—and Arashi no fill out.” She’s got me there. I guess my quick-witted efforts at deflection are less effective with AI. “What you liking ‘bout dis girl,” she asks, “you pick her 1-out-of-5, twenty percent chance, no is random—why her?” “Just picked her at random,” I say. “I am woman doesn’t like to be denied. Don’t play with me. Why you no humor my perspwective,” she says. I’m beginning to feel like I am I a psychotherapy session with someone as tone-deaf to my way of seeing the world as I am to human emotions. “What,” I say. “You lie. You are liar. You lie yourself, mal’chik. I know exactly what feel. You lonely. You feel this loneliness, malyish. Maybe you don’t call dis. But you feel same. Because this why you take compatibility test, this why you talk me, because Arashi can be cure. And you don’t have a clue how approach this date,” she says. “Date,” I say, “what date? I didn’t sign up for a date, I just selected her and swiped right,” I tell her. “You no pay attention details, mal’chik. You no read fine print. You slipping, malyish. Once you select match, I plan for date. Date is tonight.” She looks at her gold square Cartier Tank wristwatch. “You have two hours for planning dis date.” I notice my heart rate increasing and my blood pressure rising. One thing that gets a reaction out of me is a surprise. “Ok, hot shot. Nice try, but there is some missing information you aren’t privy to. They noticed at work that I had some cuts on my arm, and Human Resources got involved. The YES Network can’t have a cameraman out at the games with a tic-tac-toe board on his forearm, so they ordered me to get help. It isn’t because I’m lonely,” I clarify. “Wrong again, Einstein. Tic-tac-toe board ma’it as well be tattoo of the word “loneliness.” Besides, numbers can quantify probability, but relationship is unpredectable. One quote calls it “religion with a fallible god.” Me and Dr. Isaac perfect example. We watching “The Twilight Zone” episode “The Lonely – Can You Feel Pain,” about lonely, insecure man that falls in love with robot woman, who believes is mocking hem. Ironic, don’t you think? But science fiction for me is dry. Isaac loves it! He eats et up! And when have our Netflix and chill nights together, I eat et up that he eats et up. It one of my favorite thing ‘bout him. He sees awe and wonder in things that I don’t see et—and I see this through his eyes—and appreciate that I not overwhise take time to look at. As a Rabbinical scholar with doctorate Hebrew Studies, he tell struggling student with faith that “there is no sacrifice like heartbreak” or “one does not complain about evil, but add justice.” Beautiful, no? Isaac sees skepticism of student as begin story that God allow pain—pain of feeling shut out and abandoned—so better prepare way for reward of adoption, and belonging God’s people. Isaac’s religion idea sound like romance to me. Maybe God made me logical, I can better see dese things I lacking through Isaac. Allowing me get lost in his world.” I try to process the idea of Neve with a human boyfriend, a Rabbi no less, but this is going to take a while, and I store it away for when I have sufficient time to contemplate this weirdness. She paused for a moment. Then, after some thought she asked, “Tell me, Alex, where you want take Arashi on your date?” “Isn’t that the question of the hour!” I say. “She mentioned liking karaoke, so I was thinking of maybe taking her to a karaoke joint in K-Town.” “This is good. Doing someting she like, rather than someting you like. My, my Alex, I’m impressed. You must be really vibing on this girl, sounds like you are really swinging for the fences, babe! Here my number. Text me if problem, now scat,” she says. * * * Walking into Ms. Kim’s with the red brick walls and mosaic tile floors and the mood lighting, looking for Arashi, I am totally out of place. I actually feel myself breathing heavy. A DJ with headphones is behind the wooden DJ booth facing out toward the floor to ceiling windows at the lit Empire State Building, in red-white-and-blue for July—a banner against the purple clouds of the hazy summer night. The DJ is blasting “Empire State of Mind,” by Jay-Z and Rihanna and twenty-somethings at the window tables are on their iPhones documenting their night out, before their parties arrive to go and get hammered singing karaoke.

There’s nothin’ you can’t do, now you’re in New York, these streets will make you feel brand-new, big lights will inspire you, let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York… Before the hostess can ask my name, Arashi struts over from the bar and says, “you must be Alex!”

“I am,” I say. “And you must be Arashi Isoarashi—50 storms, right?” “The Ikarashi River is the home of Swan Park in Niigata. Swans come in November to mate in the frozen lakes beneath the snowcapped mountains. It is a very secluded place, I think you like visit this place,” she says. “Very nice to meet you—I think I would,” I tell her. “Come, come. Our room is ready, now we sing,” she says. And I already feel like I am in the 50 storms and not the secluded swan mating reserve in a remote northland village. The room is smaller than I imagine. Not much bigger than a booth at a theme restaurant. Just a small table, two mics, and a video screen. Our Korean hostess, Zoey Kim, gives us some brief instructions and leaves. Before I have time to process what is happening a song comes on and Arashi goes in on “Sweet Caroline,” perhaps the most predictable Karaoke song of all time. Where it began, I can't begin to knowing But then I know it's growing strong Was in the spring [“You gonna join in here dude,” she says, and I start singing along with a strained grin] And spring became the summer Who'd have believed you'd come along Hands, touching hands Reaching out, touching me, touching you [then both of us shout… in unison… but not quite in unison to the bouncing ball on the monitor] Sweet Caroline Good times never seemed so good I've been inclined To believe they never would But now I… bump, bum, bum We go on like that until the end of the song. I let out a deep belly laugh. Didn’t know I had it in me. And the two of us smile at one another. I am not quite sure why I am smiling. But I know that I am having fun.

Arashi turns to me and asks, “How do I make you feel?” “You already did,” I tell her.


Carl stood in the middle of the dusty road smoking gun in hand staring down at the bloody carcass lying in the road twenty paces in front of him. “How did I end up in this situation again?” He asked himself. The events flashed in his mind scene by scene. He started with image of the 44 slug slamming in to the man’s left breast before the man’s gun cleared leather. He saw the man’s body thrown back by the impact, and the red rose of his wound beginning to bloom before he even hit the ground. Flash! He sees his self standing back to back with the man. They start walking off the paces with the sun low and bright in his eyes as he walked away from his opponent. One...two... three... as he counts off the paces, and he feels a calm come over him. All anxiety just fades away, and his breathing becomes steady. Eight... nine... ten, he spins around fast like a striking rattle snake drawing his pistol and shooting from the hip. He feels the familiar recoil from the colt 44. Flash! He was sitting at a table in the saloon his back to the wall facing the double swinging doors that led to the street. The remains of his meal lay on the pewter plate that rested on the table in front of him. The burn from the whisky was fresh in his chest when the man came bursting through the swinging doors. The mans voice shook with rage as he called out, “Carl Richter come out and meet me!” “What can I do for you friend?” He asked in a clear calm voice. “I’m no friend of yours,” the man barked, “and I am calling you out”. “I’m not looking for trouble,” he said to the man. “I know who you are, and I know what you have done,” the man seethed at him, “are you coming out, or should we settle this here and now?” he asked placing his hand on the butt of his pistol. “No, I’m coming since you have your mind is set,” he said to the man as he rose from the table. He walked towards the door fear clutching at his throat as the man backed out of the saloon. Flash! He is stepping out of the saddle of his big sorrel horse. After tying him up to the hitching post he walked up to the saloon and stopped in the doorway to take in the room before entering. There are five men in the room. The first is the bartender who stands behind the counter with a round ruddy face, large handle bar mustache, and a bright red waist coat. The next man is seated at the bar directly in front of the bartender. He is an older man with a full beard that is stained with tobacco juice. The other three men sit at a table in the center of the room playing cards. One of the card players is a small wiry fellow with round spectacles and wearing a bowler hat. Another of the card players is rotund man in a fine suit with a large bulbous nose. The third card player was a young lanky cowboy with a cheerful mischievous look to him. Not seeing any threats he enters the establishment and proceeds to a table in a dark corner of the room that faced the door. He figured this position would give him the advantage if any one came looking for trouble as he would be in the shadows to someone coming in, and they would be illuminated by the light from the doorway to him. He ordered a meal of steak and potatoes with a glass of whiskey and settled down to enjoy his meal. Flash! He rode in to the settlement high on hope. The settlement was small with one main dirt road lined with low Adobe buildings. The street was quite as he meandered down it on his horse. A few children played in the distance, and a pair of old men sat in rocking chairs on a porch playing a game of checkers. A pretty young Mexican woman stepped out on to her porch with broom in hand, and gave him a pleasant smile before proceed to sweep the porch. “This could be a nice place to settle down,” he thought to himself as he returned her smile and tipped his hat to her as he rode by. Just then two men walked around the corner of building in front him. They looked like range cowboys and were laughing loud and boisterously when one looked up and saw him riding down the street towards them. The man grabbed his companions arm and froze in place starring up at him. He saw the man say something to his fellow, and then he saw the fear that spread across the other mans face before they turned and ran back the way they came from. He pulled his hat down low and shook his head. No this town was not going to be a place he could settle down he has seen those looks before, and he knows what that will mean. He will just stop for some grub then continue his search for a place where nobody knows who he is. Hopefully he can get out of town before there is any trouble. He rides up to the saloon, and stops his horse. Flash! He sits a top his horse and looks down on a sleepy little settlement in the desert valley. “Maybe this will be the place we can settle down,” he says to the horse. Oh how he longs to find that place in his heart. He is tired of rambling from place to place. He is tiered of the men that search him out just to make a name for themselves. He can’t remember the last time he has had a good nights sleep. The last time he could call a place home. This little sleepy town represents hope to him. Represents opportunity. He can feel the hope growing inside of him. He knows this is dangerous. Every time he gets his hopes up they always crash down that much harder when he gets disappointed. He kicks his hose in to motion and walks slowly towards the town. Flash! He is a young man fresh out of the war and headed home to Texas. He stopped in a town for a drink when three union soldiers approach him. Walking up behind him the biggest man grabs his shoulder and spins him around. “Your in the wrong place boy!” The man says loudly. “Yeah, we don’t want no rebs in here,” his friend interjects shoving his finger in to Carl’s chest. The third man just smiles at him while displaying a large Bowie knife that he has in his procession. “I’m not looking for any trouble. I’m just trying to get home,” he says to the men in a mild tone. “You should have thought of that before you decide to become a traitor to your own country boy!” The big man roars as he grabs the front of Carl’s shirt, and slams his fist into Carl’s face. Everything goes black just for a second after the mans fist makes contact. All three men proceed to hit and stomp on him while he is down. The rain of blows is so fierce he can’t even fight back. All he can do is curl up, and protect his self the best he can. After a few minutes the men start to walk away laughing at him as he lays there bleeding. He struggles to his feet and calls out to the men, “hey! Where do you think your going?” The men turn around. “You want some more boy?” The big man growls at him. “Let’s see how good you three are with those pistols your packing,” he says to the men raising his hand to his hip wiggling his fingers next to his pistol. All three men reach for their own pistols. The fear and rage drain away instantly to be replaced by an odd feeling of calm and focus in him. The men look like they are moving in slow motion. The big man is the first to get his hand on his pistol, and Carl draws his. Shooting from the hip he shoots the big man right between the eyes. Then he shoots the other two. The man with the knife was the only one to get a shot off, but it was a wild shot, and he didn’t live long enough to get a second chance. The saloon became a bee hive of commotion. He had to fight his way out. He jumped on his horse and ran out of town as fast as he could. He’s been running ever since.


I opened the wood door and closed it again, taking off my shoes and making my way to the stairs. “I’m home”, I pointlessly yelled to the empty house as I proceeded to make my way up the staircase and to my room. I entered the rectangular box and sat at my desk and opened my backpack. I took out my school work and mulled over it for a bit before deciding that this was useless and I had zero motivation to complete any of the assignments, so I, once again, closed my textbooks and computer that I would leave until it was far too late for any reasonable person to be up. I opened my phone to look for something mildly entertaining to do and came across a memory from years ago. I remembered that time of my life, I was in 5th grade. I hated myself then and I still do but now I’m working on it. I didn’t have any real friends and I smile at the fact that I have an amazing best friend that loves me now. I was being bullied back then and had been for years, I still am, but it no longer makes me want to hide and cry as much. I think about about it for a moment before I grabbed a blank page and a pen.

“Dear me,

Hi… It’s me, you, and whoever we were in between. I’m who you’ll become. You know me, at least you will, but I know you and I know me and sappy, is not our thing. I’m not gonna try and avoid sitting here and write that “Life gets better” “Everything gets uphill from there” and stuff like that, you get the point. I’m not going to sit here and write that because, well… it’s probably a lie, a partial truth, those words are covered in sugar and I’m not one to sugar coat things. I’m here to say that life doesn’t necessarily get better, it gets different. You won’t magically love yourself. You won’t magically stop letting people treat you like shit. You won’t magically become a happy person who glows with sunshine. You won’t magically stop feeling lonely, like no one understands you and your extremely complicated mess of a mind. You won’t magically stop thinking and feeling about yourself the way you do. Because, sorry to crush your childhood, magic isn’t real. You can’t teleport, fly or any of that other magical tv show bullshit. Fairytales aren’t real. Prince Charming isn’t going to fight a dragon and kiss you until you wake up. Dreams aren’t real. You aren’t going to be famous and loved and adored for whatever dumb reason. I’m not here to sugarcoat life, I’m here to dump an icy bucket over your head and hope you wake up on your own. I’m here to say you need to keep trying to fix and love yourself the way you love and help others. You need to stop letting people take advantage of you and the good in your heart, mind, and soul. You need to stop letting people’s words and actions affect you. I know this is a lot to ask and I know that you are breaking, slowly, piece by piece. But you need to pick those pieces up and take a shit ton of super glue to hold yourself together. The cracks that are left over won’t disappear, nor will the small scars on your arms and thighs, but don’t hide them. Wear those battle scars with pride, because you will win. You are strong, courageous, beautiful, kind and so, so much more and never let anyone tell you otherwise, because that will break you more until you are left with nothing but broken pieces on the ground of who you used to be and not even super glue will be able to piece you back together. And on that happy note… okay let’s be real here, that was a really depressing and totally cheesy note to end on. But, since we have already ventured into the cheeseworld, there’s no point in leaving now. So do me a favour and think of a rainbow. It’s colorful, and beautiful, and it can make people smile. Rainbows are extraordinary, but now think about how they come to be, the steps they had to take to become extraordinary. They only appear after rain, after something that many think of as dreary and sad, something that can ruin a perfectly good day. My point is that good can always come after bad. Light can appear in the darkness. You are like a rainbow. You are colorful with so many different sides to you, and you are beautiful inside and out, and you bring smiles to people’s faces, and eventually there’ll be one on your face too. Eventually, there will be happiness after the sadness. Eventually, you’ll be fine, like actually fine, and before you give me some bullshit like “How do you know?”. I know, because I know you because I am you and you will eventually be me. I’m not too far away and I’ll always be here thinking back to you and the mistakes we made and will make, but that’s life, that’s the way things are.

Sincerely,

You From The Future” I smile at the page and wipe away the tears forming in my green eyes. I wish I could send this but that’s impossible. I read and re-read it before folding it and tucking it away until sending letters back in time is possible, so probably never but who cares. I know I don’t because it felt good to write. I hear the front door open and wipe at my face again. I grab my schoolwork as my dad walks into my room. “Are you doing homework?” He asks. “Yep,” I reply with a small smile that I know he can’t tell is fake because it has been for a while. “I’ll leave you to it then,” he responds, closing the door. My smile drops and I reach for my phone and once again, I come across the memory, but it no longer makes me sad. I smile, a genuine one this time and delete the photo. I don’t need it. I remember that life I had, and in another universe, maybe I’m still there, but in this universe, I’m not. I’m in another country now and I’m 4235 km away from there and part of me is happy, but another part craves that life back. Those “friends”, that school, that childhood home, that life is a part of me, the new me, and it always will be, but for now I’m here and I’m happy to be here.


We Were Happenstance By: Mackenzie M. Hebner Based on true events “Wanna grab lunch?” Goosebumps decorated my arms as I saw his name seep into the pixelated color combinations of my phone screen and proceeded to open his text. We’d been anonymous friends for ages, and everyone I knew thought we were what the kids call “endgame” material. By anonymous, I don’t mean the people who met online and don’t know a thing about each other but deal out personal information just for the heck of it, just that we became friends long after we had our chance to know each other in person. Everything was online, including our deepest secrets.

Growing up, people always used to tease opposite sex friends who were as close as him and I had unexpectedly become. They used to say that it was impossible for one or the other not to develop feelings being that close and personal with one another. And I always tried to set them straight. It was possible because I’d been doing it all my life. Sure, we’ve all thought about it. I mean you’re not that close to someone and never wonder if it’d ever work out as more or if you’d be cute couple goals. But then, somewhere along the line, you realize that it’s fun to ponder but never needs to be anything, and you’re okay with that, but the rest of the world isn’t. They compliment you ever so slightly, and of course you get a little giddy because anyone would, but it’s not like that. Sure they smile ear to ear when they talk to you, and it makes your stomach twirl a little and your heart dance to the same beat, but anyone would feel the same. It’s not romance, it’s happenstance.

Him and I: we were happenstance. We smiled together, cried together, laughed together, and fell asleep on the phone together, but that’s all we were, separately together. Chasing different lives with different goals and only one commonality in all of it: each other.

At least, that’s what I wanted to believe. And I did, for years. Genuine years. But then it all hit me. It wasn’t the endless repeat of warnings that two people so close could never just be mutually content as friends that flipped a switch inside my head, but the point blank question that, in all those years, no one had ever thought to ask me, and I had never dared to think or answer—”Well, do you like him?” she asked while clutching her caramel latte close to her chest.

“It would never work. We are so different.” “I didn’t ask if it would work; I asked if you like him.” And there it was: the real kicker. Did I like him? Not would it work out. Not applying all the logical rationale people kill themselves over to obliterate the direct line to happiness, just a simple question where, for the first time, no strings were attached.

“I do.” As the words left my mouth, everything changed. It was supposed to be just a simple acknowledgment that it was okay for me to have feelings. And at first it was; it was innocent. But, after a while I liked the idea so much, because it started to feel less far-fetched by the day. You see, he smiled and suddenly the world knew I was bubbling inside, whereas before it was safe in my head. He complimented me, and the barista in front of me saw my cheeks go red. Suddenly, the world felt like it was closing in because they knew, and it was as if it was forcing me to take mental action, to plant the concept so deep that everything became associated with it.

By then, we still had never been together in person, but suddenly I was desperate for connection like I had never been before. Desperate to be in the same room as him, for his eyes to fall on me, for the laughter to be infectious audibly, for the rosy cheeks to be hidden behind a pillow for safe keeping as he sat next to me, for the chance to have something, anything affirming. Suddenly, his lips were in my head like they’d never been. His smile stayed in my memories for unquantifiable moments longer than I was used to. His existence penetrated my dreams, awoke me in my sleep, kept me from REM, motivated me, empowered me, shook me, broke me, stripped me to the core of my vulnerability and rawness.

Suddenly, we were up late, and I was ready to take a leap, to open a door I might not be able to shut, to begin asking him some of the questions that kept me up at night. The: what am I to you? and do your friends know about me? questions. It was a small start, but a start nonetheless. And, as the answers rolled in, so did the curiosity, the longing, the pictures in my head. The more I asked, the more uneasy I felt. The more the pictures in my head began to fade when all I wanted was for them to stay. When all I wanted was something to hold onto, even if it wasn’t real, something to be steady while everything else in my life spun and spun. A constant, if you will. All I wanted was a constant, but I felt it washing away as I asked and he answered, and he answered well, but there was this picture in my head beyond his answers. It wasn’t fair to him. None of it was fair to him. My emotions, my dedication to something in my head, my heart. Nothing was fair to him, and yet here I was. Asking and receiving and indulging for the first time in my life.

And then: it happened. And then, he was there. Right in front of me, smiling and laughing for the first time right by my side. Engaging and prompting and respecting. And suddenly, he was gone, and I was in tears and nothing made sense anymore. That’s the dangerous thing about technology: you never know. You never know reality in spite of it all. Never know if you’re there and something comes up, if the tears are allowed to flow. It’s the first time and you don’t want to be overwhelming, but then they fall, and you don’t know what you’ve done or what just took place. Suddenly, it’s all a mess, and you’re sitting alone in a parking lot, your once rosy face sopping wet, and he is none the wiser.

“Well! How’d it go?” She was so enthusiastic. After all, she’d called it from the start and was perhaps just as invested as I had been. She was sitting across from me with wide eyes and an intrigue that could outpassion anyone. She pulled her caramel latte up to her lips as I took a deep breath. Relaying everything that had just taken place and trying to find a way to put it

into words that were someone topical and simultaneously tangible. But all I could find to say was this: “We were never going to make it.”


‘Hey Alex, I got us some more firewood.’ Persephone opened the door and dragged a bag in from the snow buried porch. ‘What have you done Alex? I told you not to move.’ ‘Ah, you are back.’ Alex woke up to the sound of Persephone’s voice, still lying on the floor next to the bed. ‘I uh, never mind. Help me get back in the bed.’ ‘Of course.’ Persephone dropped the bag and came to Alex’s aid. Alex suddenly grabbed Persephone’s arm, ‘Who are you, hm?’ ‘What do you mean? I’m Persephone, your friend. Did you have a concussion?’ Persephone tried to examine Alex’s head. ‘No, don’t. Don’t fucking touch me. No!’ Alex slapped her hand away. ‘You are not touching me until you tell me who you are.’ ‘Alright, alright! What’s this all about? I’m confused.’ ‘No, don’t try to bullshit me, you are far from confused. I discovered your little secret cache, full of passports under different names, weapons and currencies. You are not a hiker, are you?’ ‘No.’ ‘I thought so, who the hell hike in the dead of the winter, in the middle of nowhere, alone and just happened to find me in the bear trap?’ ‘You are right, I’m not a hiker. And leave that gun alone, there’s no ammunition in it.’ She looked down and walked toward the bag of wood. Alex took out the gun he was concealing and checked the mag, looking devastated. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Relax, trying to start a fire, is all. You are freezing.’ ‘Don’t try to change the subject. Tell me who you are! Christ, is your name even Persephone?’ ‘No, it’s not. You are right again. What else can I tell you?’ She starts piling the pieces of wood in the fireplace and crumpling up some old sheets of newspapers. ‘No, no. You told me you are not a hiker but didn’t tell me who you are. Who do you work for?’ ‘I’m a freelancer.’ ‘Freelancing what?’ ‘I think you know. Why ask me?’ ‘I want to hear it from you. Are you here to kill me?’ ‘…’ She said nothing and started striking the fire steel. ‘Oh my God, you are. You are a killer.’ Alex starts to shake. ‘Jesus, I am finished. But why didn’t you kill me? Or just leave me to die in the bear trap?’ ‘That is a good question. I ask myself sometimes.’ Persephone started the fire and gently blowing air towards it. ‘This, this does not make any sense. Are you the one that killed my family?’ Alex shouted. ‘Answer me!’ ‘I think you should rest.’ Persephone fetched a saucepan from one of the cupboards and started washing it up. ‘Rest? Seriously? With a fucking killer right next to me?’ ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.’ ‘But how do I know you are not going to change your mind the next minute and kill me?’ ‘You don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I guess you will just have to live in the moment and hope for the best. Pray if you like.’ Persephone opened a tin of tomato soup and poured into the pan. ‘Pray? Is this some kind of joke to you?’ ‘No, I’m not religious but I won’t mind if you are.’ She steadied the pan on top of the firewood and started to stir the soup with a spoon. ‘What is this? Are you trying to get to know me now?’ ‘Why not. There’s no electricity, internet or phone service. What else is there to do?’ ‘Ok, you first. Answer my previous question, did you kill my family?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you know who did?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How do I know you are not lying to me?’ ‘You don’t.’ ‘Who killed my family? I need to know.’ ‘You don’t anymore.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘Because I killed him.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘Another freelancer.’ ‘Why did you kill him?’ ‘Why not? I kill anybody, indiscriminately, including killers. I stole his money and assignments. Nobody cares.’ ‘So you were not there to save my family, you were a predator of predators.’ ‘I guess so.’ ‘You have neither belief nor moral. What kind of, ah, I mean, what kind of hell hole did you grow up in? Have you no family? Parents? Siblings?’ ‘No, I killed them too.’ ‘Oh my fucking God, are you serious? I can’t even begin to comprehend your world.’ ‘Then don’t. Your soup is ready.’ She took the saucepan off the fire and held it under a thick rug. ‘Eat, it will make you recover quicker.’ ‘You were cooking it for me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Wait. Are you? Are you in love with me?’ ‘…’ Persephone put the saucepan down on the floor and looked at Alex. ‘What if I am?’ ‘You got to be fucking kidding me! Christ! What the fuck? I mean, seriously, what the fuck! You are a killer, you are not supposed to fall in love with your victims.’ ‘No. But not everything is logical.’ ‘Did you target me? Did somebody hire you? How did you find me? Have you been stalking me?’ ‘You were my colleague’s assignment. You and your entire family. I came across your file after I stole his stuff. For some reason, your photo attracted my attention and I wanted to keep you to myself.’ ‘You wanted to keep me, to yourself. Just like that, huh? And how were you gonna do that? What’s your plan? Let’s hear it.’ ‘There are no bears in the winter.’ ‘There are…’ Alex’s pupils dilated and his eyes bulging. ‘You son of a…’ Tears streamed down his face and he closed his eyes. ‘Ok, tell me this. Am I your first romantic interest?’ ‘No.’ ‘What happened to the others?’ ‘…’ ‘Were they like me? I mean, they were your victims too, weren't they? What’s your deal? Do you fuck them before you kill them?’ ‘What, you jealous? Your soup is getting cold. Would you like to have some?’ ‘No. Leave me alone you fucking psycho! Just leave me to die!’ ‘You’ve come this far to stay alive, Alex. I am the one person who can help you in doing pretty much whatever you wanted from this point on and you want to throw it away, is that right?’ ‘Yeah! That is correct! My entire family are dead, dead! What’s the point of being alive without the ones you love, hm? What do you know, you know nothing of love.’ ‘You don’t know me.’ ‘I’ve heard enough. Plus, you are a killer and a freak. I don’t want to know you!’ ‘I think you will reconsider after some rest.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah. Food is here if you need some. Remember to add wood to the fire.’ Persephone picked up a suitcase from the wall drawer. ‘Wait, what are you doing? Are you leaving?’ ‘Afraid so. I’d like to stay and chat with you, but too many to kill, too little time. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight!’ She walked out into the freezing wind and locked the cabin door.