If I don’t try, I’ll never know. And that’d be a fate far worse than whatever humiliation might potentially await me. I want to be dominated, and so few women are able to rise to the occasion. Do I really have to wear a slinky red dress in order to find a top? Or am I clinging to antiquated notions of dominant/submissive roles? As I color my lips matte red, I wonder how much makeup is appropriate for a kink club. I also wonder when I became more androgynous than feminine. When was the last time I wore a dress? What exactly am I getting myself into? Do I really want to enter a kink club as a submissive? More importantly, should I wear fishnets or silk thigh highs? Silk stockings, I decide. I stand and admire myself in the vanity mirror. Gender performance is tricky, but I have to admit: I look hot as femme presenting. Heads are definitely going to turn. Hopefully, they won’t roll.

The patrons of the club are fairly well vetted. Potentials have to be referred by current members. Your name has to be on the list and, if you show up alone, you have to arrive before 10. I’m not exactly sure why, but suspect it has to do with their limited consumption policy. The later it gets, the more likely people are to turn up intoxicated. I call a car that arrives too quickly, so hurriedly hit the bong and knock back a xanax with some gin before racing downstairs. I try to let go of expectations; it's just another game of cat and mouse. Besides, expectations are invitations to disappointments.

I don’t give the driver the exact address, rather I have him drop me off at the gas station around the corner. In all likelihood he knows the score, especially given my attire. Fortunately, he’s either oblivious or disinterested. The night air is crisp and the city sounds farther away than I’d imagined. I should have worn the chunkier heels, I think as I attempt to make my way up the graveled drive. Stiletto boots? What was I thinking? Maybe I’ll find a top with a shoe fetish. Who knows? I realize I’m game for just about anything. But, seriously, who gravels a driveway? So annoying!

I pause to pull a rock from my shoe and briefly contemplate abandoning the entire mission, but the doorguy spots me. Somehow, now that I’ve been made, the gig is up. It’s real. It’s go time. I straighten my silk stockings with careful consideration. I don’t want the doorguy to detect my apprehension. Also, there’s something inexpressibly confident about a woman who stops to straighten her stockings. Call me crazy, but it’s true.

I stiletto shimmy my way into the club to the dulcet tones of Thrill Kill Kult’s Waiting for Mommie. The bartender is a self-ascribed leather dyke and ready to take me home if I don't find what I’m looking for. I’ll consider it. I have no genuine interest in her, but there doesn’t appear to be much else going on. I look around. The decor lacks cohesion overall, but isn’t combative: a light blue, oversized chair here, a chartreuse loveseat there. It could be garish, yet somehow manages an understated elegance.

There are two people sitting at the far end of the room on a beige sofa; a binary-appearing dominant/submissive couple. The dom is clad in a leather vest and pants. He’s sporting a handlebar mustache, and I’m not sure where the hair on his chest ends and the open vest begins. If he were wearing a leather biker cap, he’d be a dead ringer for that one Village Person. The submissive is so effeminate I do a double take. They’re probably trans or non-binary but, for a hot minute, I wonder if they’re a cis-gendered woman. Their long blonde hair cascades over a powder blue, ostrich feather boa and translucent white tank top. It’s all a little on the nose for my taste, but werk it gurl! I shrug.

I sit on one of the chartreuse loveseats adjacent to the couple in order to eavesdrop. I'm fairly certain their convo is playing out like a cheesy 80’s porn, so can’t help myself. Also, it’s a great vantage point; I can see the entire club. I sip my gin and tonic and wince. The bartender must have poured a solid three fingers of Beefeater. I’m trying to catch snippets of the couple’s convo but it’s all grunting and lisping, so I turn my attention to the other three dom, male-presenting people in the opposite corner. They’re fanning themselves with handheld fans and decided nonchalance. They must have rock-paper-scissored for who got dibs on the pretty blonde. Guess the bear in the hair vest threw the winning rock.

The dom and their toy get up to head toward the playrooms and, as they pass, I notice the submissive toy is boasting an impressive bulge in their impossibly tight booty shorts. Whether trans or non-binary, they definitely possess male anatomy. Dang, gurl, I don’t need to know your religion, I almost blurt. I check myself and look away, wondering if this is really where I want to be. But the music is good, so I figure I’ll hang out long enough to down my nuclear gin and tonic. Maybe once I finish my drink I’ll reconsider the bartender’s offer.

I'm thinking about how I could definitely go for an indica weed gummy to calm my nerves when it happens: She walks in. To say that she commands attention is a massive understatement. Fuck, even the fanboys in the corner gasp and turn head. She’s. Stunning. She’s six feet tall if she’s an inch, never mind the four inch heels. She’s wearing a suit so finely tailored mannequins world wide would be envious. The French cuffs and collar of her silk shirt pop bright white against the charcoal gray of the blazer. The flared lapels and snatched waistline are impeccable. I find myself wondering if my curvaceousness is somehow indiscrete. She’s lithe and taught, leaving me fraught, wondering if I ought not. But we both know I will.

Every move she makes is as calculated as it is unguarded. She glances at me before moving purposefully to the bar. I know if she approaches - when she approaches - I need to follow protocol to the letter, or I’ll spend the rest of my days as tightly swathed in regret as she is in that pinstriped suit. When she turns and winks at me, angels sing in heavenly choir and Jesus weeps, last temptation style. I tell myself I got this, despite the fanboys punctuating my anxiety with sharp inhalations. Thanks, guys. I really want my first experience as a sub in a kink club scored by exaggerated gasps and synchronized fan thwapping.

She Takes. Her. Time. Saddling up to the bar. She orders a whiskey, neat. Whiskey drinking women both arouse and intimidate me, so that checks out. Suddenly, my gin and tonic, no matter how stiffly poured, seems gauche and sorority girl. May as well have ordered a vodka redbull, I chastise myself. The woman leans over and whispers something in the bartender's ear, causing her to nod and plop a cherry into the glass of whiskey. Sharp inhalations and rapid fan work from the boys. I glance over. They are literally clutching one another in anticipation. I cue up quickly. It’s on. She’s coming for me.

When she turns and makes eye contact, I'm not the only other person in the bar: I am the only other person in the universe. I’ve been prepping tirelessly for the past week with the friend who referred me. Make eye contact, then look down demurely. Play it cool and coy, dumbass. But she’s so stunning; the quintessential study of androgyny as female presenting. Her severe blue-black bob is as carefully curated and tailored as that damn suit. It should seem conspicuously overworked, yet there is something about her that’s surprisingly disarming.

Even if I’m the hundredth victim to fall prey, I am willingly sacrificial. She sits next to me and the energy exchanged is white hot. She downs half the whiskey, then offers me the remainder, cup extended between elegant, tapered fingers. The cherry is somehow significant. It takes me a beat to realize it’s the acknowledgment of consent. It’s so obvious I nearly laugh: She wants me to offer her my cherry. I knock back the drink with more aplomb than I feel. The whiskey burns a warm path down my eager throat as I push the cherry, stem forward, with my tongue. I place the cool, round body of the cherry between my lips, stem protruding, while maintaining my downward gaze. Demurely, damnit.

She places a hand under my chin, pushing it upward. Novice I am, I immediately break protocol and make eye contact. She traps my gaze. Her neck is exquisitely outstretched; blue veins pulsating with desire under pale white skin, cheekbones accentuated by clenched jaw. With her teeth, she pulls the cherry from my mouth in slow motion, allowing it to sway between parted lips. The sharp inhalations and aggressive fan thwapping abruptly cease. The entire universe is holding its breath.

Instinctively, I realize what I am meant to do. I drop from the loveseat to my knees. She nods in subtle approval. She bends at the waist, offering the cherry. I bite the fruit, allowing its juice to trickle down my chin and throat unchecked. Her tongue moves in one deft motion as she laps the juice from the hollow of my neck to my lips. With this, I know my fate is sealed. She’ll be the end of me. Strange, how naturally I embrace annihilation.

As our lips meet, I know that I will give myself to her in any manner she desires. She pulls back, eyes me curiously, and asks my name. To my chagrin, I am so rattled I forget my own name. I even forget how to breathe. I’m desperately hooked. She whispers it’s ok, it’s her first time too. I know she’s lying. but it’s oddly reassuring nonetheless. Her voice is even sexier than I imagined, a sandpaper lullaby. She smells like amber and musk. Dragon’s blood maybe. Something sensual and earthy. Her voice hits the same frequency as a cat’s purr; therapeutically hypnotic. Her eyes draw me into their depths, conspiratorially. I want to come undone.

I tell her people call me Sam. She winks and introduces herself as Naddy. There is a collective exhale from the corner boys as their fans thwap in gay panic. I pick up the vibe they’re throwing down: Naddy is no stranger to this. Duh, thanks guys; eye roll emoji. I can’t help but wonder: if they’ve witnessed her picking up countless subs, why is this interaction so riveting? Then again, there’s nothing else going on, and us gays arguably love drama. Later, the fanboys will kiki about how they saw this whole thing go down. Hot goss!

I realize I’m merely sitting, watching her mouth move as she speaks. I’m entranced by the sound of her voice, the way she wraps her lips around her words, visibly constricting her throat as she expels her words in measured tempo. The control she exudes is masterful; she is divinely withholding. I can’t make sense of the actual words, but I’m clinging to every syllable spilling from her full lips. Her voice is a rapturous vibration that emanates from her sacral chakra, shooting through her throat chakra and into the depths of me. It’s an amount of control that I’m unable to command, even on my best days. I’m quietly awed.

She asks if I want to take a ride with her. My body’s response is axiomatic. The fanboys begin their fervent thwaping before I’m even on my feet. Wherever she leads, I will follow. The club discourages patrons from leaving the premises for safety measures, but it’s not grounds for expulsion. Really, it doesn’t matter because I’m with Naddy, and she is beyond reproach. Her command of every action and reaction is probably the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. Whatever happens, I am fully given to this moment.

We stop at the bar on our way out and Naddy slides the bartender a generous tip. The bartender obediently averts her gaze as she thanks Naddy, and I get the picture. I even get the frame. On a slow night, much like tonight, the top-masculine bartender found herself on the receiving end of Naddy’s charms. Perhaps even her riding crop. We exit the bar awash with catcalls of admiration from the fanboys. Naddy is a gay icon. Legend. They yass and snap in approval as she leads me past; trophy-like, I notice. And that’s how it feels to move through the world with Naddy: strutting past a milieu of people and things inconsequential in comparison.

Yet, she doesn't give the impression that she views herself as superior to the world, rather, detached from it; an observer of it. How fantastically liberating that must be! I marvel as she leads me to her little red corvette. She’s not attached to any one or thing and, as we speed off into the nebulous unknown, neither am I. She opens the moonroof and I can make out Mars and Venus in the fathomless sky, eternally caught in their cosmic dance. I can feel the stardust, the elements from which I’m composed, swirling inside me: Ordered chaos. The cosmos within. Life happening through me. I am a part of the universe. I am my own universe. As above, so below.

And tonight, I have the distinct privilege of being below Naddy. I will submit without hesitation. All of life is an act of submission, I conclude. There’s no such thing as control, there is only surrender. I admire her profile as we soar through traffic lights, through spacetime; any sense of self I thought I had rapidly growing as distant as the kink club we’re speeding away from. Or the unknown we’re racing toward. I have never felt so blissfully empty. I have never felt so blissfully whole. Our destination is unknown, but I feel like I’m going home. I’m not even sure what that means. For me, home has always been an elusive abstraction. But here and now, with Naddy, I’ve never understood anything more, or needed to understand it less.

I don’t need to dissect it. I need to embrace it. To surrender.

I. Let. Go.

Naddy presses play and the familiar melody of All We Ever Wanted Was Everything by Bauhaus fills the car. Fills the night. I could be nervous, or even afraid, but I’m uncharacteristically calm instead. When Naddy turns and catches my gaze, a serenity unlike anything I’ve ever known envelopes me. It doesn’t matter where she’s taking me.

We’re going home.

Blackness, then stars. Colors Henry couldn’t comprehend danced around him. A pain shot through his left leg, from ankle to hip crease, as consuming as the cosmos. Slow your thoughts, allow sensations to pass through you, breathe through the pain. The stars formed a canopy to cradle him. There had never been so many colors. Each one carried a sound. Blue was A minor: A requiem for nothing. He laughed. Blue was A minor and his pain a symphony.

If he couldn’t get the car to start he’d just hitch a ride. What was the worst that could happen? He’d get serial killed? So what? It’s not like he had a lot left to live for. He pulled off his flannel. He stood in his tank and combat shorts, using his battered flannel to wipe the sweat from his brow. He’d eaten the chocolate about an hour and a half prior. Still, mushroom dosage was an imprecise science.

Henry had known the name of the neighboring town before the shrooms kicked in. He must be pretty far from town now. And the way the trees were breathing indicated that it was going to be a hell of a ride, even if he found a ride. He hadn’t seen a car in a couple of. Hours? He had water in the car, Henry reminded himself. Damnit. He must want to live. Otherwise he’d forget the water. He wanted to forget anything to do with his human body, but the persistent pain in his leg tethered him. How had he been injured?

Sunflowers sprung up like bandits. They towered over him. Were the sunflowers talking about him? A community of elders determining his fate? The sunflowers hadn’t been there earlier. Had they? One of the sunflowers bent toward him, in confidence. Henry knew he ought to pay attention. The stars swirled.

“I didn’t know sunflowers were so active at night. I thought you only came out during the day. You’re sunflowers. It’s in your name.”

“Nothing is in a name. Names are meaningless,” the sunflower whispered.

Henry slowly made a 360. He saw no mountains. Where were the mountains? He’d hiked up a pretty steep mountain slope. He’d even fallen, reinjuring his leg. Reinjuring? What was the original injury? The stars winked out then blinked twice before rebooting. Life in the simulation. One never really knew what to expect. Disorder. Shifting landscapes and timelines. Too many colors, too little time to adapt between reboots.

On the bright side, his leg no longer hurt. Maybe it was the psilocybin. Maybe it was the reboot. He might die before he figured it out. Hell, maybe he was already dead. Although, somehow, this time something seemed. Different.

A cactus to Henry’s left confirmed, “Yes, that’s correct. I wasn’t here before. How are you in the desert? Where are the mountains? The sunflowers? It doesn’t matter. It’ll reboot again before you do.”

Henry squinted at the typed words on the prescription bottle, but they were swimming. He shoved it back into the pocket of the army jacket he didn’t remember putting on. He hadn’t owned a military jacket in years. The contents of his car flashed through his mind once again: heaps of clothes, bottles of water, weapons, pictures of his daughter. Wait. He could remember the license plate number, but not the make and model of his car.

Before he could give it more consideration, a figure appeared on the horizon. The cactus was no longer there. Just as well, it hadn’t been very helpful. The approaching figure was bipedal. It moved like a human. Henry held up a hand and waved awkwardly. The figure didn’t return the gesture, it merely persisted in its forward motion.

Henry relaxed into his Tai Chi posture, standing straight with his tailbone and chin slightly tucked, a microbend in his knees. Sarge would call him into activity duty any moment. Gunfire in the distance. An explosion. He'd be behind enemy lines within a few hours.

“Better off practicing hand to hand drills while you wait,” Sarge grunted.

Henry knew he meant Krav Maga or Muay Thai, but he preferred the meditative quality of Tai Chi.

“You’re too soft, you’ll never make it out alive,” Sarge taunted.

Henry glanced down at the prescription bottle again, inexplicably in hand. The typed words no longer swam, but appeared to be petroglyphs.

“He overdosed you. You think that was an accident?” Sarge asked.

“It’s the simulation, not the psilocybin,” the cactus smirked.

An urgent tug at his sleeve, the horizon figure was upon him. His nose was crooked and flat. Broken too many times. The horizonman’s skin was burnt sienna, and he was wearing a makeshift turban tied Romani style. Glitch or psilocybin? Henry hated the dessert. God he was thirsty.

“Man up,” Sarge barked.

Horizonman rolled his eyes, echoing Henry’s sentiment: Sarge could be an absolute prick. Horizonman wordlessly handed Henry a canteen. After the briefest of contemplations, Henry obliged, taking the smallest sip his thirst would permit. Horizonman nodded, touching Henry’s elbow, indicating he drink more. The water was impossibly fresh and cool. The man nodded. The cactus laughed.

Irritated, Henry turned his attention to Horizonman, “You got a name?”

The man shrugged, “Whatever name you give me.”

Fine. Be as obtuse as the cactus.

“What happened to you?”

Henry laughed, “What hasn’t happened? Abuse, accidents, war, friendly fire, unfriendly fire, drug deals gone wrong, drug deals gone right. The usual. Why?”

“Because you’re losing a lot of blood. I mean, look,” with an exaggerated gesture.

“Dang. That’s messed up. Why don’t I feel anything?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Blank stare.

“You’re bleeding out, man.”

Blank stare.

“You’re dying.”

“We’re all dying, every second.”

#

A familiar sound. From another timeline. Roaring; squealing. Bright white lights, humming, buzzing, frantic motion. People shouting urgently. Was he behind enemy lines? Maybe his copter had been hit? Or his parachute hadn’t deployed?

“Hey? Stay with me. Do you know your name?”

Henry attempted to rattle off his name, rank, and serial number, but that only caused the hot liquid in his throat to bubble and froth.

“Listen, you’ve lost a lot of blood. You need a transfusion. Your leg has multiple fractures, but we need to take care of your head wound first. We’re taking you to the OR now.”

“Doctor, I think it’s a bullet wound,” from the attending nurse.

“It is.”

All eyes turned to Horizonman, “I shot him. 40 caliber, Glock 22, standard issue. One shot; I grazed his temple. He’s lucky, I was shooting to kill. He ran off, took a nasty tumble down the cliff onto the road and got hit by a car. The driver absconded before I made it down the slope, but I got the plate: Alpha Charlie 719-28 Bravo Delta.”

Complete silence. They rushed Henry into the OR, but the nurse who’d identified Henry’s injury as a gunshot wound lingered.

“Why bring him in? If you were shooting to kill?”

Horizonman shrugged, “I admired his moxy.”

“We’re going to need to get a statement. We’ll need you to wait here until the police arrive.

What’s your name?”

“Names are meaningless. But he called me Sarge.”

#

Detective Nawa threw the file on Sargeant Buford’s desk. Buford picked up the folder and opened it. Atop a pile of documents, a picture of a severe looking man in military attire stared at him with dead eyes.

“Sergeant Kaktis. What am I looking at here?” He asked as he rummaged through the paperwork.

Before he could read the details, Nawa summed up, “He was dishonorably discharged three years ago for the unlawful assault of one of the rangers, Souffleur, in his squad. Huge scandal.”

Buford held up a paper almost entirely blacklined with redactions, “He attacked one of his own men? ” scratching his head, “There’s bound to be more to the story. What else do we know?”

“Not much. Yet. But take a look at this,” Nawa replied, pulling up a photo on his phone,

“This is Ranger Souffleur.”

Buford cocked his head, “Is that our mountain man?”

“That’s right. And the man who brought him in, identified only as Sarge, evidently touched the glass door on his way out. CSI lifted dozens of prints,” Nawa paused to amp the suspense.

“Don’t tell me we actually have a suspect?”

“Suspect. Or possible witnesses. Someone we urgently need to locate, in either case. Guess who two of the prints belonged to.”

“Sarge Kaktis,” Buford concluded, “Well, looks like we’re headed back to Sisters of Mercy. Any word on the vic’s status? Or sign of our alleged hit and run vehicle?”

“Nothing yet - on either. No match on the plate numbers, and we’re still trying to locate next of kin. It appears both of Souffleur’s parents are deceased. No siblings, but there’s an estranged wife and daughter out there somewhere. Matter of time.”

“Right, let’s head to Sisters, see if we can trace a path back to the mountain. I’d also like to have a chat with the attending surgeon, see if the vic’s injuries track with a hit and run. Maybe our ranger will wake up soon and be able to give a statement.”

Nawa’s phone rang: Sisters of Mercy.

“Detective Nawa. Yes. Yes,” Heavy sigh, “Ok. Thanks for letting us know. Really? OK. Well, we’re headed that way now.”

Nawa looked perplexed, “He didn’t make it. But it wasn’t the head injury. The doctor thought we’d want to discuss the toxicology report. Apparently our ranger had an entire apothecary in his system, but none of the drugs they found were his prescribed antipsychotics. They also found some suspicious injuries. His words.”

“Suspicious injuries? Alright then, let’s grab a coffee on the way. It’s gonna be a long one.”

He gazed back down at the picture of Kaktis, “What the hell happened out there, Sergeant?”

I hurl the entire can against the canvas out of frustration, splashing blood red paint against the floor and walls, crime scene style. This isn’t going the way I want. I need to check myself, so stop to roll a joint. No one smokes joints anymore, which is a shame. There’s something to the ritual of rolling a joint that’s as relaxing as the joint itself. I haven’t been able to paint anything in weeks and I’m getting irritated. I switch out my Cocteau Twins Pink Opaque for The Damned’s Neat Neat Neat. I need something more aggro. I briefly consider going next door to see if my neighbor has any blow, but decide to pop open another energy drink instead. Funny, all the sugar and additives in this gut rotting beverage are arguably worse for my body than a bump of coke. But nevermind that. How do I shake this creative block?

I abandon the project and take my joint down to the waterfront. That always calms me. It’s a gorgeous day, despite yesterday’s thunderstorms. Or maybe because of them. I normally produce my best work in the wake of turmoil, so I get it, I tell the universe. I find a place on the seawall to sit, extracting my earbuds so I can hear the ocean’s song. My Piscean nature compels me to the water when I need to self-soothe. I spark my joint and sit there smoking, watching the sun glistening on the water. I’m hushed by the collision of waves as the ocean exhales them onto the shore before inhaling them back into her depths once more. Slowly, the frustration begins to ebb.

I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and holding my breath at the top. I count to seven before fully exhaling through my mouth. I need to carry this feeling with me back to the art loft. That’s the problem. It’s easy to get zen while I’m sitting here, near the ocean. Then I go back into the city and something inevitably fucks me up again. I suspect that’s how life is in the Olde Towne for most of us. We’re all scouring the city for these precious, borrowed moments of tranquility. The OT is feral. I never expected to stay here after my mother and brother were killed in a partisan rebellion. But then I found my chosen family, joined the underground resistance, opened the diner, and. Well, here I remain. I suppose it’s as close to home as anything else I’ve ever known.

Why can’t I just live in this moment forever? Why is serenity so difficult to hold on to? I sigh deeply as I look at my watch. I’m sure Owen is fine at the diner alone, but he always gets nervous if I don’t make an appearance by late afternoon. It’s understandable. Sweepers lurk in every gangway; beasts of prey. You never know when they’ll strike, and I’m mouthy enough to get pinched. Especially if I encounter a Sweeper who’s feeling particularly self-righteous. Technically, the diner is on neutral ground, at least in tacit terms. Even so, as female-presenting, I can’t be too careful. One could argue that women get it worse than non-white men. The black and brown men are simply shot or thrown over the wall. Women, well. I can’t contemplate that right now. Nothing will push me from my zen place faster.

I perform seven final rounds of breathwork, scanning each chakra along the way. My third eye chakra and pineal gland are ablaze. This baffles me. My third eye chakra is my creative center. If it’s so damned active, why can’t I paint? I scan again. My root and sacral chakras feel slightly misaligned. This gives me pause. The root chakra is connected to security, safety; feeling grounded. Am I blocked because I suspect something sinister is about to go down? Of course, there's another plausible interpretation: the sacral chakra is tied to sexual desire. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been feeling pretty ungrounded since Naddy unexpectedly cut ties.

Whatever, doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I stand and stretch. I thought we were clicking, even though we only dated for a couple months. We had tons of mind blowing sex, but we didn’t spend all of our time in bed. We spent many nights talking until dawn. If I’m honest, I thought we were both catching feels. Admittedly, I have the tendency to over-romanticize things, and Naddy is an unapologetic cad. Still. Her absence underscores how special, how seen I felt in her presence. I honestly don’t think I had expectations or an attachment to any particular outcome. I think I’m just annoyed at being so abruptly and summarily ghosted. I feel like I deserved at least a Well, that was swell, but the swelling’s gone down, so I’m gonna bounce. Or something.

I try to shake it off. I take a few more grounding breaths before I leave. I hope like hell everyone will Namaste the fuck away on my walk through the Olde Towne to the diner. Crap, I need to hustle. It’s nearly quitting time Uptown. Within the hour, the OT will be flooded with Uptown sex tourists and pleasure seekers galore. Especially considering it’s Friday. Owen’s a fine cook, but his neurodivergence doesn't lend itself to people skills. Plus, this misaligned root chakra business has notched up my spidey senses. Better to be in the safety of the diner if things do go sideways.

I stick to the waterfront as long as possible, but I’m eventually forced to move through the more densely populated area of the OT. Three early bird Uptowners are walking in front of me, talking loudly and occupying too much space. I roll my eyes and inhale deeply. I’m trying to stay zen here - can everyone fuck off a little? I’m hoping the Uptowners get distracted, allowing me a moment to circumvent them unmolested. I’m still wearing my paint splattered coveralls, which aren’t very flattering. That should work to my advantage. Out of nowhere, a man on the docks with a wide, entirely unsettling, shark-toothy grin waves, calling out to the Uptowners in front of me, encouraging them to join him. The three men excitedly trot off. I hope they don’t make their way to the diner later, but realize it’s an unfortunately grim possibility. Can’t worry about that now. I seize my opportunity to make it to the diner instead.

I don’t know if I’ve spooked myself, or if there’s legit evil afoot, but I shift into hypervigilance mode. Better safe than sorry. I arrive at the diner just in time. It’s busier than usual, and Owen is on the brink of a meltdown. The moment he sees me, he darts from the kitchen, grabs me by the shoulders, and pulls me in for a hug. He’s not big on physical touch, so I know something is way off kilter. Damnit. I hate being right about the wrong things. When I ask him what’s up, he has some difficulty articulating, but nods to the table in the far left corner. Sweepers. It’s clear by their Sears suits and sense of entitlement; so turgid it permeates the diner.

I look around and note that my regulars are stubbornly planted and ready to throw down. Stonewall style if need be. These are my people. And they’ve got my six, whatever may come. My heart swells with pride. I love my chosen family. It’s times like this when all uncertainty fades away. I know that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. Whatever that means, for whatever it’s worth. It must be worth something.

The Sweepers immediately start barking orders at me from across the room. I already want to punch the loudest of the three in the face. Namaste, motherfuckers. I motion at my coveralls and hitch my thumb toward the back of the diner, indicating I need to change, but will return in a jiffy. One of them grunts in disapproval, another grumbles something about the help, and the last makes a particularly inflammatory remark about needing to keep my kind in check. They’re just trying to rattle us, I remind myself; to keep us living in fear. Fuck. That. I think defiantly as I head to the back to change. I’ll choose dying on my feet over living on my knees. Every time.

I pop a xanax and a weed gummy before I head back to deal with the shit show. One of the Sweepers tells me I clean up real nice for an older broad. Un. Believe. Able. So we’re playing it like that, straight out the gate? Smiling with dead eyes, I ask what I can get them to eat. I try to choose my words carefully, to avoid invitations, but they find a way to work in Are you on the menu? nonetheless. I vomit in my mouth a little.

Miraculously, I’m able to maintain my plastic smile and reply, “I’m not on the menu, I create the menu. I’m the owner.”

But they already know that. They’re Sweepers. It’s their business to know who owns what in the OT. I tell them I’ll give them a minute longer to decide, then turn to leave.

The guy amongst them most bloated with privilege isn’t having it, “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you. Bitch.”

There’s an audible intake of breath, followed by tomblike silence from the other patrons. Snap, one of my most fiercely protective regulars, looks at me, raising an eyebrow. He’s ready to cut a bitch, even at his own expense. But that’s too high a price. I won’t allow it. I nod slightly, letting him know he can stand down. For now.

The tension in the dinner is palpable.

I turn, widening my plastic smile and reply, “I’m sorry. I think you misread my name tag. It’s Elle. You know, like the letter,” I trace an L in the air with my finger. The guy looks like he’s about to burst at his bloated seams when I add, “It’s ok, no worries. Words are hard. I understand.” My saccharine sweet tone confuses him. While he tries to work out whether or not he’s being mocked, I turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, “Be right back with that coffee.” It takes every ounce of self control I have to stifle a quip about how there are pictures on the menu in case the words are too big. I’m already treading a thin line, I remind myself. Except.

Except I’m not certain I care anymore. I’m fucking tired of their intimidation tactics. I walk into the kitchen to get the coffee and notice that Owen has switched from meltdown mode to ranger mode. He was a ranger in the special forces, some lifetime ago. He lifts the back of his apron so I can see he’s packing. If the Sweepers so much as lay a finger on me, they're dead men. That won’t be the end of it, though. It will only be the beginning. But that’s where we are.

I focus on my breathing while waiting on other customers. I reassure them that everything is going to be fine. I also want the Sweepers to know I’m not intimidated. And I’m sure as hell not responding to Bitch. They can suck my dick. The Sweepers are growing agitated. They’re talking loudly about how a woman’s only purpose is to serve her husband and raise his children. Typical inflammatory Sweeper rhetoric. I want to pour steaming hot coffee on their crotches. If I do that, they’ll attempt to haul me off. Here and now.

Owen will get his gun, Snap his knife and, if any of us make it out alive, our days will be seriously numbered. The Sweepers will launch a full scale raid, hitting not only the diner, but the docks, the underground, even the art loft. It’s too many potential casualties to contemplate. I can’t have that much blood on my hands. I realize that I’m standing there motionless, coffee carafe in hand. The bloated Sweeper is talking, but his words are muffled by the sound of blood rushing to my head. I want to eviscerate this sack of filth. I try to focus on my breath. I can’t ground myself. My hands are trembling.

“Hey! Are you stupid too? You’ve got one fucking job to do. You forget how to pour coffee?

I can feel the diners holding their breath.

I pour the coffee onto his crotch and, as he shrieks like an absolute girl in agony and disbelief, I smash the carafe into the second guy's skull, then use the broken glass to slit the third guy’s throat.

I shake the fantasy from my head.

“Hello? I said pour me a cup of coffee. Now, Bitch.”

I am barely able to steady my hand as I pour his coffee.

“There you go. Was that so hard?” He asks, before leaning over and smacking my ass.

Owen jumps over the kitchen counter and is halfway across the diner when, like a hero from one of those old Marvel movies, in walks Sydney. I almost visibly sigh with relief, but I can’t blow his cover. He’s been working his way through the Uptown ranks as our covert for months, and we need him to stay embedded. Fortunately, Sydney is a quick study. He reads the room, and calls to the Sweepers excitedly.

“Hey, guys what’s up?” He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. If one of these morons so much as looks at me sideways, Sydney might not be able to hold it down, “You gotta come see this. There’s a pop-up sex show on the docks. They’re picking guys from the audience and taking requests. Shit’s getting real!”

The Sweepers are all in. As they gather their cheap suit jackets to leave, the most cantankerous of the bunch makes eye contact with me and says, “Let’s go have some fun, guys. Service here is shit anyway.”

When the door shuts behind them, the diner heaves a collective sigh of relief. Owen approaches and asks if I’m ok. He was ready to kill them all, I can see it in his eyes. He would have eliminated all three before the first guy’s body hit the floor.

Snap lays a gentle hand on my shoulder in support. “Elesea, them fools are getting bold with the wrong bunch. I promise you that!”

I can feel it now with certitude: we’re on the precipice of a bloody revolution. Do or die.

A few hours later, Sydney returns and tells me it’s all been taken care of. I don’t ask questions. He insists on escorting me to the loft. Once there, Sydney leaves to catch up with a couple friends. He offers to walk me home after I finish painting, if he’s still around. I don’t decline, but forewarn him it could be a while. He copies that and takes off to do his own thing. I am immensely grateful for him, for all of my people. My tribe.

I rip a couple bong tokes and put on Love’s Secret Domain by Coil as I mix my paints. I work furiously, completely losing track of time. After I’ve filled two canvases, I stop to survey my work. The first canvas is a depiction of the diner. Owen is bopping around the kitchen in his headphones, cooking. Snap is sitting at the bar with three of his ladies, laughing joyfully. A few other regulars litter the background, everyone eating and talking amiably. Comfortably. As if they aren’t anticipating a scene like the one that played out today to erupt into bedlam at any given moment.

The second canvas is a depiction of Tangos, the underground French bistro that hangs my art. Pierre, the owner, is there, his kind, round face smiling widely; like it’s Paris in spring. That’s the thing about people who have everything taken from them and nothing to lose: they find bliss in the unlikeliest of places. If they don’t, if they allow the enemy to crush their spirits, then the enemy truly wins. Once upon a time, a night like this at Tangos would have been taken for granted. People in the OT don’t take anything for granted anymore. Moments like these, with friends, with family, are all we have left.

The diner, Tangos; the places are inconsequential. These places aren’t my home. These people are my home. I look down. One empty canvas remains. I pick it up and place it on the easel. I start painting with abandon, surrendering to the vision. It’s come to me in dreams. I know why I have resisted it, but I no longer can.

Right on cue, the titular track of Love’s Secret Domain begins playing.

In dreams, I’ll walk with you. In dreams, I’ll talk with you. In dreams you are mine. All of the time.

I finish, breathless, spent, and stand back to admire her likeness. The severe black bob that frames her exquisite, strong jawline. Her long, delicate neck and jutting clavicles. The mischievous glint in her dark, green-gray eyes. Her Mona Lisa smirk that always makes me feel like the secrets of the universe will spill through her full lips right into the depths of me. I can’t deny it; it wasn’t a fling. We didn’t meet by accident. Naddy is part of my tribe. That’s how the story ends. Or, more importantly, that’s how it begins.

“Come back Naddy,” I whisper to her likeness, to the universe, to her. I know she can feel me.

“Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. Come home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TITLE: Elesea in Dreams?

GENRE: Literary Fiction

AGE RANGE: Adult

WORD COUNT: 2956

AUTHOR’S NAME: Ane R Key

WHY IT'S A GOOD FIT: I've written a trilogy of shorts, each providing insight into one of three protagonists of my untitled novel. Each short stands alone, so can be marketed separately, or as a collection promoting the novel.

THE HOOK: Sweepers from Uptown scour the OT for women and non-whites, eager to imprison, shoot them. Or worse. What they don't realize is that Elesea’s tribe is ready to throw down, Stonewall style. The resistance is drawing near, but it is anything but futile.

SYNOPSIS: Elesea runs a diner that operates as headquarters for an underground resistance in the OT. She's formed a tacit agreement with the self righteous, morally upright Uptowners that their secret police, the Sweepers, will leave her diner in peace so long as they are able to carouse on the docks of the OT with sex-workers. As tensions mount, Elle rallies her tribe. Yet, one key player is absent: Naddy, a woman with whom Elle had a brief but intense affair. Realizing that Naddy plays a crucial role, both in her life, and in the revolution about to transpire, Elesea sends out a psychic SOS, calling Naddy home. Will Naddy answer her call in time?

TARGET AUDIENCE: Fans of both the Marvel and DC universes, as well as Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, and John Burnside fans. People who enjoy stories of vigilante justice, revenge, and antiheroes. People who identify as non-binary, queer, or are otherwise disenfranchised. People who enjoy twists and creative, non-traditional literary fiction.

AUTHOR’S BIO: I am a queer, female-identified, feminist, anarchist, and creator. I am an educator, agitator, and fierce advocate of bodily autonomy and critical thinking. I am an avid reader, a polyglot; a lover of languages, literature, and learning. I have my BA in Philosophy and World Religion, and my MA in Education and TESOL. I am US born and lived most of my life in Seattle, Washington. I have also lived in Japan, Germany, and currently reside in Portugal, where I teach part time, and perform energy work, guided meditation and tarot readings part time. My free time is spent traveling, reading, writing, watching films, or at music venues. I am dedicated to the practice of yoga, and spend my time between embodied, meditative states of consciousness and liminal, disembodied spaces. I'm also the proud owner of the world's best travel companion, my dog, Chopper.

LITERARY STYLE: I create characters who challenge readers by defying traditional archetypes. I enjoy complex, interpersonal relationships, exploring, and subverting, concepts such as linear time, imposed paradigms, the patriarchy, and hetronormative assumptions. My favorite schools of philosophy are ontology and epistemology, and I find it interesting to weave threads of these philosophies into my work. I counterbalance these philosophical musings and reflections with rapid bursts of forward motion. I hesitate to refer to my work as plot driven as my first consideration is to the development of unconventional characters whom the reader finds inexplicably relatable. There is a fair amount of drug use and small measures of violence in my work, albeit none too graphic. Regarding drug use: there are far greater evils than drug use and, let's face it, big pharma and for-profit prisons are making a killing from the war against drugs. Rather than being gratuitous, I submit it as social commentary.

*Note: I am submitting the other two shorts, Samantha in the Red Dress? and The Devil in Disguise

Nyx grinds the Chevy to a halt on the side of the road, kicking up dust and spinning gravel; a torrent of torment. They are hot for trouble tonight. They fling the door open, ejecting well-bronzed, fishnet-clad gams in flushed fury. Their sacral ache is palpable; carnal longings. Nyx side-shimmies from the hot vinyl seat; their pink, satin thong momentarily visible before they pull down their denim mini skirt with one delicately manicured fingernail. Cocaine and spray tan salons are keeping this town in business, Nyx laughs. Everyone here with money is tanned up and coked out. And me? Nyx wonders. They realize they’re just keeping time with the devils they know: self indulgence and retribution.

Forward motion. Nyx spies the trio of slick-haired, well-tanned men behind the convenience store, talking up a storm. Two undercover partners and one of their informants. I am an agent of change. Or of chance. It’s all the same to me, Nyx shrugs. A hush falls over the men as they admire Nyx, who stands for a moment, allowing the men to absorb them in all their savage glory; clad in purple fishnets, chartreuse fuck-me pumps, short, denim skirt, and a shredded Slayer Hell Awaits tanktop. How apropos, Nyx snickers. These men made a grave error, pun intended. They messed with the wrong person’s friend.

Time to act. Nyx walks their pussy like a dog over to the slick men behind the convenient store. Nyx places one foot in front of the other; heels click-clacking, a cacophony on cobblestone. Their hips switch like blades as they approach the trio, creating friction under the denim skirt. Their inner thighs taught with swagger, Nyx approaches the tallest of the lot. Nyx is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. They grin, moving in for the kill. Here, sheepie sheepies.

The men start cat-calling, which quickly escalates to lewd degradation. Just like life, Nyx notes with disgust. They think I’m a sex worker. Fair enough, I’ve been popped for solicitation a few times. I did my time whether or not I actually did the crime. Nyx is lucky, they always have money to lawyer up and bail out. Less fortunates are forced to either snitch or get on their knees for the dirty cops running the police department. Her friend, Nada, doesn’t have money and isn’t a snitch. Nyx has been watching these men for some time, so knows all about their dirty deeds: the drugs they run, the gangs they supply with coke and guns, the people they exploit and abuse. Nyx even knows how the partners double cross each other. The two thugs arrested Nada twice and assaulted her both times. Nyx begins counting the moments until they’re on their knees. Begging for mercy. Hell Awaits.

One, two, three…

Nyx inwardly recoils. Outwardly, they’re all smiles and subterfuge. The war within! Nyx bites their lower lip as they saddle up next to the tallest man, pressing their body against his. Nyx touches their painted lips lightly to his throat, against his carotid artery, and exhales a warm breath. The man is solid granite from head to toe. Nyx can feel his grotesque protrusion pressing menacingly against their upper thigh. The bile rises.

Four, five, six…

No tan lines with a spray tan, Nyx considers. They study the creases in the man’s neck and folds around his mouth as it curls into more of a snarl than a smile. He’s coked out and sniffing wildly. Nyx can smell the blow on his breath as he exhales; a mixture of kerosene and vitriol.

Purrfect, thinks Nyx. The hungrier he is for it, the more likely to succumb. The man asks how much it’ll cost to take him around the world while offering Nyx a bump of blow from his car key. Nyx inhales; the blow was clearly brought across the border in a gas tank, hence the kerosene aroma. Blow’s not their favorite, but it’s decent quality. And Nyx knows it’s better to play into pretense, so accepts a second bump. Nyx tells him for an 8 ball of blow they’ll do him and his friend. The more the merrier! The tall man winks at the second undercover. Clearly, this isn’t their first rodeo.

Nyx swallows back bile and widens their smile, hoping to draw attention away from the loathing behind their eyes. Narcissistic, spray tanned, coked out, crooked undercovers are typically easy marks. Still, Nyx can’t risk giving themself away. Too much is at stake. Poker face sliding, Nyx pretends to drop their purse, bends over, nice and slow, allowing the denim mini to creep up, exposing their pink, satin thong once more. Nyx stands slowly, doesn’t pull down their skirt too quickly, then walks to their car without casting a backward glance.

Seven, eight, nine…

The two men grin, nudge each other, bump up more blow, then follow. They always follow.

Nada will never have to worry about these two again.

The men won’t make it to ten, Nyx smirks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trees are zooming by so quickly that Nada can scarcely count the species. Counting is important to her. Numbers matter. The Universe Tells its Secrets Through Numbers. The chaos of the trees is unsettling. They are mostly evergreens, so she need not count them all, Nada consoles herself. Sometimes. Most times, you can only ever know part of a thing. The part that can’t hide itself. The trees are too blurry. It’s disconcerting, so Nada concentrates on the sounds instead. The drone of the engine is almost consistent. It is comforting enough that she’s able to focus on her breath, pulling it first deeply into her lungs, then allowing it to expand into her belly and calm her parasympathetic nervous system. She allows her thoughts to pass by like clouds, without attachment. None of them matter. Nothing matters. It’s a thought so liberating it causes Nada to weep.

Nyx would wipe away my tears, Nada laments. It starts raining and the driver turns on the wipers. The steady, rhythmic swish click of the wipers is a blessing as it drowns out the deafening silence. She has nothing to say to the woman driving her away from everything and one she loves; driving through the forest, trees whooshing past too quickly to count. Nothing about this feels right, Nada decides. The halfway house is apparently halfway to the middle of nowhere. Isolation is a key element of the program’s success in rehabilitating minors, they say. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nyx will find her. Rescue but not save her. But even that won’t matter. Her conclusion is forgone, Nada knows. From the moment the dirty cop arrested her, she’s been counting her numbered days. No one outruns a dirty cop. They’ll find her no matter where the judge sends her. Many judges, like cops, have backs that want scratching.

Still, better to spend the remainder of her days with Nyx than not at all. So Nada shuts her eyes and breathes; intrusive thoughts zip by overhead like clouds as rapidly as the trees zip past the car window. She remembers Nyx’s touch. She counts to ten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walls are that special shade of institutional white that causes one to hallucinate if they stare at them too long. White is the most odious color - reflecting back all the visible wavelengths of light that shine upon it. Pompous dick of a color really, Nada sniffs as she resists the temptation to give the walls attention. There is nothing to count and the only sound she hears is the maddening tick tock of the wall clock. She can count the seconds, she thinks. But she knows that’s a trap because then she’ll be thinking about time. She can’t think about time.

If she’s a good girl, if she just settles down, stays calm, and does as she’s told, they’ll remove the five point restraints, they tell her between thorazine injections. They’ll leave her in solitary confinement a few days longer, until she proves she’s not a harm to herself. Or others. Half right, Nada considers. Less than that, actually. It isn’t her they ought to be concerned with. When Nyx gets here and finds out they’ve strapped me to a hospital bed, then. Then they will know true terror, Nada thinks. She likes this particular thought. It’s enough to help her return to her breathing.

Thoughts pass like clouds.

Days later, Nada is allowed into the general population. She is a very good girl. They even stop the thorazine injections. When she blinks, the world is no longer hazy around the edges. And there are so many things to count: patients, therapy sessions, picture books, sock puppets, crayons, meal times, nurses and doctors, correction officers and wardens. Her days consist of numbers rather than minutes. Her thought clouds begin forming a celestial tower. A beacon. This is how Nyx finds me, she tells herself. Nyx will see my cloud tower, no matter how far away they are. How far away are you? Nada wonders without weeping. Only naughty girls weep. She is a good girl. So very good.

She remains calm, and a few days later, they grant her a true privilege: for one hour (that’s 42 sock puppets and 13 crayons) she is allowed to sit in the courtyard. The fence isn’t too high. She could climb it before they caught her. But how far will she make it in a hospital gown and no shoes? She considers this a bit longer, but decides to count instead. The view from the courtyard consists primarily of a dull gray parking lot. One shiny yellow Rolls Royce is parked in the center. It belongs to one of the shrinks. The for-profit, privatized institution is lousy with unethical doctors amassing small fortunes.

There is a basketball court. One slack jawed, doped up patient dribbles the ball idly as drool dribbles down his chin. Nada focuses on the syncopated beat of the ball hitting the court. It’s maddeningly irregular, but enough to count. As long as she can count, she can breathe. As long as she can breathe, she can keep constructing her cloud tower, her bat signal to Nyx. They will come for me soon, Nada tells herself.

When a nurse ushers the dribbling dribbler inside, Nada notices a bush in the back corner of the basketball court and her heart soars. She knows this species! It’s a bougainvillea - her grandmother has scores of them. Its bright pink flowers call to her. Unable to resist, Nada slowly stands from her plastic stool. A watchful nurse takes a tentative step in her direction, but is held back by a correctional officer. He’s secretly hoping Nada will misbehave so he can restrain her in solitary confinement again. Nada isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. But she is unable to resist the lure of the bougainvillea. So many flowers to count!

It is a thing of unspeakable beauty, this one lone bougainvillea amidst a sea of gray asphalt. As Nada stands, entranced, a ray of sunshine pierces the otherwise dismal day, illuminating the flower's colors in kaleidoscopic cadence. So many hues of pink, she notices for the first time. Strange, how often she stared at this exact species in her grandmother’s yard yet never noticed, until this particular moment, how varied its hues are. As if orchestrated, three butterflies alight atop three different flowers. Six miracles, Nada muses. She doesn’t know butterfly species, but their wings are bright orange, lined in black, and their entire bodies are speckled with tiny white spots. Nada nearly weeps at their beauty.

But the correctional officer is poised for the pounce. Nada dares not give him reason. She attempts to count the petals of each burgeoning bloom. It’s proving rather difficult. The correctional officer decides Nada is not providing reasonable cause and leaves. He can find other patients in need of discipline. Nada watches the butterfly trio, wondering if they’re a family. Or, maybe they’re all butterfly buddies. Just. You know. Hanging out. She genuinely nearly laughs. She has never witnessed anything as breathtaking. She has never felt more alone.

What if Nyx doesn’t come? For the first time, Nada honestly wonders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

On the second floor of the building facing the courtyard, an aggressively mustached man stands nose to window squinting under heavily knitted eyebrows. When a second guy walks in, the mustached man is oblivious. It’s clear to the second guy that there’s something out there to behold. He walks over to the mustached man and follows his line of vision.

“What the fuck?” he manages before a figure ducks behind a tree at the far end of the parking lot.

“You see that too?”

The second man shakes his head no but replies, “I saw…something. Some. One. ?”

“I know what you mean. Tell me - ” Mustache asks, raising an eyebrow, “What did you see?”

“Someone wearing a denim miniskirt - and ripped up stockings with some kinda yellow-green high heels. Ripped up shirt. Weird hair too, almost the same color as the shoes. Pretty sure it’s a wig. ?”

“Right. Ok. So I ain’t crazy. Maybe.”

“How long they been there?”

“I dunno,” Mustache shrugs, “Off and on for a couple of days. No more than three, far as I can tell. I been calling him - her - it - the Watcher. They seem harmless enough. Just hanging around. You know. Watching.”

“What?” Second guy is dumbfounded, “And you ain’t told no one?” He now seems suspicious. “What the hell? You know you’re supposed to say if you see anyone hanging around like that.”

Mustache man stands upright, a full head taller than Second guy. He looks him in the eye, squares his jaw, knits his heavy brow and, before he can say anything, Second guy makes a hasty departure. Whether to go tattle on him like a little bitch, or because he’s actually concerned, Mustache isn’t certain. What he is certain of is that something smells rotten. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t reported the Watcher either. Honestly, he can’t make out their gender. They could just as easily be a perverted man in a wig as they could a troubled mother in a poorly executed disguise.

Perhaps Mustache is confused by the ambiguous gender of the Watcher. Perhaps he is confused by his ambiguous arousal. But his confusion doesn’t matter. Something bad is about to happen. He can feel it deep inside his mustache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

Nyx holds their breath behind the maple tree and counts to 10. That mustached man and his cohort spotted them. That’s ok, they tell themself. It just accelerates the plan. Same plan, just kicked into high gear. Nyx is still in high gear from the encounter with the spray tanned undercovers. Nyx has over a kilo of blow left from the dirty cops. It’s enough to get Nada away from here. They can live for a while together, somewhere, anywhere else. Nyx just needs to move the blow. It won’t be difficult, they reassure themself.

We’ll sell most of it and head across the border. I’ll just keep a small stash for myself, gradually wean myself off, Nyx reasons. We can live comfortably. For a while. This plan makes an incredible amount of sense to Nyx as they emerge from behind the tree. The mustached man appears to be gone, so Nyx makes a break for the back door to the left of the courtyard. They never seem to have more than one guard stationed there. It’s the weakest point of entry and, as luck has it, close to Nada’s room.

Nyx is going to attempt to open the back door, sounding the alarm, wait for the one dumb guard to open the door, brain them, then storm the castle. They’ll rush straight down the hallway, four doors down to Nada’s room, grab her, and head straight back out the way they came in.

Nyx will kill anyone who tries to stop them.

Nyx sees a flurry of movement in the 2nd floor window as they run toward the back door. Purrfect. The orderlies are distracted. They’re all upstairs looking for Nyx from the window. I’m coming for you, baby girl. Nyx sends the psychic message with everything they have: I’m coming, Nada. Be ready. I’m taking you home.

Nyx kicks the door handle, tripping the alarm as they pull the undercover’s gun from the waistband of their denim miniskirt.

The guard opens the door, as carelessly as anticipated.

And so it begins.

Nyx is taking Nada home.

Where is home? Nyx isn’t sure.

They wonder what home even means.

Nyx bashes the guard in the back of the skull with the gun.

The alarm is louder than they expected.

The whole place reeks of antiseptic and despair.

Nyx sees Nada halfway down the hallway. She is standing there in gowns; a heavenly apparition. Nada starts to laugh as she runs towards Nyx. Nada’s laughter is music in their soul.

Nada throws herself at Nyx, who pauses a moment to feel their hearts pressed together, hammering in joyous unison.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Nothing could have stopped me. Now, common baby girl, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Nyx grabs Nada and runs for the door, away from this, into the great unknown. Nyx feels Nada’s tears of relief and joy as she presses her face against the nape of their neck.

At this moment, Nyx understands exactly what home means.

I find myself here

In nowhere

Nowhen

The entire world splintered

And so it begins

The sky is all littered

And glittered with stars

Flesh marks our wisdom

By tattoos and scars

I wonder aloud:

Where do our dreams live?

The whole price of blood,

The love that we give?

Tucked away in dark places

Where fantasies dwell

In liminal spaces

Between heaven

And hell

I hazard my time

In Dantean Rings

I give little thought

To the sorrow it brings

Still

Demons persist

Relapses insist

And I get the gist

For

The game that we play,

We’ve played it before

Through infinite timelines

Most of which I’ve abhorred

Now

Perched top the roof

I gaze through my lens

Telescopic in lust

And so it begins

We could start at the beginning

Of me

Not time

There is no time

Time is a construct

Let’s imagine

That I am the last witch

In a matriarchal lineage of witches

The sole heir

Of generations of witchery

and fuckery

To be fair

Many of us

You’d loathe to meet

In alleyways

Or gangways

And as you ponder

At the difference

Between gang and alley

You might also ponder

At the difference

Between dreams and reality

The things is:

If there were more space

between molecules

We’d not have

This wondrous sensation

Of touch

And while I might be

As they once said

Slightly touched

About being touched

I have both reveled in

And been repulsed with

All the things

I’ve been touched

By

The way

To my point

Through circuitous route

It might serve to mention

That not all need mention

For those you love

Who help you transition

From phase to phase

From cocoon

To crest

You are

Never

Fully formed

And should you lose sleep

Wondering

If your thoughts are real

Even though

You know they are

If only because

You thought to think them

Nevertheless

If I were more

Eloquent

I’d tell you the horrific story

Of my life

Causing you to weep

But I’ve grown rather fond of you

As one does a houseplant

It’s a complement

Still

I’m not competent

To care for myself

Like any decent person should

I scoff at

The indecency

Of my ineptitude

I’ve been working on it for years

Despite my fears

That the only thing it will bring me

Is back to here

I’d rather be nowhere

Or everywhere

At once

But I am here now

Wondering

If I should buy a houseplant

The dragonflies circling her head formed a halo. Chayil imagined herself as a painting from one of the religious books in her father’s attic. Chayil couldn’t recall walking to the pond, removing their clothing, rubbing mud over their entire body, or falling asleep on their back under a fig tree. But then, things did oftentimes occur in the most curious ways. Being accustomed to curious things, when the dragonflies flew off and coalesced into the shape of an arrow in the distance, Chayil remained unimpressed.

Nevertheless, once she stood and began making her way toward the dragonfly arrow, a sense of urgency overcame her; Chayil’s heart began to race. For reasons they didn’t understand, they knew it was imperative that they make it to the arrow as quickly as possible.

Chayil felt like she was walking without moving. “Going nowhere fast,” she said to no one in particular. The dragonfly arrow appeared as distant as ever, pointing upward. It loomed before her like a mirage, shimmering with promise. They released their breath, inhaled deeply, recentered, exhaled, and began again. The ground appeared to be moving underfoot. It reminded Chayil of an interactive art exhibit they’d seen once, somewhere. Somewhen. Stepping on the floor of the exhibit caused different colors of light to ripple across it, much like a stone thrown into a placid pond. Where when that occurred, they couldn’t say: There was only here now and the dragonfly arrow.

After much travail, Chayil reached the arrow. As they stepped underneath it, Chayil was rendered immediately unconscious.

Sometime before or after, Chayil awoke on a train. It took them a minute to process their surroundings; the swaying motion was ambiguous, but the sound of the rails was hauntingly familiar. It was a sound deeply rooted within Chayil, almost as if it were encoded in their DNA. They remembered the dragonfly arrow vividly, although the where and when of it was blurry. Chayil recalled the pond and was filled with yearning. She longed to return. There had been an up arrow, so certainly there would be a down. That stood to reason. She surveyed her surroundings.

Chayil could see a mountain range speeding past the train to their left. To their right, they saw a wide rapid river. On the horizon, Chayil could see where the two merged, forming a sharp point. She turned and could see that the mountains and river came to a nearly identical point at roughly the same distance in the opposite direction. Chayil turned around once more, then back again. They couldn’t discern in which direction the train was moving. They turned several times in both yet, with each turn, the train appeared to be moving in whichever direction they were facing. Still, one of these train cars must contain a downward arrow, she concluded. Perhaps it wasn’t the direction of the train’s movement that mattered, but the direction she chose to move within it.

Quite unexpectedly, a dragonfly zoomed past her face. It flew in the direction previously known as forward. Chayil knew neither here nor there in the some where or when, but she did know that one ought to always follow dragonflies. She trailed it to the car door, where it hovered mockingly. Chayil recalled a door such as this from some where when, so knew to press the lever while pulling. It was an inexplicable muscle memory more than anything. They might be sleepwalking, Chayil considered. Perhaps they’d been sleepwalking for some time.

Was she dreaming? She wondered. The detailed textiles, their tactile quality, the richness of the fabrics, the sounds, the vibrations, even the odors were rather convincing. She opened the first car door and could smell the river. All their senses in overload, Chayil stepped through the second door, allowing it to crash shut behind her. An oppressive feeling of disorientation washed over her: she was now entirely uncertain where or when she’d begun. Was the pond her destination? Or were they trying to get the train home from the pond? What or where was home? In some unknown where when, were people expecting her?

From the darkness of the second car a voice bellowed, “And what anchors have you thrown down then? Expecting you can dock any where when?”

Then, Chayil saw a figure in the center of the car, indistinct yet vaguely menacing.

“That’s on target with you jumpers: entitlement!”

Chayil shook her head and held out her hands in a gesture of peace, “That’s not me. I’m not. I’m not - a jumper. Honestly, I’m not even sure what that is. I’m just. Looking for something.”

The figure appeared to be amassing into something person-esque.

Chayil continued, “I’m looking for a dragonfly arrow. To get back to the pond. I’m half certain that’s where I ought to be.”

“I suppose half certain is better than uncertain. And if you said you were completely certain, I’d know you were lying. I will help you. Let’s go, back the way you came.”

“Back?” Chayil questioned, “Are you positive? I’m not sure that’s correct. I saw a dragonfly head this way.”

The figure had now materialized into a child-sized man in a tweed suit, blackened from soot; coal rouged his cheeks. “But only the head of it?” They gasped. “How dreadful!”

Ignoring the figure’s nonsense, Chayil snapped, “If the dragonfly went this way, so should we all!”

The manchild complied begrudgingly and, just as the pair neared the car door, they heard as much as felt a deep tremor. This was more than the train skipping the tracks, friction, or poor conducting. This was a mighty wave from the center of the earth; an attempt to shake them off its back like a dog shaking off water. They were trespassers, Chayil and the manchild both. She could see it rather clearly: The train was a coconspirator abetting her escape. To where or when Chayil could only guess.

There came another rumbling, and the train lurched for or backward as if pushing them in the direction of the dragonfly, despite the manschild’s insistence they proceed in the opposite. What did he know anyway? Chayil wondered. After all, he seemed to be stuck here in less than corporeal form. The train lurched a third time, and Chayil knew it was time to move. She pushed down the lever of the door while pulling it open. It was like pulling a cork from a bottle; a valve released in a previously unrecognized vacuum, sucking the air from their lungs.

Chayil had to exert a tremendous amount of force to step into the third car. They leaned into it with their head down, like a mime walking against the wind. Once inside, she looked back to see how the manchild was getting on, but he remained in the second car, far more cowardly in deed than word. Predictable. Chayil winced at the cowardice of men. It made no difference to her whether he come or stay. He watched her through the door window as she started down the aisle. Chayil knew they had to move quickly while remaining astute. There would be smaller signs leading to bigger revelations.

The dragonfly whizzed past their face again, then hovered near the middle of the car before disappearing. Chayil became increasingly mindful of signs. Signs are commonly right in the middle of things, she knew. That’s why destination-oriented people often missed them.

Chayil heard a sound that was something between a groan and suppressed laughter. They called out, “Hello? Is someone there?”

“Some one is presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

“Dear is presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree?”

A chuckle, then, “Touché. It’s all relative, I suppose. But then, isn’t that the problem precisely?”

Impatiently, Chayil replied, “Perhaps. At any rate, I’m looking for a dragonfly arrow. Will you help me or not?”

“Demands, demands, straightaway, I see! You assume that I can? That interests me.”

“I do. You must know the place where you are.”

“I see. Do you know the place where you are?”

“I don’t. Because this isn’t my place.”

“Presumptuous to presume that it’s mine.”

“I suppose so. Still, I believe you can help me. So, will you?”

“To the point, I have never seen this dragonfly arrow. There has been talk, as of late, of a dragonfly head. Only the head - fancy that! Might they be related?”

“In an abstract way, I suppose. But not in a way that is particularly useful.”

“Isn’t it? Queer, that! Could be you’re headed the wrong way. Is your head on the right way?”

Chayil considered this and answered, “It’s on the normal way I suppose. The dragonfly and train are both compelling me in this direction. So, you see, I must carry on this way, and bid you good day!”

“I do see. One must always pay strict attention to dragonflies. Especially their heads! Even at the peril of missing signs.”

“The dragonfly itself is a sign.”

“As you see it.”

“As I see it, indeed. Now I bid you adieu.”

“Fare thee well, sign seeker. I pray you find your place.”

With that, Chayil proceeded. They should continue to the fourth car. Shouldn’t they? Chayil stood for a moment, lost in thought. So far, a manchild and a disembodied voice had encouraged her to head in the opposite direction. And where was the dragonfly? It wasn’t hovering near the door like before. Dragonflies had led them here, so it followed a certain kind of logic that dragonflies would lead them back. Back to the pond in the where when? Chayil was turned around, lost in her head. Only the head! Where when had the voice heard that?

The fact that it didn’t make sense made a terrible kind of sense. Chayil attempted to piece together what they’d learned thus far: They were on a directionless train that didn’t appear to be stopping. They were looking for a downward dragonfly arrow, which they hoped would transport them back to a pond in the vast unknown of where whens. Yep, that checked out. Still, the absence of the dragonfly unsettled her. Smaller signs would lead to bigger revelations, Chayil said aloud.

Chayil turned back to see the manchild still watching raptly through the door window. As they made eye contact with him, he slowly shook his head no, but Chayil ignored him and continued toward the fourth car. About halfway down the corridor, she noticed what appeared to be a small blueish light on the floor; a luminescent pool. Quite without thinking, she approached it. Chayil gazed down into the pool of light, half expecting to see her own reflection. She saw, instead:

A bucolic landscape punctuated by dreams. They could see the dreams half formed in twilight hues, ascending toward the heavens. Incandescent globes wavering briefly overhead before wafting off into the ethers, like plumes of smoke from a hookah. Slowly exhaled.

Softly, a disembodied voice cooed:

One of these dreams belongs to you. Do you recognize it here now? In the before after of where when? Moments either become lost, or they become memories; it’s up to you. It’s time for you to choose: Will you take the dream?

The father watched his daughter playing near the pond, the banks of which were thick, muddy tar pits, the dinosaur killing variety; the quicksand terror of youth never encountered in adulthood. The child sat near the edge of the embankment, on a narrow patch of damp grass, oblivious to the dreams they released; the entrapments of adulthood yet unknown, lost in the imperviousness of youth. Dreams emanated from the child in rapid succession. Four incandescent orbs hovered above her head, forming a halo. As the father watched from a distance, they were struck by the religious iconography. For all the world, he might have been viewing a renaissance painting: The vestal virgin. The eternal flame.

Life happens slowly at first. There are more hours to replace self-doubt with self-discovery than one supposes. Endless hours waiting for life to begin, not realizing it has long since begun. Funny how the countless hours between one thing and the next rushed together in the end, so that the here now was indistinguishable from the there then. And, quite secretly, life happened during the in betweens, exactly when you weren’t paying attention, the father contemplated.

He’d constructed a small platform for the trainset outside the cabin so he could watch Chayil while conducting. At his house, they had an entire room dedicated to the town of Trainsville. A woefully banal name that he’d developed an affinity for over the years as it had been Chayil’s choosing. The citizens of Trainsville had proper names, families, businesses, lovers. Lives. Over the weekend, he and Chayil lost themselves; hours crashed upon hours, consumed by the construction and maintenance of their beloved town. The train would run nonstop, even whilst they slept. Trainsville clipped at a breakneck pace. They could scarcely keep up.

Dusk settled in like it longed to retreat, yet it gave up the ghost all the same. The father admired the sandcastle they’d constructed earlier. Even the sandcastle had a backstory rooted in Trainsville. He realized that Trainsville was quite literally the life he’d built with his daughter; it was theirs alone. He only got to spend time with Chayil on the weekends, a bitter point of contention between he and his ex-partner. No matter that he was the biological parent, Thomas had a bigger house and was ‘gainfully employed’, as the courts put it. Apparently, steady incomes won the race. The father could make hundreds of thousands of dollars from a single train installation, but Thomas was able to set his bills to autopay: the modern-day marker of success. The father wondered how the world had gotten here.

All Chayil’s dreams were buoyant, they floated upward with mirth; free of doubt, free of judgment. The father’s dreams bobbed with the weight of knowing. He’d always believed that knowledge was power, that knowing, no matter the cost, was preferable to not. Watching Chayil’s dreams ascend, he wondered if this were so. His child’s dreams continued to dance as they soared upward, untethered. It was as enviable as he was pitiable. Creating Chayil was the finest thing he’d ever accomplished. Not because he could see himself in Chayil. But because he could see in Chayil all that he’d never be. That was the beauty of love, he supposed.

Without warning, a mighty bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half, the subsequent crash of thunder fast behind it. The day had moments ago been idyllic; fashioned from one of Chayil’s dreams. The rapidity with which the sky darkened was in stark juxtaposition. The clouds overtook the sky with an ominous grace, the waning sunlight relinquished as if awed by their heroism. There was no combating the overtake of clouds. The father began dismantling Trainsville with far less grace than usual. Chayil looked up from her daisy chain at the sky, then at her father. There was something unfamiliar in her eyes.

Chayil was afraid.

Taking their cue from the look in their child’s eyes, the father quickened their pace. There would be no ice cream on the ride back to Thomas’ today. It was now a race between them and the indomitable storm. Except, this was more than an atmospheric anomaly; this was a cosmic disturbance of legendary proportion. Birds flew, screaming into the abyss. Ground creatures scurried, water creatures – did whatever water creatures did in a hurry. There was no time.

There was no time, the father said aloud. Chayil knew that the careless dismantling of the train set meant serious business. Everything that followed, did so in slow motion. At least, that’s how both father and child would describe it if given the chance. Strange, how quickly things can change. In the blink of an eye, one can find themselves completely at odds with all they’ve ever thought they’ve known.

Chayil’s memories were fragmented with the passing of time, regardless of the direction in which it passed. They heard their father calling out to them urgently. She ran over to help him pack up Trainsville, beginning with the landscape pieces, trees and mountains, then moving on to the buildings. Just as father taught her. She watched her father fumble with the controls of the train.

Chayil watched the train race around the track faster and faster as father smashed the power button repeatedly with his palm. When it was apparent the control was jammed, he ran inside to cut the power at the source. Chayil was nearly amused by the train’s reckless course. Nearly, except for the inexplicable feeling of rising dread. It began in the pit of her stomach and raced up her spine, causing the base of her skull to tingle. The hypnotic motion of the toy train transfixed Chayil. They couldn’t look away, even when they heard the scream from inside the cabin.

Traumatic memories are oftentimes anachronistically recalled, they’d been reassured some where when. Still, Chayil couldn’t shake the feeling that their father’s scream had nothing whatsoever to do with the lightning bolt that struck the cabin. Something altogether more sinister transpired, of that she was certain. Even so, the thing that Chayil recalled most vividly was the sound of the train as it zipped around frantically, occasionally skipping off the tracks.

Chayil came to: The train was rushing for or backwards perilously, occasionally skipping off the tracks. The strange pool of light that had previously beckoned was now gone. Chayil was met with a depth of darkness that defied them.

“Hello, who is there now?”

She wasn’t quite certain why she thought someone was there since she was able to hear about as much as she was able to see. The absence of sensation was profoundly disturbing.

“Hello! Answer me!”

There was no response for some moments, then another ostensibly disembodied voice called out, “Well, then. You again? No, you’re not a jumper at all. Hmmpf! Such entitlement!”

The manchild! So, he had made it to the third car after all. What had prompted this? Chayil had to know, “So, you worked up the nerve to leave your train car, finally?”

The manchild laughed, “Oh you are turned around, aren’t ya? Don’t even know where when you’re docked. A proper mess, you are!”

“I’ll beg your pardon! Who are you to call me a mess, you coward!”

“Coward, eh? I’m not the one who’s running away from myself in the wrong direction!”

“Explain yourself or leave me be!”

“Nothing to explain. Now that you’ve found your way back here, you’re gonna have to make another decision. Keep trying to find yourself in the wrong direction or go back the way you came.”

The realization ran through Chayil’s veins like ice water: the manchild hadn’t moved in the direction previously known as 'forward'. Rather, Chayil had moved in the direction previously known as 'backward'. And where were the dragonflies? Slowly, the train car became illuminated enough for her to make out the manchild’s silhouette. He was closer than they’d imagined. Chayil took a step away from him, uncertain how to name their conflicting emotions. Mostly, they were incredulous. They also felt something like fear, which could certainly mount to terror if left unchecked.

But the base emotion was rage. How dare he?

“Listen you, manchild. I’m sick of your mind games and double speak. You said you would help me, yet you’ve done nothing but talk in riddles and twist everything around. I don’t appreciate you trying to lead me astray. I’m growing rather impatient with you and have half a mind to swat you down like the annoying gnat you are!”

The manchild laughed heartily. It wasn’t a sarcastic laugh, rather one born of genuine amusement. Naturally, this enraged Chayil further.

She was about to push past him when he stopped laughing and said, “A gnat? Oh, that’s rich. Take your shots at me if you will. I am laughing because, quite honestly, you are a stray.”

Perplexed and increasingly irritated, Chayil insisted they were no such thing.

The manchild chortled and replied, “Ah, I see the problem. A stray can’t see when they’re astray. It’s like you said before, friend: this is not your place. Believe me or not, it’s your choice. I am telling you for the last time that you want to go that way,” he nodded and gestured in the direction previously known as backward. “That is, if you want to get back to the place you believe is yours.”

“Friend, indeed!” Chayil snapped. But then, she considered her tendency to ignore signs. Some where when in the before after, Chayil had struggled with this lesson. Signs would lead to bigger revelations. Where had they heard that? Had they been following the dragonflies with such singlemindedness that they’d missed other signs? Maybe even signs that were here now berating them? Or was the manchild merely another obstacle to hurdle past?

What was in her heart?

Astonishingly, the train began to slow, albeit only slightly. Something in the direction previously known as backward caught their eye. Chayil turned, and thought they saw a small greenish light flit across the car. No sooner had she spotted it than did it disappear. Shrugging her shoulders, she decided to go in the direction the manchild suggested, even if only to spite him. She would prove how woefully wrong he was. She took a few tentative steps and could feel a shift in the atmosphere; the temperature dipped in places, spiked in others.

The air surrounding the row of seats closest to the car door was icy. Chayil extended their arm and felt the air immediately surrounding the door; it was humid and sticky, more of a liquid than a gas. It was thoroughly unpleasant. What possible reason could one have for entering this primordial ooze? Then, Chayil reflected: primordial ooze? If she went back the way she came, as the manchild phrased it, how far back, exactly, would she go?

Chayil loathed the idea of stepping into the muggy airsoup. Still, they had to try. The other direction had yielded nothing, and they could always double back if it was either too risky or fruitless. Couldn’t they? Chayil supposed there was no certitude to anything anymore.

Chayil stepped into the airsoup and instantaneously felt faint and nauseated. The airsoup punched her in the gut, assaulting her viciously. It was all she could do to not immediately abort her mission. They’d almost rather be reprimand by the manchild. Whether due to pride or stubbornness, Chayil doubled down on her decision and pulled open the car door, only to be blasted with scorching air. Chayil again considered retreat but was arrested by a wall of sound.

She could hear the sound of the train screeching along the tracks, a metal-on-metal grinding that could likely be heard from some distance. She could hear the sounds of the wind howling and the train cars rattling as they swayed to and fro. But there was another sound that dominated; ear piercing, visceral. It was eerily familiar. Chayil stood at the portal between cars, struggling to identify the sound. The train lurched unexpectedly, throwing them off balance. They knew they had to keep moving.

Chayil moved without incident through one car to the next. Miraculously, this trend continued for some time. Throughout the next several cars, she met neither menchildren nor disembodied voices, neither flittering green lights, nor luminescent pools of blueish light. On and on they traveled until they nearly lost count. Chayil stopped, her hand upon the door, and re-counted: 32. They were about to enter the 33rd car. There was another shift in the atmosphere. Something felt. Odd. The air wasn’t as muggy or syrupy.

She realized she hadn’t seen a dragonfly in this direction. Not even one. Chayil steadied herself and pulled open the door. They were met with the same sounds: the metal-on-metal grinding, the rattling of the cars, the wind. She also heard the same unidentifiable yet familiar sound. She lingered. Chayil was on the precipice of something: a greater revelation.

Finally, it occurred to Chayil what the other sound was: it was the comingling of lighting striking the wood cabin and her father’s scream.

Chayil stood, straddling the gap between cars, watching the graveled ground pass sluggishly beneath the train. The train was moving at a seemingly glacial pace. At least, that’s how she would describe it if anyone asked. Chayil recalled hearing that the train was an ally, a coconspirator abetting their escape. To where when they could only speculate. Then, Chayil understood what they needed to do. Still straddling the gap, they inched their way to the train's edge, one hand upon each car. Chayil counted to three, yelled, “I regret nothing!", closed her eyes.

And leapt.

She hit the ground harder than she would’ve imagined, striking it first with her right shoulder. Despite having done her best to tuck and roll, she could feel the blade of her shoulder dislocate upon impact. Chayil made four full barrel rolls across the dusty terrain before a large boulder broke their motion. The boulder struck them in the back of the head, causing them to lose consciousness.

Everything went black.

Chayil awoke on the banks of a pond. They couldn’t recall walking to the pond, removing their clothing, rubbing mud over their entire body, or falling asleep on their back under a fig tree. But then, things did oftentimes occur in the most curious ways. Being accustomed to curious things, when the dragonflies flew off and coalesced into the shape of an arrow in the distance, Chayil remained unimpressed.

Nevertheless, once she stood and began making her way toward the dragonfly arrow, a sense of urgency overcame her; Chayil’s heart began to race. For reasons they didn’t understand, they knew it was imperative that they make it to the arrow as quickly as possible.

Slipshod crunch - there goes another. From the back, take that one or it’ll rot. Ya can’t make the older ones comply and there’s too much blood in the honey. And they’ll tell you it’s nonsense, that it doesn’t fit convention. But why would you want it to? Accordingly, those were only some of the lessons I learned from Delvina before she decided to turn in her mortal coil and hit the heavenly highway. There hadn’t been much talk about it prior, and we all know the ranch will be fine without her, but the garden and the apiary might fall to ruin. That will screw us all.

What then, when too many of the bees die? To me, that seems like a less immediate issue than the bulls we need to stud. Hell, I’m just a hired hand, what do I know, right? Except when things talk, I listen and, 'round matters of insanity anyway, I’m as open-minded as I am well-versed. Things tend to take circuitous paths, and I often find myself in the thick of the mix. Like with that damned blood in the honey incident I’ll never live down.

But to be honest, I can’t say I care much. Losing a finger isn’t as bad as losing faith in someone because they’ve gone and done their job half-assedly again. If ya can’t figure out how to use your full ass, don’t bother me later when it all falls to shit. If it were up to me, we’d outsource the apiary and focus on the ranch. Too many bulls to stud and do ya think anyone enjoys doing that?

Could be that crazy uncle Larry enjoys it, but he wasn’t quite right to begin with. 17 dozen mule kicks to the head later and he’s wearing a tinfoil helmet to keep the microwaves out. Because, you see, that’s how they read your mind. Paranoia 101; there is truly no rest for the wicked. He routinely stays awake until his body systematically shuts down. I’ve seen him slump over on more than one occasion, mid-sentence, while catching tadpoles for breakfast. Who eats stuff like that? Would he do that kinda shit even if he was right in the head? I always wonder.

What doesn’t break us makes us they say in NA. Or maybe that’s church. Or that one car commercial with that one dude who had a talk show in the 90’s. Someone, somewhere once said something, and I’ll be damned if I know it now, but the gist of it is what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

And that’s what I’d thought, at first. Living lonely off the land for too long maybe I get to thinking about things that don’t much interest other folks. Butterflies and dragonflies swarm about my head, sets me to thinking of how the rainfall doesn’t wash away the bad things, just changes their scent a little to throw the animals off. Point is, the things that don’t break us don’t necessarily make us stronger. Sometimes they make us stronger, but sometimes they just make us…well, different than we were before. And I suppose that’s alright too. Necessary even.

So, I’m just wandering around with nine fingers and head full of uncomfortable ideas about the lives of things, about how animals don’t fuss as much as humans, even the ones born to slaughter. Don’t think they don’t know better. It is genetically programmed, the knowledge they are bred to kill. Don’t ask me how I know that. Other than, like I said, when things talk, I listen.

Too many fruitcakes, fruit flies swarming over them as the fruit jelly oozes from within. Fetid flies and fetid lies. Because we all know there was bad blood in the family and how deep that can run. Wounds heal slowly when they aren’t tended to. Blood oranges and blood baths, hollow tears and hollow laughs. And me? Hell, I just walk away slowly. Getting in my thinking spell about how all funerals and wakes are pretty much the same. Delvina would reject all this pomp outright. Gimme my corncob pipe, she’d holler. And the shadows would grow long as the day considered yielding to dusk. All those things happening in consequence of one another, as if they had some kind of choice in the matter. They never did, and it hurt to pretend.

Didn’t use to hurt, but then I didn’t use to have to pretend as much. There is something in the middle of this particular uncomfortable thought that tells me the cost of living is sometimes too high. It would be different if we had more purpose. Like the animals on the ranch, for example. Bulls stud, that’s what they do. It is their only purpose. Sure, we eat them in the end, use their hide and every part we can, all resourceful like, but without the ability to stud, they are useless. If I had one clear purpose like that, well, then I’d have ten fingers, wouldn’t I? It’s an inexorable certainty that haunts me.

But life isn’t about would-bes, so I walk down to the gully and try to imagine Delvina in a different time. Somewhere warm and soft where her body is fuller of life than it had been toward the end. Then, I realize this is only another daydream of would-bes and I think it’s funny how hypocritical I’ve become. Hell, we all have. Because Delvina was sick as hell, there was no denying that. But none of us believe that she died of natural causes. Not that anyone is talking about it.

Brambling salmon berries overripened with regret as much as anything. Somehow more putrid because of it and the sun-filled sky too wide with possibilities to contemplate. Pink and blue, the dense lush green, full of unknown dangers and pleasures in alternate hues. Too much time wasted while the bulls are in rut and something just east of catastrophic looms on the horizon of that too-wide sky. I feel it in my bones. Nonetheless, the bulls will be culled right back into the herd, bastard things they are, denied their purpose, an affront to God, really. Nothing I can do about it though. Nothing anyone can do right now. Not with poor Delvina barely cold in the ground.

It was her property, so she found a loophole in the law that allowed her to be buried there, straight into the ground, no embalming fluid or coffin. Good old fashioned worm food, that’s what I oughtta be, she’d cackle. I knew she wasn’t joking because I listen, but it’s a fight with the mortician all the same. Big coffin trying to make a buck, I reckon. The business of dying and all.

It’s as normal as it is disgusting, profiting from someone’s grief like that. Or maybe disgusting that it’s normal. But again, what do I know? I only think about how different things would be if it weren’t for the temperament of bulls. Bull-headed was an expression for a reason. Hell, maybe that’s why Delvina thought to raise them to begin with. The inherent obstinacy of things always did challenge rather than deter her. Damned admirable trait, if anyone bothers to notice. Mostly they don’t, people walking around shrouded in self-importance as they typically are. If it weren’t for my daydreams, I don’t suspect I’d like anyone much. In my fancies, people are always nicer, more genuine. If daydreaming is an artform, then I am mastering it.

The roar of bombers in the static night. Ripping the sky open like a vein under scalpel. Apiaries are deafening in a way most can’t imagine; the buzz creates a roar creates a vibration creates a sensation that you feel as much as hear. It pulsates through your nervous system. Deep, longing pulsations that get some people aroused. Not me, but some. It tickles me to imagine Delvina in there, getting aroused and not knowing what to do with that sensation on account of her being what they call asexual. Course, I never exactly understood what she meant by that. Strange to think that someone in the business of breeding had no interest whatsoever in sex.

But who knows? Maybe that’s why she was into it. Could be that was the only sex she ever had, pollinating and inseminating. I suppose it makes a strange kinda sense. At least, as much as anything else. As I sit and contemplate, it occurs to me as rather beautiful, poetic even. Something about the way she could create life without ever compromising herself. Hell, for all I know she had a messiah complex and a bunch of strange kinks. But it made the milk and honey. And that was her gift.

Anyway, I’m not here to judge. I’m just the hired help, walking around with nine fingers, a few jars of bloodied honey, and a bunch of uncomfortable ideas about the lives of things.

I wonder what would come out of me; if I sliced myself

right now

I giggle mischievously

As I drag the dull blade along my arm

Would it be blood?

A nebulous tide?

Butterflies?

Many humans wonder

As humans often do

What actually is me

And what actually

Is you

I am sitting on a makeshift sofa, writing my next great novel

A philosophy teacher I had a massive intellectual crush on

Once confided in me,

Over a pack of cigarettes and bottle of bourbon,

That I could be the next great American novelist

If I weren’t a hopeless alcoholic

Can you even imagine? I hope that you can't

For if you can

We

The collective We

Have failed you

Gravely

There is no apology to offer

What can I say?

It's your problem, not mine.

I walk to the kitchen and heat the kettle

I pour myself a cuppa that good ole lesbian tea

May as well jump on me ole Harley

And head to the teahouse

For another slam-poetry competition

I grab my neckerchief

And briefly contemplate tucking it into my back pocket

Just for the queer sport of it

I can’t decide whether to smash the beer bottle

Into his temple

Or into his eye

He deserves both

If I have anything to say in the matter

I always have something to say in the matter

The poor ole fucker was an idiot

And arguably deserves to be blinded

He doesn’t deserve to see another woman

Ever again

But if I blind him

He’ll never learn

Alas!

Also

It would be really bloody

Stabbing someone in the eye seems

Extraneous

Even to me

I laugh as l leave

Despite my best effort

Now, they will begin to take me seriously

I think

As I shut the door behind myself

I walk to the bus stop

Everyone rides the bus to nowhere

I think as I board

I sit next to a guy

He smells

Like he’s been awake for a few too many years

That he’s lived to regret

Not caring what the guy has been through

I decide to take take my supplements

I take three yellow pills

That seems appropriate

Now If I can just make it through

One more day

That seems an impossible feat

I look at my feet

I notice a few specks of blood

I wonder if anyone else will notice

I cast a quick glance around

And realize people are only as aware of me

As I am of them:

Tangentially

We’re all sleepwalking here

This is all so base

This all so divine

I decided to leave him blind

In the end

It wasn’t nearly as gory as I’d imagined

Things are rarely as bad as you imagine

I am holy

Impervious

But subject to man’s laws nonetheless

I get off at whatever stop this is

It’s good enough

And fun that I don’t know where I am

I never know where I am

But I do need to wipe the blood from my shoe

Just settle down

Get married

Have children

Buy a house

Do all the things they say

But they say so many things

And I have not so many years left

Everyone thinks there will be something more

Than this

I use my neckerchief to wipe away the blood

I’ll have to part with it

I sigh

Another one bites the dust

Not the man

The neckerchief

It’s the third I’ve parted with

In as many weeks

Why am I so weak?

When it comes to women, anyway

I am fearless

Reckless

Ambivalent

And hopeless

When in love

But I’m never really in love

Am I?

It’s always unrequited

Life is a lonely game

But it’s time to play

So I walk into the nearest building

It’s a hotel with an all-night bar

What luck

I don’t believe in luck

Any more than I believe in fate

But these dreams keep following me

So I’ll go inside and have a drink

Talk with a stranger

No stranger than I

The barkeep smiles inoffensively

As I enter and sit at the bar

This indicates I’m open for conversation

It’s a rule as tacit

As it is ubiquitous

And, as it turns out,

Tonight

I want to talk

I want to tell my story

I give people so many chances to understand

My story

Too many

To no avail

People are the worst

And best thing

About living here

Within 10 minutes a man sits next to me

He pretends that he wants to know my story

In hopes of fucking me

Debasing me

We both know I won’t put out

But his ego won’t allow him to stop

And my boredom is fathomless

So we continue

What brings you here?

He asks with no real interest

Nothing

I reply

It’s the most honest thing I’ve said

In years

It’s easier with strangers

Because they’re never stranger

Than I

It’s shift change and the next barkeep

Coming on

Is coming on to me

I think little of it

At first

Although I do enjoy flirting

And she’s pretty enough

In an inoffensive way

After a few more back and forths

And a few more whiskeys

I decide she’s attractive

Maybe she really wants to know my story

I think

As I knock back another shot

In that way that makes women hot

I don’t understand why

I only know that it’s affective

She asks where I was born

Says her name is Tamara

I can call her Tammy

I won’t

I hate that name

So I call her Love

Because what’s in a name

After all?

Love, I’d rather hear about you

I say

Disarming her

Like I do

The best way through me

Is through you

I never thought I’d find myself here

But that doesn't matter

I understand enough to know

I’ll never understand myself

But still

I give this Love a chance

To know my dreams

My secrets

Me

Even knowing it will never be

Who knows

I think

Again

As I drink her in

Now drinking Gin

Anything is possible

She winks at me in way

I’d once disdained

I want to see through her

But I can’t

Or won’t

Either way

I don’t

These things are as trivial

As the kisses we steal

Between patrons

Gin

And lies

The game is afoot

And I always win

But I rarely drink gin

When she asks me to stay

I know that I will

I wait in her hotel room

A perk of her job

I shower before I nap

Which is good

There is more blood than I thought

There always is

I dream of angels

I don’t believe in angels

If angels were real

They’d lead me to my soulmate

Rather than this befouled room

Where am I?

I awake to her touch

More tender than I’d imagined

But then

I hadn’t imagined much

Time to fuck

I take my time with her

Am tender in return

I’m not sure why

There is no why

I enjoy being with her

In ways that defy logic

There is no logic

For a few hours

I don’t want to

Gouge anyone’s eyes out

No matter how deserving they are

Slit anyone’s throat

No matter how lovely it is

For a few hours

I don’t want to die

All of life comes rushing back to me

In a torrent

I realize

I’ve never understood anything

Because I understood too much

Too soon

People don’t normally people

This way

And that’s the problem

About caring too much

About not caring enough

When all the world is quiet

When it all

Fucks off

Just a little

When I am left alone

With myself

I realize

Every fucking day

I am more

And less

Of myself

Than I was before

While fucking Love

I can’t remain disembodied

For the first time

And I hate it

So I fuck Love harder

Instead of retreating

Love pulls me closer

I whisper

More to myself

I can’t

You can

I don’t want to

But you will

You don’t know me

No one does

You don’t want me

I do

This is the most Love

Has ever spoken to me

Or ever will

Because I will kill Love

I always do

Act 1

It all began in the 2020 pandemic. Salome was born into isolation; an underweight, premature, screaming ball of flesh left in an incubator, bereft of human contact for the first 90 days of her miserable little life. She wouldn’t have known who her mother was or that she even had one except, at insufferably long intervals, a disembodied voice announced that mommy was there to see her. She didn’t understand the concept of mother. She understood only the existential suffering of isolation.

Naturally, her mother wasn’t allowed to visit often due to the soaring death rate. The hospital overflow unit they’d housed her in was at a distance from the main Covid ward, but visitors were still considered too risky. Nurses came in, on occasion, looking exhausted and defeated behind their masks. At least, Salome assumed they were nurses. Impossible to tell what was really behind the double masks, face shields, goggles, hair nets, layered gowns, and gloves. Salome’s first impression of humans was that they were 90% plastic.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

She spent the first year and a half of her life with minimal to no contact. She and her mother were sequestered in a small, one room flat in the heart of the District. People all around them were dying. A father type person brought food to the window several times a day. Onlookers, perhaps family members, came to the window masked like bandits, longing to touch her tiny toes with their gloved hands.

Act 2

Salome pushed an errant clump of once curly, now matted hair from her eyes. She squinted hard at the horizon like she wanted to murder it. In truth, she did. Salome moved the toe of her boot against the carcass of a dead snake; a long black slithering daemon. It seemed like a bad omen. The red clay terrain yawned out before her; long veiny cracks and deep jagged crags punctuated a landscape of misery. Dark red, brown-red, black land juxtaposed with azure skies; cyan, turquoise. If she followed the deeper crag that was once a river, she would most likely happen upon a shanty village in the ruins of the former nation’s capital. She walked deliberately through the red clay; heel, toe, heel, toe.

She seemed to be having difficulty breathing. The air was thick. She swallowed in dust, exhaled fumes. She was running on fumes. She desperately needed water. Brutal beams of sunlight beat down upon her. She was quite certain the sun wanted to kill her. The sun was a relentless, vicious thing intent on making a human sacrifice of her, but she wouldn’t let it. Not yet.

Salome pressed the heart shaped locket against her thigh, into the heart shaped bruise it had formed there. Small reminder, small mercy. The ache of it reminded her that she had once felt something other than pain. She had once felt human feelings. She remembered, she thought.

As she struggled to differentiate the smaller cracks from the deeper crags in the swathe of red clay, she wondered how long it had been since she’d seen another human. Months, maybe? She needed to focus. Her depth perception was distorted from the severe dehydration and general fatigue. The river hadn’t flowed in years. Who knew how many. Bones decorated the riverbed, scattered about like runes. She knew all too well the grim fortune they foretold.

She sighed heavily. She thought about her lost lover, Krayia, and it made her chest ache so deeply that she nearly doubled over. The ache was profound and infinite. Thinking about Krayia punched the breath out of her, immobilizing her; a literal heartache that dropped her to her knees. She wasn’t even being hyperbolic, she insisted. It made her wonder: How had she loved another person so deeply? So selflessly? And how could it be that her love for Krayia had sustained her, had been everything to her, yet had amounted to exactly nothing in the end?

But Krayia had stopped existing the way other humans existed, sometime ago now.

Other humans existed.

Didn’t they?

Act 3

Salome figured that she’d walked about 7 miles so far that morning. Gauging by the sun, it was nearly noon, so there was still a chance she could make it to a shanty village and trade the heart shaped locket for water before nightfall. There was an equally likely chance that she would die before she got there. Or be killed for food when she arrived.

She’d lost count of how many days she’d gone without water. She’d eaten a few grubs yesterday. Yesterday? No, that couldn’t be correct. Could it? The truth was, Salome was dying. Any amount of water would only prolong the inevitable as her conclusion was foregone.

The absurdity of reality struck her then. She kicked small rocks - dashing them recklessly across the uneven terrain. The red clay land stretched out before her like an impossible dare. Red clay, over brown, overthrown, overbaked, deep crevices and crags, once rivers, now bled dry. A monotonous litany of hopelessness.

Salome heard its scream before she saw the vulture. Scavengers were the only living animals she’d seen in years. There must be something freshly dead nearby. Or was it her they were after? Was she that close to death? Were they circling overhead, forebodingly, just waiting for her to die?

She blinked up at the wide open cerulean sky where the beasts swirled in a cyclonic brown haze. She looked around to see if there were any other things, living or dying, attracting the vultures. Then, quite unexpectedly, she saw a figure in the distance. Or thought she did. It couldn’t be, but it seemed to be. Across the arid land was a figure. Go figure!

Shook, Salome smacked herself across the face. Her entire body felt numb. She laughed, a little unhinged. A beam of sunlight blasted down, razor blading its way through the dense atmosphere. How dare it? Why was it leading the scavengers directly to her? She had to keep moving.

Thirsty ground, arid, abysmal land. Clay cracked underfoot. Heel, toe. Inhale, dust in. Exhale, fumes out. Breathing was a negotiation. The figure might have water. Salome put her hand in her pocket and closed a fist around the heart shaped locket. It was her only bargaining tool. She loathed to part with it, but it might come down to that or a fight to her death.

Salome thought: If I die, who will remember Krayia? And her heart broke again, for the millionth time. That’s what life does, she thought: It takes away everyone you love and forces you to endure without them.

Her body moved mechanically forward, over the red clay, under the expansive sky, throughout the expanse of time. The relentless insistence of nature, she supposed. The red clay cracked. Heel, toe. The silhouette of the approaching figure waned, then abruptly folded in on itself. It didn't make sense! Reality was a slippery bitch. The vultures seemed too near. Time didn’t seem to be moving the way it ought to be. Things were altogether confusing.

Salome had to stay focused. She squeezed her fist around the heart shaped locket until it hurt. There! There was the pain, her old companion; it was part of her, it kept her anchored. What would happen if she released her pain? She wondered. Would she cease to exist? She couldn't contemplate it. She had to keep moving forward. So, Salome marched on as the world kept spinning in rapid circles around a sun that was trying to kill her. Step, crunch, heel, toe

She threw back her head and attempted to laugh again, but her body was too weak. She collapsed, crumbling in on herself. The figure was there, upon her, like the red clay, upon her. Everything blurred. Salome couldn’t see anything farther than her foot. All of existence amounted to the red clay on her boot. Everything else slid out of focus; became distant, soft, softer. In the distance, vultures screamed.

Her mind drifted to Krayia. Krayia, like Aristotle, had been an unapologetic actualist. The only time they’d ever argued, it had been about Aristotle’s chicken or egg query.

And why do you think actuality trumps potentiality?

Because it already is.

But ‘already is’ is boring. It leads to complacency. And what then? Potentiality is everything. Rather, it’s anything. Aristotle’s egg - what’s inside? His argument is predicated on it being a chicken, but that’s absurd. - It could be anything. Any. Fucking. Thing.

Salome blinked. She forgot what she was thinking about.

The figure knelt down next to her. Salome saw that the figure was a woman with long, fiery red hair and a crooked grin. She had lost the capacity for speech, so simply held up the locket to the women as an offering. There were no words anyway.

The woman understood that Salome needed water. Of all absurdities, rather than giving her water or even inspecting the locket, the woman leaned in and kissed Salome on the mouth.

The woman pulled back and offered a hand. Salome shook her head. The woman indicated that the village wasn’t far, but Salome held her ground. She looked the woman squarely in the eyes: they were captivating emerald explosions, fires barely contained. Salome averted her gaze. The eye contact was too much. She resented anyone being able to see her.

The woman gestured again, this time more insistently. Red clay, blue skies. Swirling, crashing, bold colors, cyclonic vultures filling the sky in alternate hues and pulsations. Time moved strangely. They existed outside of time. Time didn’t exist!

Salome pushed the locket into the woman’s hands. She took it and held it up to inspect it. At length, she pried it open and a bit of powdery white dust fell to the ground. Morosely, the woman turned her eyes toward Salome’s. She felt cheated. There was supposed to have been a secret there. An answer. Or, if not an answer, at least a clue. Something that would suggest, at the very least, a vague sense of purpose.

Instead there was nothing, the woman noted.

“No,” Salome said in the most even voice she could manage with her dying breath, “It’s the exact opposite of nothing. It is everything. Or - it has the potential to be.”

It’s the egg. The egg is what matters.

“Screw Aristotle!” Salome spat.

Salome stared up into the cloudless sky and contemplated the circling vultures awaiting their meal. She hoped the woman would take her share first. Although ostensibly disappointed that the locket was empty, the woman looked down at Salome affectionately, with something like love.

It pleased Salome to feel something, anything, as she shut her eyes to relinquish hold. As she exhaled her last earthly breath, she saw the woman backlit by the punishing sun. It looked like she was wearing a halo. Salome didn’t believe in angels, but the woman must have been one. It was the only explanation. The woman leaned over and kissed Salome on the forehead, tenderly, then moved in closer and whispered in her ear,

“Hope springs eternal.”

It was a bit trite, but Salome was dying, so she'd take it.

Then, the woman grinned conspiratorially and said,

“By the way, I get it. Aristotle was a moron. Screw him.”

Salome smiled; she was finally able to release her pain. So this is what happens, she thought as she shut her eyes and ceased to exist.