Issue #2 of the Lighthouse Chronicles series titled As I Burn Babylon, takes a deep look at culture, religion and the many victims who have found themselves suffocating underneath the weight of a forced doctrine, myself being one of them. Illustrated by the talented Laourde, the poetry I have written over the last 16 years chronicles my own journey as an LGBTQ+ person who has been faced with church camps, exorcisms, conversion therapy and more, all at the hands of those who preach a scripture that bellows of love and acceptance.

I have made a mini comic zine as a teaser for the official second issue, the first issue being Love By Lamplight. The mini comic zine showcases one of the 4 poems you’ll find in the full comic book that will be available for purchase in November. Additionally, the mini comic zine includes a behind the scenes manifesto-type explosion of words that shed light into the inspiration for the poem and the title of the comic book.

To get your hands on the mini comic zine, come hang out with me at Drawn To Comics on 10/5/24 at 11AM - 4PM or message me on my IG @thelighthousemonocle.

Drawn to Comics: 5801 W. Glendale Ave, Glendale, AZ, 85301

Scan the QR code for more info on my other projects and IG page.

Sancho Panza serves not merely as comic relief but as a voice of reason in the narrative of "Don Quixote." His skepticism often brings a pragmatic perspective to Quixote’s quixotic adventures. For instance, when Quixote mistakes windmills for giants, it is Sancho who tries to correct him, saying, “What giants?"  said Sancho Panza. "Those you see over there," replied his master, "with the long arms; sometimes they are almost two leagues long." "Look, your grace," Sancho responded, "those things that appear over there aren’t giants but windmills" (Cervantes, Chapter 8). Sancho’s role is crucial, as he often attempts to bridge the gap between Quixote’s imagined world and reality, akin to how a skeptic might question or challenge the foundational beliefs of the religious.

Sancho's efforts to infuse reality into Don Quixote's delusions appear throughout their journey. Another poignant example occurs when they encounter two flocks of sheep, which Don Quixote imagines to be armies on the verge of battle. Sancho tries to prevent his master from charging into what he perceives as an epic confrontation, proclaiming “Do you not hear the neighing of the horses, the call of the clarions, the sounds of the drums?” Sancho, trying to reason with Don Quixote says, "I don’t hear anything, except the bleating of lots of sheep" (Cervantes, Chapter 18). Despite Sancho’s warnings, Quixote charges ahead, resulting in a chaotic scattering of the flock and further ridicule and harm to himself.

Read more

Religion has been an unwelcome yet pervasive presence in my life, akin to an overbearing relative who arrives uninvited and refuses to leave. Despite not granting it entry, religion has significantly shaped my worldview. However, rather than embracing faith, my experiences with religion have steered me towards secularism—a space where self-reliance, personal ethics, and reason prevail. In this secular refuge, I trust in my capabilities and moral compass, not in my parents’ phantoms.

I have often felt alienated and rejected because of religious doctrines, both by individuals claiming kinship and by larger communities I’ve never personally encountered. Such is the divisive power of religion, creating a sense of community within an echo chamber where all parrot each other and no-one dares ask questions. Communities where creating outsiders and “others” seems to be the norm. Religion can turn neighbor against neighbor over something as innocuous as a flag representing diversity, focusing on trivial differences rather than shared human qualities.

Read more

I recall one night when I was around 17 years old, I had a dream of a young man around my age, taking my hand and guiding me through the sky. We walked amongst clouds, we spoke, laughed and went on a magical adventure. While in this dream, I recall feeling as though I was in the presence of my brother but I knew that this character was not my actual “real-life” brother. Its a strange feeling because I felt we were connected but in reality, he was no one I actually knew, no one who really existed in my life.

In some way however, I think he was pretty close to being a brother, a “dream brother” who only came to visit me once in my life but left me with great advice and a feeling of everlasting love. As though this was a message my real-life brother wanted to provide but couldn’t conjure the words or find the time to deliver it.

Without me knowing any more or less of this person I dreamt of, I knew there was a poetic presence to him. A troubadour interrupting my dream realm to show me bits go my current life. Girls I was seeing, love I was giving away freely and a prison I was living in for too long.

Below is the poem I wrote from this very dream and the comic book pages that Devon Delcastillo drew to accompany this journey.

I hope you enjoy.

Read more

This is the first installment for issue #2 of The Lighthouse Chronicles Series. In issue #1, Love By Lamplight , I shared some of my poetic works on love; both of others and of self. In this series I will compile some poems I have written while taking a deep look at culture, religion and the many victims who have found themselves suffocating underneath the weight of a forced doctrine; I know I am one of them.

Illustrated by the talented Laourde, the poetry I have written over the last 16 years chronicles my own journey as an LGBTQ+ person who has been faced with church camps, exorcisms, conversion therapy and more, all at the hands of a scripture that bellows of love and acceptance.

Thanks for your support in this endeavor and i’m excited to continue creating this series!

*This sample at issue #2’s comic book pages is usually held for paid subscribers only. I am providing this as a one time glimpse at what is to come. Any future poetry comic book pages will be released behind the pay wall.

Poetry written by Munira Mona Morsy

Illustrations by Laourde

As I Burn Babylon, the second issue in my “illustrated poetry” series, will be in print later this year.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

There was a time that I needed you, right by my side.

There was a time I felt alone, when you weren’t with me at night.

There was a time I had respect for you as the half that gave me life.

This is now the time that I look down on you, shamed of what you’ve done.

Today, I feel embarrassed of what you have become.

You created the monster that you see when you look into your eyes.

The monster that resembles you from the inside.

The day you tried to take me as you would a bride.

That horrid day you showed me the piece of you that died.

Remember what you did? How you tried to split my soul?

The disrespect, the insolence of the man I did not know.

How you tried to gain my trust and strip it all the same.

The arrogance, you narcissist, you never feel the shame.

You put it in your mind that I’m the one to blame.

But understand me when I tell you, I always walk with pride.

I have done nothing wrong; I have no need to hide.

I have been blessed from birth with the will to fight.

I walk amongst the lions, in this land that I adore.

Watch your steps around me, lest you feel me roar.

I am the reason you still breathe, the reason that you soar.

I’ve learned from your mistakes and how you’re rotten to the core.

Remember when you leave this place, the world you called your home,

recall the reasons that you lay to your death alone.

Remember how you killed the people that you once known

and burnt the bridges that we walked, so you could have your throne.

Subscribe now

To experience my poetry come to life, consider becoming a paid subscriber where you'll gain access to my Comic Poetry series. Artists around the world have helped breathe life into my poetry with fascinating art and color.

Additionally, I provide notes on some poem that go deep between the lines and provides information to the reader about the experiences and emotions of each piece.

*The first comic poetry book in this series is now available in print. Visit the Store tab on the main page to purchase a copy of LOVE BY LAMPLIGHT.

It can also be purchased from my By Me a Coffee page by going to this link:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/monamorsy

The price is $10 + $2 shipping.

Thank you for your support!

For my paid subscribers, the entire book is available for you below. Thank you again and without any further shenanigans, I introduce you to, Love By Lamplight.

Read more

I wanted to take a moment to express my gratitude for your continuous support and understanding during my brief absence from posting. Over the past couple of months, I've been fully immersed in an exciting project that I'm thrilled to soon share with you. This endeavor has been a labor of love, requiring dedicated time and effort, but I'm incredibly excited about the outcome.

Below you will find the cover art for this latest creation, "Love By Lamplight," an illustrated poetry comic book. Teaming up with the incredibly talented artist, Devon Delcastillo, has allowed my poetry to transcend traditional boundaries. Witnessing Devon's interpretation breathe life into my verses has been an emotional and awe-inspiring journey.

While I've teased some pages previously, I'm excited to announce that the full 32-page comic book is now complete! If you're interested in getting your hands on a printed copy, feel free to reach out to me. And for my amazing paid subscribers, your copy will be free of charge if you wish to own one. For non-subscribers, the book is available for $10!

This marks the inaugural entry in a series I've titled The Lighthouse Chronicles, and I can't wait to give you glimpses of what's brewing for book 2. Thank you once again for your incredible support, and I sincerely hope you find as much joy in this creation as I have pouring my heart into it. Cheers!

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Poetry written by Munira Mona Morsy

Illustrations by Devon Delcastillo

Love by Lamplight, the first issue in my “illustrated poetry” series, will be in print by December 2023.

Heteronormative society has often attempted to silence, marginalize, or erase their existence, falsely labeling them as unnatural or immoral. Yet, throughout the ages, the indomitable spirit of LGBTQ+ pioneers have persevered, challenging the status quo and defying the narrow-minded constraints imposed upon them.

As we journey through the annals of history, we discover a plethora of individuals who have defied the boundaries of convention and braved the storm of prejudice, all in the name of love and authenticity.

The LGBTQ+ community has long been a beacon of courage and resilience; its members daring to challenge societal norms and break free from the shackles of heteronormativity.

Like many things worthy of fighting for, the battle did not come easy.

The fight for equality and acceptance is not a recent phenomenon, but rather a testament to the resilience and courage of LGBTQ+ people throughout history.

In this article, we celebrate their remarkable contributions, honor their legacies, and reaffirm the enduring truth that love knows no bounds.

Marsha P. Johnson (1945-1992): The Unwavering Advocate

A dazzling force of nature, self-identified drag queen Marsha P. Johnson emerged as a formidable warrior in the battle for LGBTQ+ rights. As a transwoman and activist, her role in the legendary 1969 Stonewall Riots catapulted the fight for LGBTQ+ liberation onto the world stage.

Together with Sylvia Rivera, Johnson co-founded the Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (STAR), extending a lifeline to homeless LGBTQ+ youth in need of shelter and support.

Johnson was no stranger to adversity, and her indefatigable spirit and determination to fight for LGBTQ+ rights often put her at risk. Yet, she remained committed to the cause, tirelessly advocating for transgender and queer individuals living on the streets.

Marsha "Pay It No Mind" Johnson was a force to be reckoned with, and her legacy is a radiant testament to the power of resilience and the human spirit.

Sylvia Rivera (1951-2002): The Fearless Founder

Born in 1951 in New York City, Sylvia Rivera was a fierce activist for transgender rights and a driving force behind the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement. A close friend and collaborator of Marsha P. Johnson, Rivera was present during the pivotal Stonewall uprising, where her bravery and activism would cement her legacy as a pioneer of pride.

Rivera's advocacy extended beyond the LGBTQ+ community, as she fought for the rights of people of color, sex workers, and individuals experiencing homelessness.

Alongside Marsha P. Johnson, she co-founded STAR and transformed the LGBTQ+ rights movement through her grassroots organizing and impassioned speeches. Rivera fought for the inclusion of transgender individuals within the broader LGBTQ+ community, and her legacy lives on in the ongoing struggle for trans rights and equality.

Rivera's contributions to the movement, as well as her dedication to intersectional activism, have had a lasting impact on the fight for LGBTQ+ rights and equality.

Subscribe now

Harvey Milk (1930-1978): The Political Trailblazer

Harvey Milk was a groundbreaking figure in the fight for LGBTQ+ rights, becoming the first openly gay elected official in California when he won a seat on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors in 1977.

Milk's impact on the LGBTQ+ community was monumental. He fought for anti-discrimination laws that protected LGBTQ+ individuals in housing and employment, and he worked to bring visibility to the struggles faced by the queer community. Today, Harvey Milk's contributions to LGBTQ+ rights serve as a reminder of the power of political activism and representation.

Milk's political career was tragically cut short when he was assassinated in 1978, but his legacy as a tireless advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and social justice continues to inspire activists worldwide.

Audre Lorde (1934-1992): The Warrior Poet

A wordsmith of unparalleled power and depth, Audre Lorde employed her poetic prowess to create a voice for the LGBTQ+ community. As a black, lesbian woman, Lorde unapologetically embraced her identity and used her writing to confront issues of race, gender, and sexuality.

Lorde's poetry and prose provided a voice for marginalized individuals, as she eloquently articulated the intersectional experiences of being a black lesbian woman. Her literary contributions, such as "Sister Outsider" and "Zami: A New Spelling of My Name," are still widely read and cherished.

Her work continues to resonate with activists today, urging us to recognize the intersections of our identities and challenge the oppressive forces that seek to divide us.

Alan Turing (1912-1954): The Brilliant Mind

The extraordinary mathematician and computer scientist, Alan Turing, was instrumental in cracking the German Enigma code during World War II, an innovation considered the biggest contribution to the Allied victory against Nazi Germany, shortening the war by an estimated two to four years and saving 14 million lives.

Turing's contribution to computer science is indisputable, as evidenced by the prestigious annual 'Turing Award' established in 1966. His pioneering work laid the groundwork for the digital age and the development of artificial intelligence.

So, you'd think he'd be given a medal for his contribution, right? Right? The man who did the impossible? Saved millions of people?

Well, no. In fact, the complete opposite. His involvement in breaking the Enigma code while working at Bletchley Park was kept classified until the 1970s. The complete account of this endeavor wasn't revealed until the 1990s.

And despite his immense contributions, Turing faced brutal persecution for his homosexuality, which was illegal in the United Kingdom at the time. His life and tragic death serve as a sobering reminder of the injustices that continue to plague the LGBTQ+ community and the need to fight for equality and acceptance.

Bayard Rustin (1912-1987): The Unsung Hero of Civil Rights and LGBTQ+ Advocacy

A civil rights activist and proud gay man, Bayard Rustin was a key strategist and organizer behind the American Civil Rights Movement, most notably the 1963 March on Washington. Rustin's advocacy for nonviolent protest and commitment to social justice had a profound impact on the fight for racial and LGBTQ+ equality.

Despite facing discrimination for his sexuality, Rustin's accomplishments are a shining reminder of the power of perseverance and the importance of unity among marginalized communities.

Conclusion

These trailblazers are just the tip of the iceberg - for every headline-maker, there are countless unsung heroes who've also fought to make this world a better, more accepting place; and the ones who keep fighting.

The key to truly honoring the legacy of these pioneers is to be yourself - 100%, unapologetically, real, raw, honest - and to give others the space to do the same. The world's a diverse, complex place, and sometimes the best way to navigate it is with an open mind and a willingness to see the beauty in every shade of the human rainbow.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Thank you for your support.

Happy Pride Month.

Religion has told us that “God” is a man, most likely white (however that happened), sitting on his thorn somewhere above the clouds. He is wise, benevolent, omniscient and made each of us in his image.

Read more

Chapter 5

The clock ticked on the wall, its hands drawing close to 11. The city got brighter with neon lights, the clubs and bars noisier, but the suburbs turned quiet and dark, and the narrow alleys - more dangerous.

Munir sat on the sofa, bouncing her leg up and down as she watched Cam and Chaz walk inside, returning from work.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Lia walked out of her bedroom, putting her hair up and searching for her glasses with narrow, sleepy eyes. The night robe slid from her shoulder, revealing her silky, ivory-white skin. Munir leaned in, taking her glasses from the corner of the couch and handing it to Lia.

“Thanks,” she smiled and flopped next to her.

“You took a nap?” Munir asked, her voice overdrawn by Chaz and Cam chatting.

“A long nap,” Lia chuckled shyly and sipped water from a tall glass.

Finally taking their jackets off, Cam and Chaz entered the living room and joined the two on the couch. Cam opened the take-out Thai food and put the paper boxes on the table. Chaz quickly grabbed the chopsticks and opened one of the boxes, slurping the noodles.

“We found out about Chaz’s new coworker, Angel,” said Cam and popped a bottle of beer. “She is the one who stole from Mr. Shilo.”

“I recognized her tattoo,” Chaz said with her cheeks full.

“And I followed the van I texted you about,” Lia said and took one of the beer bottles. “It went to Chinatown to some weird black building. A man with two guards took the items and paid those traitors.”

Munir looked at her with her eyes wide, surprised to see Lia so calm as though they talked about their skincare routine.

“What?” Lia asked as she felt Munir’s eyes drilling her face.

“Why did you go all alone? You know how dangerous it is!” Munir let out an unhidden shock.

“What could I do? It was the right thing to do at that time,” Lia shrugged.

“We would not have that information now,” Chaz added quietly as if scared of angering Munir.

Lia sighed. “Sorry, I know it was dangerous.”

Munir shook her head from disappointment but at the same time, she felt thankful to Lia.

“How are we going to find out who that man was?” Asked Chaz.

She stood up, pulling out her phone. The women who had begun eating looked up at her with wide eyes.

“I know a woman in Chinatown,” she said and began searching through her contact list. “She’s a chef in one of the restaurants.”

Cam shared a surprised look with her friends though this expression was mixed with acceptance as if they expected to hear something similar.

To distance herself from her friends’ curious gazes and the intense scent of fried noodles, Munir walked into her bedroom, closing the door. Lights coming from outside scattered the darkness.

“Yes?” The woman’s strict voice answered.

“J, it’s me, Munir,” said Munir with a smile.

“Oh, how are you?” The woman’s voice turned welcoming and Munir soon heard the noisy restaurant kitchen sounds halting. J seemed to lock herself in another room too.

“Fine, thanks. I’m calling to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know a three-story black building in Chinatown and a short chubby man with two guards?”

J was silent before she breathed deeply.

“Why are you asking?” J asked Munir without giving an answer.

“There’s some weird stuff going on and I think he may be the link to it all, I would rather not involve you more than I need to.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but… they call him Kin.”

“What does he do?”

“Sells drugs. He is looking to expand his empire and is using robberies and black market goods as capital.”

Munir nodded.

“I see; thanks, J.”

As she walked back to the living room, the women had finished eating. Only her box lay untouched.

Telling them the new information, Munir flopped on the couch and grabbed the fork.

Cam watched her as if watching a rare animal coming out of its lair.

“How do you know so many informants?”

Munir shrugged, putting the bite in her mouth. The grease stuck to her tongue.

“Working in the food and wine business, you meet many people,” she said. “I just have a habit of keeping every contact and also good memory to remember the right people.”

Chaz smiled as though listening to a professor in her first lecture.

Cam sat quiet, her eyes following Munir’s movements, her lips, fingers, and hands as the memories began floating back.

**

The police station was loud and stuffy. Cam had just finished her workday and was going home. Walking out in the corridor, she put her bag over her shoulder, walking through the usual noise she was already used to, not paying attention to the different voices and the stomping of feet.

But her attention was drawn by two women arguing with a police officer. He stood shaking his hands while they kept on asking.

“We know his address,” the dark-haired woman demanded. “You just need to follow us, and every evidence is there.”

“We will look into it,” the officer said monotonously.

“You keep saying that and don’t take action,” the red-haired one almost yelled.

Their pleading faces made Cam stare, and she couldn’t look away. She could feel their anger spreading onto her.

Suddenly the brunette’s eyes met hers, and she shoved the policeman away, hurrying to Cam.

“Please, help us,” Munir said and grabbed Cam’s hands. “You are a woman, I know you understand how important it is to arrest a man who assaults women. Doesn’t matter how many or in what way; he does it with one woman, and it’s enough to arrest him. You don’t need proof to believe the victim. The proof is there in her eyes, on her tainted body, in her words. Police keep asking questions on and on when there are no questions, just one fact that is enough to do what’s right. If this man is not arrested now and punished for what he did, he will continue assaulting women and doing it as if it’s his right.”

Cam had gazed into Munir’s eyes, and she couldn’t help but agree. That’s when their story began. Their friendship and their legion.

Cam had followed Munir and Lia to the address and arrested the man. Munir had been right- his culpability was obvious right away.

Chapter 6                                                    

The afternoon was noisy, the usual din of Chinatown rising to the sky and reaching every corner.

Sitting in her car parked behind the stack of boxes and unused building materials, Lia peered from the windshield window. She had lowered her chair so ducking her head to hide any moment would be easy, the key still dangling below the wheel, ready to start the car and hurl away if necessary.

But there seemed to be no danger lurking from the shadows just yet. So, Lia leaned forward with her arms folded on the wheel and chin resting on them and stared at the familiar Chinese restaurant across the street. She had pushed her hair up in a bun, thin-framed, square glasses firm on her button nose. Dressed in all black and with a focused, scrutinizing gaze, she looked like a thief waiting for the right time to attack a bank. But no, Lia was there for the opposite - in this case, she was justice, and those inside the restaurant were thieves, not only of money but much more.

Suddenly the doors opened, and Kin walked out with four guards surrounding him, two leading in the front, two following back, all dressed in black suits, wearing shaded sunglasses, hair shaved, and face - square.

Kin walked with his round beer gut hanging out of his shiny, tacky attire. The piece of fake hair he had glued to his bald head was fluttering in the slight breeze, letting his empty scalp peek through. Oval-framed glasses looked too small on his round, chubby face, scars of acne spotting his soggy cheeks. He walked confidently as if there was no bullet in the world that could cut through his chest, a weak but meek smile curling his lips.

Lia furrowed, unable to hide the grimace. There was something unsettling about this man, something that could make anyone shiver with disgust and dread, that would drive people away or make them obey out of fear.

As the doors swung close behind Kin, they opened again, and a young girl ran after the man. Barely 20 years old, the girl was screaming something that Lia couldn't hear; she could only see her gaping mouth and young face warped with despair.

"Dad!" That was the only word Lia heard and she leaned forward to see better. How could this beautiful girl be a daughter of such a horrible man?

The long pitch-black hair reached her waist, so straight and light as if constantly damp with rose water. Her pale arms looked even whiter under the sunshine, and her slim face was adorned by full lips and a wide-bridged nose. Mono-lid, almond-shaped eyes were teary, desperate.

The moment Kin heard her voice, he turned and began waving his hands, pointing back to the restaurant before he lifted his right hand and slapped across the girl's face. As the girl fell to the ground, one of the guards grabbed her, threw her across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and took her inside. As he returned back, Kin got in the car with his four men and drove off, the shining surface of the Mercedes fading through the cloud of dust.

Sighing, Lia shook her head. Not only was he a thief, but an abuser too.

She pulled her phone out and began playing games, waiting for something to happen.

The sun passed the zenith, and the restaurant doors stayed closed. Lia began getting impatient, the games turning boring too. And when she thought nothing else would happen that day, the doors opened, and a young boy who seemed to be a servant dragged a garbage can outside. He struggled and huffed before finally putting it next to the entrance and going back. As soon as he closed the door, a lid was lifted off the can and the girl crawled out, peering around like a scared cat and running to the small, white car. Then jumping in it, she drove off hastily as if scared others would chase her.

Wasting no second, Lia started her car and followed the girl.

She found herself in front of a deserted bar, in some dark alley, far from the noisy streets and bright parks. Here, in this shaded alley, only those came who had been here many times before.

Walking inside, Lia sized up the dimly lit surroundings, a few clients crammed in the corners, and the smell of cheap alcohol. Her eyes quickly landed on the girl by the counter, talking to the bartender. The vivid red and blue reflecting off the different colored alcohol bottles danced on her face and turned her pale skin pink and dark eyes - blue.

"Vodka martini," said the girl, and standing next to her, Lia smiled at the bartender.

"Make it two."

The girl looked at her confused, but as she ran into Lia's charming smile and sweet eyes shaded by red lashes, she smiled too.

"I haven't seen you around here," said the girl and clicked her long nails on the counter. "Are you new?"

"Yeah, I am," Lia nodded and sipped the drink from her glass. The bitter yet pleasant taste tinged her tongue. "Can I ask your name?"

The girl smiled shyly but then put the hair behind her ear and twinkled at Lia.

"I'm Alex."

"Lia."

They continued beaming and sparkling at one another before Lia felt how wrong lying to Alex was. Deceiving people was part of her job and daily tasks, but she hated lying to innocent people.

"Actually, I don't want to lie to you, Alex," she confessed, and Alex's hand froze with the glass in it. "I know you are Kin's daughter."

As the surprise faded, Alex's eyes darted toward the exit.

"Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you or rat you out," Lia quickly added. "I need your help to put your criminal and abusive father away."

Alex narrowed her eyes, at first with shock and then with doubt.

"I know about the crimes your father does to innocent people. My friends and I can't defeat him without your help."

"What do I have to do?" Alex asked, still suspicious.

Lia put a scrap of paper on the counter, small text scribbled on it.

"This is our place," she said. "You can drive there yourself. If you don't like anything or change your mind, no one's stopping you from leaving."

Alex took the paper, twirling it in her hand before nodding, curiosity, and intrigue sparkling in her eyes.

Agreeing, she got up and left before Lia followed, seeing her getting in the car and reading the address before starting it.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Chapter 7

It didn't take more than twenty minutes to reach the apartment building that was so familiar to Lia but completely strange to Alex. Lia saw how the girl stopped the car and got out, staring up at the building. Getting out of her car, Lia approached her, and they stood quietly next to one another while Alex examined the surroundings.

"I know what your father does to you," Lia broke the silence. "You are not alone."

Alex looked at her with tinges of sadness.

"These words meant so much to me when I was younger, around your age," Lia continued. "I had an anonymous account online and posted that my friends ostracized me for being gay. I couldn't take any more of it. I was sure my grandparents wouldn't understand. I lived with them as my mother died and my father was a deadbeat. That was when I received the first message. It was from Munir, who is my best friend and leader of our Legion now. Her message stopped me from committing suicide," Lia smiled melancholically. "We went on to chat the whole night and became close, closer than I had ever been with someone. I brcame the second member of the Lex Tal Legion."

Alex listened quietly before she nodded and raised her brows.

"Okay, I will help you," she said and looked at the building. "Take me to your apartment."

Cam had just left for work and gathered in the kitchen. Lia, Munir, and Chaz watched Alex sitting on the sofa and staring out the window with unblinking eyes, her expression empty and devoid of emotion.

"She doesn't look good," Chaz murmured as she poured tea into a mug and went into the living room.

Unable to notice her, Alex kept gazing out the window, sitting with her hands between her knees, lips slightly droopy.

"Hey," Chaz said. To attract her attention, touched her shoulder, and as if hit by electricity, the girl jolted and jumped from the seat, staring at Chaz with horrified eyes.

Startled by her reaction, Chaz stepped back, too, shaking her hands.

"Did I hurt you? Are you okay?" she asked, confused.

Alex, realizing she was safe, shook her head and apologized.

"Thank you," she said and took the teacup, sitting back on the sofa and slowly sipping the hot liquid.

Returning back to her friends, Chaz glared at her with the same shocked eyes.

"Even a slight touch or movement scares her," she said.

"That's another sign of being abused," Munir said.

"Is she even an adult?" Chaz asked.

"She's 20," Lia replied before they noticed Alex standing up.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" she asked like a kid, staring at the women with eyes pleading for approval.

"Of course," Lia smiled. "It's down the hall and right."

Alex smiled back, weakly but still gratefully, and headed to the bathroom.

"Asking permission for everything is another sign of being a victim," Chaz whispered.

"I think she's the most comfortable around you," Munir looked at Lia. "I think you should lead the conversation."

Lia nodded, and when Alex returned, they all gathered on the couch. The evening let the sun slide behind the horizon, and streetlights twinkle like fireflies.

"Is your father acting violent?" Lia asked carefully.

Alex was quiet before she nodded.

"Is he violent toward you?" she nodded again, her eyes turning moist. "And others?"

"Toward everyone," Alex muttered.

"Do you know that he steals from people?" Lia kept on. Munir and Chaz listened quietly, only nodding and trying to encourage Alex with their compassionate eyes.

"Yes, he does," Alex almost whispered before tears flowed out of her red eyes, and she broke down.

Burying her face in her hands, Alex began sobbing and forcing the words out of her tight throat.

"His real name is Daniel Lim. He stole everything," she sobbed. "Cars, estates, bank accounts, yachts... he owns everything."

Munir, who had prepared her phone, searched through her contacts and found the familiar number right away. Her fingers quickly typed the short text that was enough to say everything needed.

Get ready. We're coming.

Chapter 8

The lights of Munir's car brightened the huge metal gates of a mansion. Sitting behind the wheel, Munir stared ahead at the iron doors as if waiting for the huge monster to open its jaws. She could hear the deep, sharp breathing of the women sitting next to her and on the backseats. She glanced at the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of Alex. The girl was perched on the car seat quietly and unmoving, but Munir could see the nervousness making her young features twitch.

"We can do this another time if you don't feel ready," Munir finally broke the silence, and everyone stayed staring ahead instead of watching Alex, not to pressure her.

"No, I'm ready," the girl replied with a confident tone. "I want to do it now."

Opening the door, she jumped out of the car and began typing a code on the security entrance machine twinkling next to the gates. Her fingers clinked away before the machine beeped and shone in green, and soon the gates began opening too, heavily and slowly like the legs of an old, tired animal.

After Alex got back in the car, Munir drove into the vast yard, followed by the big white truck.

She peered out of the window while spinning the wheel, sneaking her eyes at the lanterns illuminating the smooth path, tall pine trees, the big round swimming pool, and the red underwater lights reflecting on its calm, glimmering surface; the marble sculptures like artworks in Greek museums; rose bushes and the three-story, endless mansion that seemed to stretch from one end of the earth to the other. The wide stairs led to a porch decorated with flowers and rocking chairs, gilded squares framed the windows, brick walls seemingly freshly repainted.

"Uhu," Chaz whistled. "I wonder how many years of stealing it took to build something like this."

"It took almost all of my father's life," Alex responded with her voice full of disgust and sorrow before she got out and looked at the house. "I hate this place more than anything."

The Legion got out, and Munir turned, waving at the white truck. As she did, five women jumped out, dressed in black overalls and wearing hats, long ponytails dangling down their shoulders.

Munir smiled at the first, oldest woman leading her team of movers. Munir had known her since their first mission together seven years before, and as more time passed, the more she trusted them.

"Didn't know you started your own independent moving all-women business, Fran," Munir smiled and hugged the woman.

Fran smiled, her wrinkled face revealing her age but still lively and energetic.

"So, should we get to work?" She asked and rubbed her hands, looking back at others.

"Yes," Alex responded and hurried toward the mansion. She was the first one to enter the house.

Munir followed the others, stepping into the house. Hatred and wrath mounted in her as she couldn't hold the gasp of astonishment as she gawked at the overbearing, overshadowing wealth and luxury the whole house screamed of. Every spot was full of objects that were enough for a few people to build their whole lives on, to have a roof over their heads and food to survive. And here they were - golden and diamond jewelry, precious stone tables, hand-carved sculptures, expensive fabric sofas and smart TVs, crystal chandeliers, and real fur carpets.

"Grab everything you can," Munir ordered the Legion and Fran's employees. "Anything valuable. We have to empty this prison cell."

It took three hours to take some of the sculptures, most of the furniture, a few paintings, and a lot of jewelry out of the house and cram them into the truck. The women huffed and sweated, wasting all their energy on carrying the heavy objects, but in the end, when they closed the truck doors, they all breathed out, knowing they still had the energy to reach the end of their goal.

The mansion was not completely empty, but they didn't have much time and also didn't want to continue taking the stuff. They felt like they were sticky with the dirty money the objects had been bought with. Just one touch was enough to feel like all the sins and wickedness the house held transported onto their skin.

As women gathered in the yard, Munir looked at Alex and handed her the bottle of gasoline, carrying one herself like Lia, Cam, and Chaz.

"We're ready if you are," Munir said and opened her hand, a box of matches lying on it.

Nodding, Alex opened the bottle and poured the pungent liquid around, and so did Munir and the Legion as they splashed gasoline over the walls, on the stairs, into the open windows, and around the perfectly trimmed bushes.

Then, Alex scraped the match, and the sound of little fire kindling off it broke the dead silence. The fire lit up her teary eyes with warm yellow before she flicked it and the match fell into the ground damp with gasoline.

In a split second, the fire broke through the wet traces and raised, running toward the house and spreading over the walls. The red flames licked the gilded windows and crawled through the wooden floor. Only seconds later, the burning fire had already enveloped the mansion and crept to the new corners.

After a quiet tear, Alex wept, opening her mouth and letting the whales out. Munir, holding her from falling, hugged the girl.

"I feel like I'm finally free for the first time in my life, like I'm the one in control, not him," Alex let out as the sparking flames shone on her sad but relieved face.

Chapter 9

Chaz and Alex sat by the kitchen table as Lia searched through the system on her laptop. The glasses reflected the long codes and texts from the screen.

Alex quietly drank coffee, eating biscuits like Chaz who smiled and chatted about her job.

"I haven't seen Angel lately, by the way," she remembered, and Lia looked back from the couch.

"Maybe Alex knows her," she said, and Chaz opened Angel's photo on her phone, one she had taken of the nurse secretly.

Alex narrowed her eyes before nodding at the photo.

"Yes, I know her. She came over to my father often. I think he called her Janette."

"Janette," Lia repeated and put the name into the system she used to search people. For the rest of the legion, this system was just an endless, messy, and brain-hurting lists of codes and texts they would never understand. But for Lia, reading through it was as easy as doing a third-grader's homework.

"Oh, here she is," Lia smiled. "Janette Wonders. She has quite a big property nearby."

Chaz turned to Alex, who had put down her cup, and peered over Lia's shoulder.

"Do you know other names too of people who worked for your father?" she asked.

"Yes, I…" Alex took her phone out. "I can write down every name I remember. Janette was pretending to be a nurse, right?"

Chaz nodded.

"Actually, these people are not only posing as bank tellers and nurses but also as first responders, movers, and even funeral home owners. Just everything."

Lia and Chaz shared a disappointed, furious look.

"Money makes them do anything," Alex added. "Most of them have families, kids, wives, and husbands who have no idea."

As Alex continued writing down the names, Chaz typed a text to Cam and Munir, letting them know that Angel would be the first of many they would attack and threaten.

Munir and Chaz banged on Angel's door and heard her scared footsteps reaching the door. Chaz noticed the camera turning toward them from above the door.

"Janette, open up, or we are calling the police!" Chaz yelled. "We know everything, and we have proof."

She turned the photo of Angel running out of a house after theft to the camera.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the door buzzed open, and Angel peered from behind it.

Chaz, kicking the door open, barged inside, followed by Munir. Horrified, Angel jumped back and tried to grab a gun from a table drawer, but before she could open it, Munir grabbed her hands and forced her down on the couch.

"Now listen," Chaz warned as Munir stood next to Angel. "We know about your boss Daniel Lim and we have every proof to put him and you in jail. Well, he is going to prison without a doubt, and your future depends on what you decide."

Angel listened with an ashen face, eyes red from anger and realization of defeat.

"We are not taking your belongings like we are doing to others from your crew," Chaz continued. "You have an option of being a witness to everything he and his too people did and having your crimes written off, or keeping quiet and going to jail," Chaz smirked. "Which one is it?"

Angel swallowed, her gaunt features death-like. She glanced at Munir and back at Chaz.

"You have until tomorrow," Chaz said. "Don't even try running, or handcuffs will be on your wrists before you know it."

Munir stepped back as Chaz nodded and walked to the door.

"Who the hell are you anyway?" Angel screamed.

"You can tell the police we are the justice itself," Chaz winked with a smile before slamming the door.

 Chapter 10

A slow melody poured out of the radio as Lia drove the car, smiling at Alex sitting next to her and Munir in the back. Cam and Chaz tittered next to Munir while trying to sing along to the trendy new song.

"Oh, we're too old for this," Cam chortled.

"Speak for yourself," Chaz raised her brow. "I'm never getting old."

They all laughed, and Munir felt relief coating her heart like a warm blanket. It had taken five days to barge into every house of people who worked for Kin, take their belongings, and warn them about that being their last chance to change for good. Then a week passed, as they sold the items only for a few bucks in thrift stores and roadside open shops, making people astonished as they could purchase luxurious items for only five or ten dollars. Though, in the end, they had gathered some money and added it to their savings to make enough for…

"Where are we going?" Alex distracted Munir from her train of thought.

"You will see," Lia asked.

Alex sighed with relief but also a hint of melancholy.

"I'm so glad my dad and his men are finally behind bars," she said. "How did you convince Janette to testify?"

"We have our secrets," Chaz smiled enthusiastically.

As the sun shone through the white clouds, Lia stopped the car and led Alex out of it, then onto the third floor of a newly built apartment building.

The door was open, and Alex walked in, peering around the small but tastefully designed apartment.

"What is it?" She asked before Lia put a key in her hand.

"It's yours," she said. "You are the last victim to be compensated."

With her eyes tearing up, Alex hugged her and then hurried to the others, wrapping her trembling arms around them too.

"Thank you for everything," she smiled, her eyes now watery from happiness. "For taking me in, for helping me be a survivor. And for helping so many others, my father could have ruined."

The Legion hugged the girl, letting her cry before her heart became lighter. Then it was time to celebrate the beginning of Alex's new life.

The End

Thank you for your support!

Check back for more short stories, comic poetry and essays that will be posted on a monthly basis!

Chapter 1

The muffled din accompanied the distant noise of the jammed streets and the beeping of vehicles crammed like beetles. Their glistening surfaces mirrored the shining traffic lights, the tired faces of passersby with hot cups of tasteless instant coffee in their hands or scrolling through phones at the bus stops. The suffocating scent of pollution mingled with the cigarette smoke and the small clouds of mist floating off the mugs. The chatter coming from the open car windows mixed into the cries of babies or children squealing, emerging into an ear-shattering, frustrating composition every big city is embedded with.

But this clamor was distant for the four women sitting in the tiny park in front of their apartment building. The hubbub turned muffled before reaching their ears as they had gathered on a wooden bench, caramel tea rippling in the paper cups in their hands.

Sipping the tea that glided down her throat and warmed her insides like a childhood blanket warming her body on a cold winter night, Munir looked up at the identical short buildings of the suburb. Some windows were brightened by artificial light from inside; some were covered with curtains, while in others, she could discern blurry silhouettes. Somehow, this quiet suburb was melancholy and peaceful at the same time. The grey buildings rose the feeling of emptiness while these tiny apartments that were so close to each other created a feeling of unity - as if the neighbors were one big family. And it was somewhat true; they all knew and loved each other.

"It was worth spending money on this park," Lia's voice made Munir look toward her. "It really came out well."

"Yeah, kids like it now more," Cam agreed and sipped her tea.

They all looked at the three children on the playground. While a little curly boy giggled on the swig, the other two bounced on the seesaw.

"Not only the kids are enjoying it," said Chaz and pointed her chin toward two elderly strolling on the narrow path, their walkers rolling and leading their slow, heavy steps. Smile raised to Munir's lips as she watched the elderly couple gently holding hands and helping each other. She wished she had someone who would take her hand just as gently and lovingly when she got old.

"Well, it's small but not bad for spending half an hour drinking tea after work," Lia tittered and put the cup to her lips. The red stain of her lipstick clung to the cup edge. The trees surrounded wooden benches with one small cupid-shaped fountain in the center, a playground, and a round field of grass for a picnic that would hold no more than ten people.

Suddenly piercing sirens of the ambulance broke the peaceful ambiance, and Milner saw the car driving speedily into the neighborhood, its shining red and blue lights boded for nothing but tragedy.

Springing to their feet, the women watched the ambulance stop and the paramedics jump from it.

"What's going on?" Munir asked as they all rushed toward the ambulance car.

But the paramedics who had prepared the stretcher and were now running into the building where Munir and her friends lived didn't say a word, too immersed in their job.

People gathered around the ambulance, whispering, murmuring, questioning, and predicting. Mostly elderlies had circled the car and peered to the building entrance to see who'd be lying on the stretcher.

Munir shared a look with Lia, their eyes exchanging a worried look, Chez holding onto Cam as they all watched the entrance that was still empty but made everyone's hearts race.

In a few minutes, which felt like an hour, the footsteps came from the stairs, and soon paramedics appeared with the stretcher, hurrying back to the car. People's eyes gaped toward the man lying under the thin white blanket, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, and his face - completely pale.

"Stevie!" Cam exclaimed, and people gasped as if only now recognizing their neighbor. Munir's heart wrenched as she saw the sixty-year-old man with his grey hair, bushy brows, slightly protruding belly, and old-fashioned sweater rolled into the ambulance car. She didn't want to admit that she couldn't see his chest moving.

"Poor Stevie," Lia murmured. "What happened to him?"

"I hope he'll be okay," Chaz added.

"Let's visit him in the hospital this evening," Cam added.

Munir nodded, her eyes following the ambulance car as it began disappearing at the end of the street. Still shaking their heads with worry and chattering, the neighbors scattered. The thoughts about what kind of flowers she'd bring to Stevie in the hospital pierced her mind, the images of him smiling modestly as he'd talk about a fall that had only slightly injured his hip.

But deep in her heart, Munir felt she would never hear Stevie's voice again.

 Chapter 2

The priest's smooth voice flowed over the open grave like a cool breeze through the leaves. His black dress rippled as he read from the bible, murmuring the words without taking a breath.

Munir could hardly see the dirt piled up next to the grave and the casket hovering above it. Her watery eyes only saw the blurry outlines of the white coffin and the bouquet of colorful flowers on top of it.

The neighbors had gathered for the funeral, sobbing quietly.

"At least Stevie had us," Lia whispered to Munir.

She was right. All alone after his wife's death, Stevie had no children or grandchildren. So, the neighbors took turns grabbing the dirt and throwing it into the grave as the casket was lowered into it. The scoops of dirt fell on its spotless white surface without a sound and slowly covered it before the gravediggers began throwing the earth into the grave with shovels.

People dressed in all black started returning to their cars, some rubbing their red eyes, some trying to smile while telling stories about Stevie. But the melancholy cast down on everyone else.

Lia walked to her car, waiting for her friends while they slowly left the grave behind. Looking back, Munir saw a young woman lingering near the grave and watching it slowly filling to the rim.

Munir stopped, looking at the woman staring into the grave, her head ducked, hands placed in front almost as if praying. The long black dress hid her knees, revealing her long, lean arms. Wide-brimmed hat shaded her pale face, and teardrops hung from her dark lashes.

Cam and Chaz didn't notice how Munir separated from them and walked back to the grave. The shuddersome sound of the dirt pouring on the coffin turned stifled as the grave slowly filled.

The woman gently wiped her teary eyes. Munir stood next to her, her eyes fixed on the grave too. She felt shivers trickling down her spine when she imagined how she would feel if she found herself deep under that damp, cold soil, in the total darkness where the squirming of worms and beetles would be all she'd hear.

"People thought Stevie was a bit of a snob," Munir chuckled. "But actually, he was really friendly. You had to just get to know and show him your heart, then he'd show you his heart." The woman nodded, a sad smile curving her colorless lips.

"you are right," she said with a fragile voice as if her words were balanced on a shaky glass. "He was really friendly with me too. Though he was often alone. Kind of outcast."

"Not a lot of neighbors saw how kind he was," Munir added and looked at the woman. "How did you know him?"

"I was his pharmacist," she said. "Gina."

"I see," Munir nodded. "We live on the same floor”.

The grave was filled, and the men had begun to flatten the uneven surface. Soon, grass would grow over the grave, and only the marble stone with his name would stay as a sign of his existence.

"I didn't see him much recently," Gina took her hat off and let her short curly hair down. "He stopped coming to buy medicine. Even though I desperately needed them. "

"Yeah, he had open heart surgery a month ago," Munir agreed. "We visited him in the hospital."

Munir narrowed her eyes, curious. "Do you know why he stopped buying medications?"

Gina shrugged.

"I figured he didn't have money," she sniffled. "I was so worried, and it turns out I had the reason to."

Munir heard her name and, looking back, saw Lia waving from the car.

"Would you like me to drive you?" She smiled at Gina, but she shook her head.

"Thanks, my husband is driving me."

Nodding, Munir shook her hand.

"It was nice to meet you, Gina. Glad to know Stevie had friends like you."

Smiling, Gina headed toward a red car in the distance.

Sighing, Munir looked at the grave again and the square stone with Stevie's name and years engraved on it. Somehow his grave was further from the rest as if even after death, he was an outcast.

As she got in the passenger's seat and closed the door, she turned back at Chaz and Cam. Lia started the car, passing by the graves and following the narrow path. The somehow peaceful atmosphere had embedded between those white stones, green grass, and heavy silence.

"Who was that woman?" Cam asked.

"Stevie's pharmacist," Munir put on the seat belt. "And you know what she told me? She said Stevie stopped buying the medications he needed for his heart condition."

"Why?" Chaz peeled her eyes off the mirror she had opened to reapply her red lipgloss.

"She said he probably didn't have enough money," Munir replied. "But we all know…."

"He received his pension fund a little while ago," Lia finished the sentence.

The women shared a curious, suspenseful look.

"Something doesn't feel right about this," Munir shook her head and gazed out of the windshield. They had left the graveyard and joined the cars in the streets. The silence had vanished, replaced by the city noise.

"We have to figure out what happened to Stevie," Cam emitted.

Everyone nodded. The legion knew if a situation raised even one question, then there would be much more in the depths of it.

Lia slammed the door close as they returned home, tossing the bags aside and flopping on the couch.

Putting on her glasses, Lia opened the laptop and put it on her lap. Munir leaned in from her left while Cam and Chaz peered, sitting to her right. Lia knitted her lips and began clanking on the keyboard. Watching her fingers effortlessly move on the keys like ten feathers that had flown off from a swan's wings, Munir couldn't help but feel at ease that she had such a nerdy, talented friend.

"Are you hacking into Stevie's account?" Chaz asked, her eyes searching the laptop screen.

"Yeah, to see if he still has that pension fund," Lia responded. "And if he has, then he didn't buy the medications for some other reason."

As the window opened, all four women gaped at the number on the bank account.

"0," Munir murmured.

"Someone had drained everything out all at once," Lia pointed at the withdrawal date. "see?"

They nodded.

"Stevie wouldn't withdraw all this out," said Cam. "Why would he?"

"Yes, I think so too," Lia nodded. "He didn't need that much money unless someone forced him to take it out or took it out themselves."

The legion fell to thinking, pondering where their neighbor's money could have vanished.

Subscribe now

Chapter 3

The tall white walls almost shook with the noise embedded in the hospital. The nurses hurried from spot to spot, their fast steps blending into one another like a blurry photograph. The patients complained, sniffled, sobbed, or smiled at the nurses who tried to help everyone at the same time, their energy slowly draining. The doctors rushed into the emergency room with white gowns rippling behind their legs.

Chaz held an elderly woman's arm while escorting her from the hospital. The lady's skinny hand lightly lay on Chaz's strong arm, and she could hardly feel the patient's grip. Smiling at her, Chaz kept nodding at her questions while the woman murmured endlessly. The long black dotted dress fluttered around her ankles, her grey hair tied in a bun behind her head. Chaz could hardly hear her low voice as the woman couldn't even reach her shoulder and, hunched, got even shorter.

"Do you feel well, Ms. Gutierez?" Chaz asked as they walked out of the building at snail's speed.

The evening had brought a cool breeze, and the cars that had been parked since the morning had begun leaving. While some patients headed home, new ones arrived. The hospital yard was noisy and full.

"I feel all right," the elderly nodded before Chaz waved at the nearby taxi.

She opened the back seat door and let the woman get in. The lady waved at Chaz as the car began driving by, and Chaz waved back with a smile.

Finally, when the car disappeared from her sight, Chaz sighed and turned around, returning to the hospital. She had hours left to work, and opening her shoulders, she prepared to do so.

The different voices mingling with one another reached from the hospital rooms as Chaz walked down the hallway, peeking at the doors. Suddenly she noticed an unfamiliar woman standing in one of the rooms, the rooms where she knew exactly which patients lay and who his usual visitors were.

Opening the door, Chaz stopped in the doorway. The nurse and patients chatted with smiles before looking at Chaz. It was just a nurse, and Chaz felt embarrassed for doubting everything.

"How is everything going?" Chaz tried to hide her embarrassment and walked inside. "How are you, Charles?"

The patient nodded with gratitude, his bald head moving like a bouncing ball. The white blanket hardly covered his round body as the IV dripped next to him.

"I'm good, Chaz," the man smiled, showing his tiny, yellowish teeth. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you," she said, and Charles raised his hand to hold hers. Not to disappoint the patient, Chaz held his hand - small and fragile.

"Chaz and I are good friends," the man turned to the other nurse. "Even our names are so alike!"

"They are," the nurse agreed.

Char looked at her. The young woman had tied her thick hickory-brown hair into a ponytail on the back of her head, her big dolly eyes gazing back at Chaz.

Chaz tried to remember if she was someone she knew: a nurse who had worked here before or an intern who had decided to start working, but she couldn't remember. The nurse's oval face, small, round lips, and slightly hooked nose were unfamiliar.

"I haven't seen you here before," Chaz said politely.

She peered at the woman's notebook and the few scribbles made on the blank page.

"I just started," the nurse smiled and spread her hand toward Chaz. "Angel."

"Chaz," she shook her hand, her young and smooth skin noticeably more pleasant to touch than the patient's.

"Nice to meet you," Angel fluttered her long lashes. "I'm happy to be working with you."

"Me too," Angel smiled. "Now, if you excuse me, I have to check on another patient.

Saying goodbye to Charles, Angel walked out with light steps.

Chaz stared at the closed door for a few minutes before looking back at the man who was still smiling.

"What did she ask you, Charles?" She said and checked his heart rate.

"She just asked my full name, birthday, and things like that," Charles nodded, amused by Chaz checking his pulse.

"What else?"

"I don't remember," Charles didn't even try to recall as he continued fingering his iv cord.

Chaz took her hands down and sighed. She had to ask around about this Angel. She couldn't help but feel that the nurse was everything but an angel.

"You wanna watch the tv?" She asked, and the patient nodded

While she arranged the fresh laundry and the patient kept giggling at the TV, Chaz couldn't l stop thinking about the mystery nurse.

Cam sat at her computer, the loud music banging in her ears distracting her from the noise in the police office. The officers kept scurrying back and forth, uniforms clinging to their bodies, guns lightly bouncing on their belts.

Focusing on her work, Cam raised the volume of the song and wordlessly followed her lips along the lyrics. She kept typing, her gaze blurring the surroundings while she immersed herself in the tiring process.

Suddenly, she felt someone tapping her shoulder, and looking up, she saw her partner Larisa talking to her. But Cam could only see her lips moving, her tense look fixed on Cam. Her short, boy-styled hair had begun to grow over her ears. Larisa's pink lips didn't stop moving like two tiny energetic animals.

"Sorry," Cam pulled the earphones out. "What were you saying?"

"There was a robbery near the 6th avenue," Larisa sucked her teeth from frustration. "But luckily, there's CCTV footage from the nearby store."

"Oh," Cam exclaimed and turned back to her computer while Larissa leaned in next to her. Cam felt the subtle scent of cigarette and green apple shampoo radiating off her skin.

"Tell me the address data," Cam said and closed the file she was working on.

Larisa murmured the numbers, and Cam hastily typed them on the keyboard.

"Oh, here they are!" Cam exclaimed as the camera footage opened up and a woman appeared on the screen.

From a distance, she was hard to discern. Cam and Larisa narrowed their eyes, zooming on the silhouette running across the street. Cam's eyes sipped up the thick brown hair partly hidden under a cap and a tattoo on her slender arm.

"Quite a big tattoo," Larisa whispered. "Point for us."

The black ink screamed on her pale skin: a mixture of a flower and a wolf howling to the moon. Cam nodded before she resumed the video and watched the woman disappear into a dark alley.

"This is not enough to identify her," Larisa growled from anger and turned around. "I'm gonna search for other CCTV near the area."

Nodding, Cam didn't take her eyes off the video, watching it over and over again. The robber's silhouette kept flashing by on the screen like a ghost.

Chapter 4

The evening turned damp and humid as the clouds cast the sky, the sun slowly sliding behind them and hiding under their thick layers like a turtle going to sleep in its shell. It was still early, but the gloom seemed to take over the light, spread on the sky, and hang in the air above the city.

The darkness slowly growing in the room began to shroud Lia sitting on the couch. Her bored face was brightened by the phone screen and the cold white light illuminating her half-lidded eyes and downward lips.

She peered from the window, her eyes reaching the buildings and the brightened windows flickering like jewelry, the streetlights lined up on the busy roads, and the sky that came closer and closer to the ground.

Sighing, Lia looked back at her phone, her thumb moving almost instinctively as she scrolled through the social media she hated so much but was so addicted to - though she didn’t want to admit it.

As the street noise reached her - the inaudible blend of people returning home and the cars beeping to rush in the same direction- Lia wished she had an office job like others, like her friends. Working from home always seemed like the best-case scenario, and at first, when she really did start it, it seemed fun: working in the comfort of her room, near her kitchen, a step away from her books and TV. She had thought she could keep a perfect balance between work and play. But eventually, as time passed and work grew, Lia realized how hard it was to have the home as her workplace: soon, she began wasting days and pulling all-nighters, unable to separate her personal life from her professional one.

And now, too, as her laptop lay open next to her with the undone work open on it, Lia continued scrolling through her phone, her thin-framed glasses reflecting the speedily moving feed.

Suddenly, unfamiliar noise reached her ears, and Lia pricked them, realizing it came from the hallway.

Tossing her phone away, she pushed her glasses close to her eyes and stood up, the messy bun hanging from the side of her head, warm hoodie reaching her knees. Without putting on the slippers, Lia hurried to the small square screen next to her front door.

The white-framed screen was open, lit up. Lia got closer, staring at its screen as it showed the life of what was going on outside her door.

Lia had installed the tiny camera above their door to control the hallway and keep an eye on the strangers. The tiny camera eye was hardly visible and only shone in faint red in the dark.

As Lia examined the video on the camera, her eyes scrutinized the people gathered in the hallway. A small group of neighbors. But they were not gathered at her front door but around Stevie’s, right before Lia’s and her friend’s apartment.

Confused, Lia narrowed her eyes, her nose wrinkling from questions as she watched the middle-aged men and women drag boxes out of Stevie’s home. She couldn’t hear them, but the movements of their hands, the expressions, and the hurried steps raised an eerie feeling in her. These people she had known for years now seemed like a group of thieves trying to complete their job before getting caught.

Without hesitation, Lia stepped into her slippers and pulled the door open. The loud thud made the neighbors look toward the door. For a few seconds, silence ensued as they stared at Lia quietly, and she gazed back silently, too, her eyes jumping from one face to the other: different but the same. Wrinkles around the mouth, lines in the forehead, saggy or sunken cheeks, brownish age spots on the hands, grey or dyed hair, thick glasses, and the old-fashioned, hand-knitted sweaters.

“Hello,” Lia tried to sound casual and smiled.

Slowly letting the door go, she plodded toward the group, who slowly slackened, too, smiling back.

Lia looked at the carton boxes, some small, some big, piled up on each other, organized. Some were still open with objects peeking from the top, and some were so huge as if fitting a whole wardrobe. Two armchairs stood outside, and Lia remembered Stevie and her sitting in them, drinking tea and watching football. The spotless green velvet surface and wood details made the armchairs a true discovery for any antique store.

“Hi, Lia,” one of the women smiled.

There were five of them, and while the two talked to her and seemed to block the entrance, the other three continued scurrying through the apartment, speedily moving from one room to the other.

“What’s going on?” Lia asked.

“The landlord told us to remove Stevie’s items,” answered the man. “And move them to the storage facility.”

“Also, there will be a new tenant soon,” added the woman with a grin.

“Oh, I see,” Lia nodded and peered through the open doorway again, seeing how empty Stevie’s home was - as if they were trying to erase every sign of him.

Nodding, Lia walked back to her apartment and closed the door. But she didn’t move from the camera as she watched the neighbors gathering the items.

The dark was already deep, and the night replaced the evening when they finished gathering Stevie’s belongings and pushed them down the stairs.

Quickly putting on her shoes and a jacket, Lia grabbed her car keys and quietly opened the door, gaping over the people who had reached the first floor. They moved quietly as if trying not to draw any attention.

Lia, too, followed with quiet and careful steps, watching from behind the wall how they pushed the boxes into a truck and then got in, driving away.

Getting in her car, Lia followed the big white truck, her eyes pinned on it as she felt that it would soon lead her to a new, unfamiliar destination.

After a twenty-minute drive, the van finally stopped in Chinatown, and Lia parked her car nearby, in the corner of the building, watching the people hop out of the van one by one like monkeys jumping from tree branches.

Pushing her glasses up on her nose bridge, Lia gaped at the three-story building with dark windows and only one door - metal, huge, and locked from the inside.

The neighbors stood impatiently, waiting with their feet tapping, fidgeting, and murmuring before the door opened with loud noise as if it had been dragged across the door.

Lia squinted as she saw a chubby, short man coming out of the door with two tall, muscly men dressed in the same black tank tops - clearly, his guards. They followed the older men with their buffy arms tense as though ready to protect their boss at any moment.

The older Chinese man stood at the van and folded his arms, sizing up the van with scrutinizing gaze. Lia noticed the fear infused with respect on her neighbors’ faces as they stepped back to let the guards open the van.

The two men opened up the van doors, and the older man walked closer, peering inside as if making sure he was seeing everything he expected to see.

After two long minutes, he waved his hand at the guards, and they began taking the boxes out of the van and into the dark building while the man handed out cash. Lia felt the flash of anger and disappointment rising up in her as she watched her neighbors take the money with modest smiles and red faces. She couldn’t believe they had traded Stevie’s cherished belongings for cash.

Lia narrowed her eyes, trying to see through the open door what was inside the building, but only darkness seeped out of it.

She sat unmoving while her neighbors crammed in the van and drove away. The older man walked back into the building the locked the door from inside.

The night didn’t bring anything but more work to Chaz as she sat at the hospital reception, filling out the forms for her new patients.

Some of the hospital rooms had gone silently, and lights had gone dimmer as the patients fell asleep, lulled by the medications or the nurses’ hopeful words. Some had turned their small TVs on, watching the news, some read books and newspapers, and some lay awake, staring at the ceiling, aching with fresh pain or depressing thoughts caving on them.

Chaz looked across the hospital, making sure no patient was wandering through the corridors, sleepwalking, or searching for a nurse. But everything was calm; the hallways sunk in gloom, and the nurses, finally able to take a breath, stood at the coffee machines or fridge, taking a few minute breaks before one of the many patients would call for some help.

Chaz’s eyes returned to the paper, and she checked the last parts of the form before putting it aside on top of a tall tower of other papers and taking another blank one to fill.

Suddenly, she noticed the new nurse hurrying from the entrance toward the hallway with patient rooms. She walked hastily, gripping the edges of her scrubs. Chaz’s eyes narrowed as she watched Angel’s wide brown eyes and lips slightly parted from huffing. Where was she hurrying to?

Springing up from her seat, Chaz left the form, dropped the pen, and scurried toward Angel, blocking her way with a sweet smile. She faked her polite expression and lingered before Angel as though accidentally appearing in her way.

“I thought your shift ended,” Chaz said, trying not to reveal her curiosity too much.

To look casual, she turned and began pouring coffee from the machine. It whirred, breaking the awkward silence.

“I work the night shift today,” Angel responded but didn’t smile. Tension began to turn her face stiff.

“You know, Sophie, the receptionist?” Chaz stared at Angel and felt the hot liquid warming up the cup. “We are good friends. She told me there were no job applications sent out recently.”

Angel stood quietly but impatiently. Chaz could feel how anxiety began pulling on Angels’ nerves.

“Did you get the job through a recommendation from someone there?” Chaz chuckled and looked up. “You know, higher-ups.”

Angel swallowed, now completely unable to hide the pressure, and she stepped back, her eyes scanning the surroundings like a rat in a trap trying to find a way out. Chaz felt that Angel was about to run away and let the coffee cup go. The mug fell on the hard floor, breaking into pieces with a screeching sound.

As soon as the cup shattered, Angel pushed Chaz away, thrusting her elbow into the side of her stomach, and hurried away. Groaning with pain, Chaz looked behind, seeing Angel almost running toward the elevator.

She saw one of the nurses furrowing with confusion as she saw Angel speeding away, and Chaz bent over with her hands on her stomach.

“Are you okay?” Ashe asked and knelt to pick up the glass pieces.

Still feeling the tinges of pain, Chaz nodded and straightened her back.

“Yeah,” she knelt too and gathered the tiny pieces in her palm. The wet black ceramic pieces reminded her of Munir’s black, teary eyes.

“What’s her problem?” The girl asked and threw the glass into the trash. She jerked her chin toward the direction Angel had run to.

“Nothing,” Chaz snickered. “She’s just weird.”

She watched the nurse walk away and then pulled her phone out. Chaz walked toward the empty corner and dialed the number she knew by heart. In a split second, Cam’s voice tickled her ears.

“You remember the new nurse I told you about?” Chaz whispered. “She got really tense over my questions and ran away like a child. She is suspicious.”

Cam sighed, and Chaz heard the sound of her computer shutting.

“Yeah, we got no lead with the thief either,” Cam sounded disappointed. “The one who stole from Mr. Thompson.”

“Thompson?” Chaz asked. “It is the same name of the patient who was discharged early.”

Cam fell quiet, both thinking.

“Tell me what the thief looks like,” Chaz exclaimed as she began to connect the dots.

“We don’t know anything about the thief, just her dark hair, skinny shape, and a tattoo on her right forearm.”

Chaz frowned, biting her lower lip.

“Tattoo on her right forearm?” She repeated. “What does it look like?”

“Hmm,” Cam pondered. “A weird mixture of a wolf howling at a moon while rising out of a flower, something like that. All black.”

Chaz felt her heart skipping a beat, her mind filled with the image she had seen a day before: Angel standing at the patient’s bed, writing, and the sleeve sliding down her arm to reveal a snippet of her tattoo - the open mouth of a wolf and flower stems.

“Oh my god, I think you’re searching for Angel,” she said quietly. “Send me the picture!”

Cam didn’t need even a second to send the picture of the thief from surveillance footage. Squinting, Chaz put her phone close to her face, studying the low-quality, blurred image but it was enough for her to recognize Angel in the black cap and tight overalls.

It’s her, she texted Cam.

Share

Thank you for your support!

Check back for part 2 of Issue 2: Wicked Nightingale

Chapter 5

The day brought noise and bustle to the hospital, the usual clamor now louder, messier. Patients, visitors, nurses, and doctors blended in a colorful mass, filling the white-blue surroundings.

Hurrying down the corridor, Chaz folded the hospital gown she was rushing to a new patient. With quick and effortless footsteps, so light it was as if she didn't even touch the ground, Chaz fixed the clothing without even looking down. Her hands moved instinctively, as she knew every motion by heart.

Suddenly her eyes caught a glimpse through one of the hospital door windows, seeing the red-headed patient dozing off in her bed. Her face wrapped in white bandages, she looked better, though her skin was pale and lips colorless.

Swallowing and putting up a kind smile, Chaz opened the door, peeking inside.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked and walked inside. She took out her form and a pen, pretending to be checking on her.

"I'm okay," the woman replied and glanced at her. Chaz could see her burnt skin peeking through the gaps of bandages - the red blisters turning white while healing.

"You didn't need an operation," Chaz smiled. "That's really great."
"I'm lucky," the patient scoffed ironically and pinned her eyes on the ceiling.
A bottle of sedatives lay on her bedside table. It seemed like the nurse had just given her

one, and she was now calmer, slowly drifting off to sleep.
"Does it hurt?" Chaz asked casually while acting like she was checking off something in her notebook.
"Not anymore, thanks to the meds," she murmured. "But it hurt like hell at first. I thought I was going to die."

"You were in bad condition when they brought you here," Chaz agreed, trying to naturally make the conversation flow toward the direction she aimed. "Only the most horrible people can do something like that."

"Hmm..." the patient hummed like a song fading away on the radio, her eyes closing. "Do you know who did this to you?" Chaz continued carefully.
But the woman glanced at her as though Chaz had woken her up by hitting drums. Her gaze was momentary but sharp as though she had figured out Chaz's intentions immediately. Her eyes returned to the ceiling in a second, and she pursed her lips.

"If you didn't see their faces, maybe you recognized their voices?" Chaz still continued. "It could help the police find them." But the patient's lips stayed pursed, her eyes on the ceiling, her expression stubborn and stern.

Chaz sighed, realizing that she wasn't going to get any answers. She fixed the woman's blanket, feeling her gaze following her motions.

"Rest," she said and walked to the door.

Opening it, Chaz looked back one more time, locking eyes with the patient who watched her. And Chaz felt like she saw hints of pleading in her gaze - as if Chaz were to ask again, she'd answer. But before she could open her mouth, the patient closed her eyes.

Chaz ducked her head and silently walked out, aware of how hard opening up to people was after being hurt. She knew this feeling well. Even though she had left her hometown with her parents years before, she remembered all the bullying and torture everyone had made her go through for being different, for not wanting to be a boy. Chaz squeezed her eyes shut as the sharp voice calling her "sick" pierced her mind; the images came flooding back: elderly ladies singing chants, making her pray and drink strange herbal teas to cure her “illness.” But then the visions of her parents hugging her and drying her tears warmed her heart. She had moved far away, the torture had stopped, but her soul needed more time to heal.

Chaz exhaled deeply and forced a smile before entering the hospital room.

Chapter 6

Cam stared at the dark coffee pouring into her mug, the workplace din muffling around her as her mind drifted away. She could feel her palm burning, clasped around the cup as the hot drink filled it, but the daze casting down her mind softened her senses. All she could think about was the new victim and Eugene's terrified eyes - she could see the terror he had witnessed in them.

"You'll burn your hand!" The hoarse, annoyingly high-pitched voice snapped her out, and Cam saw her coworker, another police officer standing next to her, clicking the coffee machine to turn it off. "It was about to pour over your hand." Cam pushed the mug aside and felt her palm stinging.

'Yes, thanks," she glanced at the man looking down at her. His eyes pinned on her face as he smiled, shaking his head.

"You can thank me over dinner." She wanted to sigh and rush out of the kitchen but suppressed the urge. "I already told you, James," Cam curved her lips with a fake smile. "I can't." "Why, you are single, right?" James shrugged. "What's the big deal?" "I don't have time or energy for dating right now," Cam bit her lower lip to hide the frustration. "Come on, it will be fun," James pleaded. Cam looked through the open door revealing the busy office. Police were going back and forth dressed in dark blue uniforms and hats, some with golden stars on their shoulders, some carrying a gun. She wondered what expression their faces would make if she exposed she was lesbian. Maybe they wouldn't even care; maybe they would ignore this fact just like other irrelevant personal facts of coworkers. But what if the opposite happened? What if they sneered and scowled, turned their back on Cam, and avoided her, making her an outcast? She remembered her boss, the middle-aged man, and his remark on one of the thieves they had arrested a week before.

"Prison shouldn't be such a terrible place for him, hm?" He had snickered under his thick gray mustache. "Surrounded by so many men, it’ll be a paradise for him."

Cam swallowed her anger and turned to James, whose blabbering had turned into a hazy cloud. "I have to get back to work," she said and grabbed the mug.

She could feel James’ eyes fastened on her back like parasites, and she suppressed a shiver before sitting at her desk. Instinctively taking a sip of her coffee, she felt the bitter liquid turning her throat sore, as if the toxins she felt in the atmosphere had seeped into her coffee too.

Putting up her invisible shield to mute out the noise, Cam checked her message again and typed the car plate number in the search program she and her coworkers had access to. The loading circle turned a few times before the name popped up on the screen. She quickly sent the information on her phone.

Lia and Munir had flopped on the couch with the laptop in Lia's lap as Munir's phone chimed. Her eyes ran over the text message.

"Ebrima Reza," Munir read aloud. "Should be around 35 years old, male."

Nodding, Lia quickly typed the name into her laptop, pushing the glasses closer to her eyes.

"Let's see if we can find something on him," she said and grabbed the mouse.

Google turned up a hundred photos of different people, but Lia quickly scrolled through the colorful pictures before clicking on an image of a dark-haired man with his arm around another's shoulder as they both wore aprons, seemingly celebrating opening up a dining place.

"He doesn't have an Instagram," Lia licked her lips. "But he has Facebook."

The women's eyes landed on a social media account where Ebrima had posted photos of the same few people over and over in different surroundings, sharing some thoughts on songs or his travel plans. But mostly, his account was full of pictures of him and people who looked like him: one of them, five or six years younger than Ebrima, looked so much like him, like a younger and more smily version of him.

"Must be his brother," Munir concluded.

"But Ebrima stopped posting his brother's photos around six months ago," Lia said and scrolled through the photos. "See? No brother. What happened? Everything else is the same."

Munir and Lia shared a confused look, lost with this new information.

Subscribe now

Chapter 7

Patients had settled into their rooms, muffled sounds of snoring and murmuring in sleep reaching through the doors, filling the atmosphere.

Sitting in a plastic chair, Chaz had crossed her legs, filling out blanks for some of the new patients. She could feel the fatigue surging through her veins, flowing with her blood. Her bones creaked, and her eyes stung. The image of her bed, waiting for Chaz to be wrapped up in the blankets and sunk in the fluffy pillows, floated in her mind like an oasis. She felt her body slowly shutting down.

Sighing, she glanced at her watch. Still, one hour was left for her shift to end. Soon, the sun would peek from behind the horizon, the reddish glow would pour onto the city, the streetlights would dim, and the empty streets would turn noisy again. The orange sky would be cast with gray smog of smoke and pollution, and people would stain their organisms with cheap, instant coffee. And then, finally, Chaz would go home and sleep.

Suddenly, loud thuds reached her from the nearby room. Startled, she pricked her ears and put down the pen: the thuds repeated, now louder and harsher, and soon something shattered on the floor, followed by yelling and shouting of inaudible words.

Chaz sprung from her seat, looking around for help, but the nurses had scattered, and only a few visitors were lingering in the hallway.

As the stifled screams repeated, Chaz stopped looking around and ran toward the room. The closer she got, the clearer the shouts became and the noise of things bumping into each other - a sign of struggle as if an animal was trying to break out of a cage.

She barged inside without hesitation, horror mounting as she saw someone leaning over the patient, choking her. Chaz immediately recognized the face-burnt patient, who was desperately grasping an assaulter's hands that wrapped tightly around her neck. Her face had turned red like her hair, eyes popping from the sockets, veins bulging under the skin. The attacker, dressed in all black, looked like a shadow growing over the woman's head as if stepping out of the wall and materializing. But he was a human, a man, trying to kill the patient while twisting her neck with all his strength, feeling her bones creaking under the tight grip.

"Stop!" Chaz screamed with a shrill voice and dashed to the bed.

The man seemed to only now notice the nurse, immersed in the anger and aggression, finally snapping out of the daze. He stepped back, watching Chaz, who opened her arms, trying to catch him. But the man slipped through her arms like a snake between river rocks and dashed to the door.

Huffing from panic, Chaz stepped forward to follow the man but heard the patient gagging behind her. She turned instinctively, seeing the woman gasping and trying to breeze while still holding her neck.

"Oh god," Chaz ran to her, sobbing from the pressure, fear and horror. "Help! We need help!" She screamed.

Dark purple bruises were already forming on the woman's neck, the trails of strong fingers still tainting her skin, marks of nails leaving bloody cuts. Her face had turned whiter than a sheet of paper, and her eyes red as if all the blood had accumulated in them. Chaz could see the veins pulsing in her temples.

She felt someone pulling her back and soon saw the nurses enveloping the patient, who still coughed and gagged.

"Step aside," someone ordered Chaz, and she obeyed, watching the nurses inject sedatives into the patient's veins, push her down on the bed and check her pulse. Four nurses surrounded the bed, and Chaz couldn't see the woman anymore, only catching glances of her pale face and closed eyes.

Suddenly, she remembered and hurried out of the room, looking around. But the attacker had vanished without a trace.

Sighing deeply, Chaz collapsed on the chair, digging her face in her hands. Her brain buzzed, the surroundings shook and the patient's pleading screams still thundered in her memories.

She sniffed, drying her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her heart galloped, and she still felt the scare making her bones tremble.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Chaz looked up, seeing one of the nurses.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Chaz swallowed and sat up straight. She glimpsed at the room, but the door had been closed. "How's the patient?"

"Under shock," the nurse peeled off her nitrile gloves, making a popping sound like a child pulling candy out of her mouth. "But we gave her sedatives and something for her anxiety, and she is asleep now."

Chaz inhaled, feeling the plastic and medicine-scented air filling her lungs. The silence fell in the hospital, and she could hear her heartbeat in the rhythm of the IV drops falling. Tip, tip, tip. She clenched her chest.

"She'll be okay, right?"

"Yes," the nurse nodded. "You saved her, Chaz. She was a few seconds away from being suffocated."

The nurse tapped on her shoulder again before walking away. Sitting in the same spot, Chaz couldn't take her eyes off the door, horrified at the thought of the man returning.

The night pulled a dark blanket over the city. Layers of darkness settled into the narrow alleys and dimmed the lights behind the windows. Sleep began cycling through the corridors, peering into the houses, at the families gathering around the dinner tables.

At the window, Lia puffed on a cigarette, the thick gray cloud shading her pale face. The sound of the cigarette burning pierced the silence, the small orange light radiant like a tiny sunrise in the gloom. She felt the scorching smoke filling and stinging her lungs, and she took another drag. She liked this feeling, of this poisonous pollution burning her throat and leaving a light mint taste on her tongue. She liked standing at the window alone, staring at the dark city.

New York was never completely dark or silent, though. The streetlights blended with the red and yellow of cars and traffic lights, people laughing and chattering aloud on the roads, music from bars and clubs turning into a barely audible buzzing din: the white noise of the sleepless city. At first, when she had moved here, these constant, undying noises annoyed Lia, but over time she grew to like them. With this bustle, she was never alone with her thoughts; she never sunk deep into her past as the lively city always connected her to the present reality.

The red hair framed her small face, her fingers as thin as the cigarette stuck between them. She circled her lips around its white edges, leaving marks of crimson-colored lipstick before letting the smoke shroud her face. Her open laptop shone in white behind her, and her glasses were tossed casually on the couch.

Still gazing at the glistening city, Lia couldn't help but let the memories pinch her mind.

She remembered exactly when she began falling in love with a computer - in high school, when she lost her only friend and everything with her. Rory, a blonde girl with black eyes, seemed so kind and beautiful that Lia couldn't help but thank god for making her move into the same city as her. At first, their friendship included eating ice cream and going to the movies, breaking Lia's cycle of spending weekends alone at home. And soon, when Lia thought that she and Rory had shared everything with each other, had opened their hearts and become closer than any friends could ever get, she thought that maybe Rory too felt more than just friendly love toward her. It was a late spring afternoon, and they were coming from a movie theater when Lia leaned in to kiss her. Rory kissed back, and that night Lia couldn't sleep, smiling, thinking about the strawberry taste on Rory's lips.

But the next day, when everyone stared at and mocked Lia, she realized what had happened. Rory smirked at her just like everyone else and changed her seat in the classroom, joining the group of bullies. The assaulting words came like swords toward Lia, and she spent days crying in her room. Then, left without any friends, she began spending weekends at home again, but now in front of a computer her parents had newly bought. With the excuse to do research for school homework, she spent hours without peeling her eyes off the screen and realized that this strange machine brought her the kind of comfort no one else could. There, she could see, hear or read anything she wanted. Though she was stuck in her small room, her world was much bigger than the whole country itself.

Still, it took years of guilt and shame for Lia to finally come across blogs and videos about embracing sexuality and loving one's self. Only then, in college, did she realize that she was one of the millions of people fighting the same battle.

Something clicked behind Lia, and she snapped out of her train of thought. The cigarette had burned to the tip of her fingers, and she quickly crashed it into the ashtray.

Looking back, Lia saw Chaz and Cam walking through the door, leaving their jackets on the hanger and slipping out of their shoes. Tired faces and sleepy eyes revealed the long, hard week they had endured.

Lia glanced at her watch, showing half past nine. Their weekly meeting was about to start.

"Hey," said Lia and hit the light switch. The bulb flickered on the ceiling before brightening the room with fluorescent yellow.

"Hi, hi." Chaz and Cam smiled wearily.

Chaz walked into the kitchen while Cam flopped on the couch. She took Lia's glasses and peered through them before stretching her sleeve and rubbing them clean.

Smiling, Lia closed the laptop and picked up the packs of cigarettes.

"You want one?" she asked Cam, but the woman shook her head and handed Lia the glasses. "Thank you."

"How was your day?" Cam asked and took off her officer hat, putting it aside. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders before she put them up with a clip. Then, unbuttoning the uniform, she sank deeper into the sofa and dropped her head back.

"Usual, yours?" Lia responded and flopped into an armchair. Her phone lit up with Munir's message.

I'll be there in two minutes. Don't start without me.

How can we start without our leader? ;))))

Lia messaged back with a smile before looking at Chaz walking in, munching on a tomato sandwich. "James is getting on my nerves," Cam sighed and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I really wanna tell him the truth."

"You should do it when you are ready," Chaz responded with her cheeks full. "And not because of James, who can't take 'no' as an answer."
The door clicked again, and Munir hurried inside, putting her bag aside and walking into the living room.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized. "There were too many customers in the wine bar. They needed my help."
"Only you work so much," Cam smiled. "No other bar owner serves their customers." Munir shrugged with a grin and sat across from Lia. Chaz had taken out a wine bottle, pouring a glass for everyone.

"So, what do we know so far?" Cam asked and took a sip. The drink stained her lips with burgundy red.

"The name of the attacker, his family members' names, his age, and ethnicity," said Lia.

"It doesn't make any sense," Cam sighed. "We have this information but still don't have a motive."

"Maybe she was his girlfriend," Chaz bent her lips. "Or even a sister?"

"He doesn't have a sister," Lia said. "Only a brother he stopped posting about on his account a while ago. Omar."

Chaz's hand gripping the wine glass froze in the air, her eyes narrowing.
"His brother's name is Omar?"
Lia nodded. "Yes. Why?"
Chaz fell quiet, bending her head to the side as if remembering something before she gasped; her eyes widened.

"That's what the attacker called the patient!"
The women leaned in, confused.
"You know, someone attacked her in the hospital, as I told you," Chaz explained. "I couldn't remember, but now I do! The assailant called her Omar!"

The women shared a look of realization.

"Ah," Munir nodded. "So, the victim was his brother, Omar. She's transgender."

"She was attacked by her brother, who can't come to terms with her change,"

Cam added. Silence ensued as everyone leaned back in their seats.

"So, we have the name and the address," Munir broke the silence. "I think we can have a talk with them now."

Chapter 8

The night had settled in the grooves and hollows of the town when I put down the mop and looked out the window. The moon hovered in the dark sky, silvery haze encircling it like walls of stardust. The deep bluish black canvas gazed down at the earth, lulling the eyes of tired people, sending sleep cycling into every window. The streetlights scattered like fireflies, and the noises of the busy day halted. The town sank in the sleepy night that put a warm blanket over the

houses of tired, weary people, lulling them to sleep before they had to get up in the morning and start their dull, everyday ritual all over again.

The shaded car windows turned Munir's and Lia's silhouettes as they stared at the short building, their eyes pinned on the last floor, and the window brightened with fluorescent yellow. Munir tapped on the wheel impatiently, her fingertips making a gentle sound like rain prattling. Her hair tied up in a bun, she wore a tight shirt and jeans as if she had prepared to move effortlessly and not be held back by uncomfortable clothes. Her dark eyes pierced the window and the outlines moving behind them.

"If they don't leave, we'll have to knock on their door," Lia broke the silence.
"They will leave," Munir replied and glanced at her.
Lia had folded her arms, her eyes fixed on the same spot as Munir's. Her pursed lips and knitted brows revealed the determination embedded in her eyes. Her bare face, without a hint of makeup, seemed even paler than usual, but her red lips were in contrast with her white skin, as if someone had painted her face and only colored her lips.

Munir glanced at the back seat, her eyes sipping up the shapes of two gallons and the light purple liquid rippling in them. She took a deep breath, gripping the wheel.

"We can't mess this up," she murmured.

"We won't," Lia smiled and brushed her hand over her arm to comfort her.
Suddenly the light halted behind the window, and the women grabbed the door handles. "Let's go," said Munir, and they both got out, quickly crossing the empty, silent street. They blended with the darkness as they lingered outside the building entrance, in the corner. Munir inhaled deeply as she heard the footsteps getting closer. She almost felt the stinging scent of their smoke stench, and disgust rippled her skin. The closer their heavy treading got, the more anger sizzled in her, and the more her body shook with rage.

The moment the door opened and the two men stepped out, Munir and Lia jumped on them, pushing their heavy bodies into the dark alley next to the building.

"What's happening?!" they yelled as the women stepped back, trapping them in the dead end.

The men peered around, the streetlight hitting their faces and lighting them with dim yellow. Their expressions twisted with bewilderment as they saw the women standing in front of them.

"What are you doing?" One of them yelled. "What do you want?"

He slid his hand across his bald head, soggy lids folding over his black eyes. He shared a perplexed look with the second man, seemingly younger than him. Munir's eyes lanced through the bald man, recognizing him as the victim's brother from the photos Lia had shown her.

"Don't you realize why we are here?" Munir smirked and raised her hand, holding the gallon. The men's pupils dilated when they landed on the acid shaking in the bottles. They stepped back, horror twisting their faces.
"You burned Anastasia Reza," Lia said aloud. "You recognize her name? Anastasia." "He is Omari!" Ebrema shouted, his eyes sparking with rage.
"You have to get used to her new name, her new life," Munir said. "You are not responsible for her."

"Never!" Ebrima yelled and seized his arm from his friend, who had tried to calm him down.

Munir and Lia shared a look, both realizing that Ebrima was never going to change his mind - his brain was clogged, and however hard someone tried, they could never clean it off the dirt and trash it was filled with.

"We're going to tell you straight, as you don't seem to get it," Munir deepened her voice. "We're here to take revenge for your sister."

Embrema swallowed. His friend had stepped back, his face turning ashen.

"What revenge?! Are you out of your mind?" Ebrima's voice turned strident, but the signs of horror edged it.

"What? You think you don't deserve it?" Lia grinned, her face - always kind and sweet - now contorting with irony.

"Our justice system is laughable," Munir stepped closer to the man, feeling the sickening scent of his sweat damping his shirt. "There are no consequences for anyone, which is why more people act like animals nowadays. They, you..." she pointed at him, almost touching his nose. "You display beast-like characteristics rather than human decency. Don't you wonder what happened to those people who committed heinous crimes? Of course, the average person would love to think that they're sitting in jail right now rotting because of the heroic police who investigated this incident and brought those criminals to justice. Even if they did, is that good enough?

All I know is if someone threw acid on me, for them to sit in jail would not be good enough," Munir put her face close to his, seeing his sweat beads covering his forehead, pupils shrinking with fear. "I would want to see their skin melting away from their body as they scream and agony like I did. Eye for an eye."

She stepped back, suppressing the sickening feeling trying to explode out of her.

"It's okay that you disagree," Lia's tone turned sarcastic. "We are not asking for your permission. There's a reason that we lurk in the shadows. To some, we are just as much at fault as others. But there's a reason that we do what we do. A reason which is bigger than anything else - helping women escape the toxic, deathly environment where their own family members don't hesitate to kill them."

Ebrima fell quiet, but suddenly his friend opened his trembling mouth.

"I...I recognize you from the internet," he mumbled, gawking at Munir and Lia. "What is the name of your group? I've been trying to think maybe I'm wrong; after all, it is just a legend, but I remember even years ago, people talking about revenge and vengeance on incidents that have taken place in the city. I thought it was all fake."

"It is not fake," Munir declared, her words hanging in the silent night. "We are Lex Tal Legion. Lex Tal is short for Lex Talionis."

"It means the law of retaliation," Lia continued. "Punishment that fits the crime. An eye for an eye."

Munir gazed into their eyes.

"Remember our name," she said through her clenched teeth. "Because you'll never forget our faces."

Munir leaped through the air and hit Ebrima in the chest with great force. Startled and confused, the man had no time to grasp reality or balance his steps. He fell backward and sprawled on the ground. He lay for a second, looking at Munir as if trying to recognize her, before he turned to grab something from his pocket, probably a knife. But Munir pinned his hands down as she stood on him, then punched him in the face. The blood soon trickled and smeared on her fist. And even though the man was much bulkier than her, she had more time than him to plan out her moves. Another punch, and he stopped moving around, his breathing shortened, and his body turned limp. Finally, she forced him up to his feet and held him by clutching hands behind him.

Looking to her right, she saw Lia holding Ebrima’s friend by his collar. She punched him in the face and grabbed his shoulders. His face turned sideways, and a crimson liquid oozed through his mouth, dribbling down his neck.

"Nice moves," Munir smiled at Lia. "The fighting lessons are useful, huh?" "Learned them last week," Lia said proudly.
They let the men go, who collapsed on the ground, peering up at them through their brimmed eyes.
"How did you feel when you burned your sister and left her to die?" Munir said under her breath and opened the gallon.

Before the men could utter a word, Munir and Lia poured acid over their heads. The purple liquid flowed down their faces like poison rivers, and in a second, ear-splitting screams pierced the night. The man grabbed their faces, their skin sizzling like bacon frying in a pan.

Dropping the bottles, Munir and Lia ran out of the aisle, quickly jumping in their car. The euphoria bursting out of them, they breathed out sharply before Munir started the car, speeding away. The sense of accomplishment overshadowed the pride, and soon relief settled into her - the calm of knowing Anastasia would be safe from now on.

Chapter 9

The late afternoon brought reddish-orange light pouring over the city. The glimpses of the horizon between the high-rises let the shine reach the streets, the windows reflecting the setting sun and scattering the apricot glow into small sparkles. The round disc of the sun was slowly sinking behind the jammed streets and silhouettes of people strolling on the sidewalks. Usual din sounded more cheerful into the fiery glow of the calm afternoon.

The hospital seemed somehow serene that day. The noise had hushed as the patients had settled into their rooms or gone out for a short walk with their loved ones in the yard. The white walls lacked the usual clamor and now sinking in silence, the place didn't seem as melancholy.

Chaz had taken off her scrubs and grabbed her bag, ready to go home after her shift. But instead of walking toward the entrance, she headed toward one of the hospital rooms.

She glanced through the glass on the door, seeing the outline of Anastasia sitting on the bed.

Chaz knocked and immediately heard the gentle voice.
"Come in."
She answered so quickly as if happy that someone wanted to visit her. Chaz knew how lonely it could get being all alone in the white room surrounded by nothing but medicine, machines, and white walls.

She opened the door and peeked through the gap.

"How are you feeling, Anastasia?" she asked with a smile.
The woman watched her shrouded by the honey-gold light pouring through the window.

Her face had begun healing but was still wrapped in bandages. Her hair looked redder than the setting sun, color finally returning to her ivory skin.

A smile rose to Anastasia's lips, her eyes narrowing with gratitude.

"I'm good, thank you," she responded, her eyes glancing at Chaz's clothes. "You aren't working?"

"I was about to leave," Chaz responded. "But I wanted to talk to you. If you want, of course."

Anastasia gazed at her silently before she nodded.

"Of course."

She seemed to crave human interaction. So, Chaz walked inside and closed the door behind her.

Anastasia seemed calmer, serenity embedded in her eyes. Leaning on her pillow, she had loosely placed her long arms to her sides, the blanket covering her legs while the gown draped from her gaunt shoulders. Chaz could see her blue veins under her thin skin, the shapes of her bones on her hands, and pulse beating behind her temples.

"You look good," Chaz smiled.

Staring at her, she couldn't help but think how beautiful Anastasia was and wish for her face to stay the same. Her prominent lips, as if sculpted out of stone, deep-set eyes, and smooth skin should not have been ruined. Chaz felt like it would be a crime like destroying a piece of art.

Anastasia took a deep breath and locked eyes with Chaz as she sat beside her.

Chaz took off her bag and put it in her lap, inhaling. She already felt the tears rising in her eyes, her heart racing, and her cheeks burning up.

"I'm a transgender too," she finally let out the words that had been trying to escape from her pursed lips. And now, as she let them flow, she felt the sense of utter relief replacing the tension in her body. She almost felt her muscles relaxing, ache fading from her neck.

Anastasia nodded, tears brimming her eyes too. Soon one fell down her cheek before she wiped it with her sleeve.

"I have had my own struggles. I have hurt so much mentally, but I don't know the physical pain you went through," Chaz continued, her voice breaking. She swallowed to let her words sink in, Anastasia. "I'm so sorry you had to go through the worst-case scenario."

Anastasia let the tears flow down her scarred face and hang from her chin. Her pale face was now red. She sniffled and watched her tears drop on the light blue blanket, slowly soaking it.

"I used to be so close to my brother. We were best friends. I thought no one understood me better than him. That's why he was the first person I told I wanted to transition," Anastasia spoke, her brittle voice thick with pain. "Of course, he didn't approve. And after the operation, he became very hostile. As if he forgot our friendship, he forgot we grew up together. He forgot about our love. I couldn't recognize him anymore."

Anastasia licked her lips, her eyes turning puffy. The immense sadness pouring out of her spread onto Chaz too and cursed through her veins.

"I had to leave and move to another town. He followed me there too and... And he scarred me," Anastasia sobbed, her sorrow too big to fit into her skinny body. "But I couldn't bring myself to snitch on him to the police. He was my brother. I still hoped he'd return to his old, loving self. I hoped he'd accept me. But... He never did."

Anastasia cried out and hid her face in her hands.

"He did this to me, and I still couldn't tell the police," Anastasia's voice muffled through her hands.

Chaz gently put her hand on her trembling shoulder, and it was enough for Anastasia to fall into her arms. Chaz wrapped her arms around Anastasia's quivering body, hugging her tightly. Anastasia let herself cry in the warmth of Chaz's embrace.

Chaz's phone vibrated, and she glanced at it, reading the message.
The mission is over. Chaz gently rubbed Anastasia's back. Her cries had hushed but tired from the emotions; she still lay quiet in Chaz's arms.

"No one will be coming after you anymore," Chaz murmured to her. "No one will hurt you again."

Anastasia nodded silently, and they looked out the window. Sitting together in the calm stillness, the women let the afternoon warmth soothe their tired souls.

The End

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Thank you for the support.

Please check back next month for more content.

Chapter 1

The fluorescent blue light flickered on the ceiling, illuminating the plastic packages lined up on the shelves, the glistening, ivory-colored floor tiles, glass fridges full of soda and water bottles, black boxes of vegetables and fruit, and empty rolling carts waiting for customers next to the entrance.

The glass doors stood still, opening for no one. It was as if the city had suddenly emptied of people. Nobody was left behind the decaying walls and moth-eaten rust. The white walls seemed freshly painted, and products lay neatly next to each other, arranged by names and products. Yet no customers sauntered through the aisles, no frugal shoppers lazily browsed the labels, only to always pick the cheapest option. The muffled sound of the small TV hanging on the wall crackled through the silence.

Eugene sat behind the counter, his eyes carelessly roaming from page to page of the old newspaper unfolded in his hands. His thrifted gray outfit fit in the supermarket atmosphere and modest surroundings. The artificial light brightened his serious face, and grizzled hair curled up above his head. His beard looked almost dyed black in contrast with his hair, but the only indicator none of them were fake was that they were both curly like coiled telephone cords. Just one glimpse was enough to realize that Eugene was the shop owner. The shop and Eugene, they fit each other so perfectly, like two halves of an apple. It seemed as though there could be no one else who would look so natural sitting there, behind this particular counter, reading this particular newspaper with those particularly creased brows.

After some time spent in this somber contemplation, Eugene glanced at his watch, showing past midnight.

"Time to go home," he sighed and stood up.

As he grabbed the keys and remote to turn the TV off, his eyes froze on the square, murky screen.

"The cases of femicide have begun to rise in the city," a young reporter was talking. "Seven women were killed by their husbands just this month, and twenty more have been injured. The grisly crimes run the gamut of murder by stabbing, injuries by choking, physical violence, and threats by guns. The most common offense, however, is acid burns; offenders harm victims by throwing acid over their heads, burning the face and scorching the upper body. While doctors can help most of the victims, some of the injuries have been fatal. Many offenders have been brought to justice, but some remain at large. Police are still searching for the fugitives."

Eugene's features furrowed and his wrinkles deepened from worry.

The newscaster continued: "Cases of femicide are particularly heightened in the suburbs and parts of the city mostly populated by immigrants. Law enforcement agencies encourage women to report abuse or crime right away, before the consequences are harsher."

"The world has gone crazy," Eugene shook his head with disappointment and turned the TV off. The reporter's voice dissipated into the dimly-lit quietude.

The streetlights melted their wan glow over the wide streets of Queens like melting candles when Eugene locked his shop doors. The small stores lined up by the sidewalks on the first floor of two story, squat block buildings had turned dark, the lights going off behind the painted glass doors with colorful name plates in different languages hanging above.

The streetlights still glistened in red and green even though only a few cars rolled by lazily, like tired animals returning to their lairs. The moment Eugene rolled down the iron door and put a lock on it, a shrill scream assaulted his ears. The sound was so piercing, so strident, it was as if the wind had shattered all the windows at once.

Startled, Eugene looked back, his heart pounding, eyes gawking through the gloom. The dark sky hung close to the ground, the air turning stuffy and suffocating. The cries repeated, now louder, crescendoing to a blood-curdling wail. These screeches sounded so desperate, only a person on the verge of falling into a pit of hell could produce them.

The screams pierced the silence like bullets hurtling through the air before trailing off, the echoes throbbing in Eugene's ears. Even though his pulse raised, blood rushed to his face, and fear rippled his skin, Eugene still turned, impulsively running toward the sound. Horror mounted in him with every step, but he couldn't stop running, his body out of his control.

In a few seconds, he found himself in a narrow alley, close to his shop. Three silhouettes melted out of the dark, and Eugene froze, narrowing his eyes. One lay on the ground while two stood. Their broad shapes and stance revealed they were men.

"Hey!!!" Eugene screamed.

Something slipped from one of the man's hands and fell to the ground with a loud, flat, tinny thud. A metal bucket rolled toward the corner. In a split second, the black outlines hopped over the fence, their running footsteps fading away.

Huffing, Eugene rushed to the person who had sat up, quivering.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I... What..." the stranger sobbed, her brittle, shocked voice revealing she was a woman.

As he knelt, the distant, dim yellow streetlight hit the woman, and Eugene felt the blood freezing in his veins: half of her face was utterly, grotesquely ruined. Pink flesh mixed with sizzling skin, dark spots of red and purple throbbed and mingled with the blisters and dead black skin, turning into an unrecognizable mass of ground up meat. The fluorescent light, illuminating her face, danced on her like fickle yellow flames, as if she was still being burned alive, unable to escape the kindling fire.

"Oh my god!" Eugene couldn't hold back the panic spilling out of him.

The woman's trembling hands slightly touched her face while her eyes darted around, disoriented. Out of her mind, she had lost her senses, unable to realize where she was and what had happened. But the moment her fingertips touched her scorched face, she screamed, the shrieking voice erupting from her mouth like lava out of the volcano. Shivers ran down her body like electricity, and she began jerking on the ground like a fish dying in a dried up puddle.

"I'm calling the ambulance; you'll be okay," Eugene tried to calm her down, but she couldn't hear him as she continued crying, her tears blending with her blood and melting skin.

Pulling out his phone, Eugene called 911 with shaky hands, barely forming words to tell them the address.

"They are on their way. They will help you," he muttered as he hung up.

Watching the woman cry, he felt helpless. His eyes peered toward the bucket, the harsh vinegar-like scent burning his nose. From the bucket there sublimated a noxious, pungent, harshly irritating odor that made one thing perfectly clear: this woman had been burnt with acid.

"Oh god, who did this to you," Eugene blurted as he held back tears. "Who would do such a thing?" He was trying to put on a strong face in front of the traumatized and injured young woman. The victim couldn't answer however. She was slowly losing consciousness from shock and pain. Only mumbled inaudible words and wrenching groans escaped her lips.

Presently, as the night deepened, ambulance sirens became audible from a distance, loud and ear-splitting, yet nowhere as shrill and horrifying as the woman's screams.

"You'll be okay; the ambulance is here," Eugene took her hands to comfort her, but as her eyes locked on him, he realized she had lost her sense of time and place, and possessed just the raw and blistered immediacy of excruciating pain.

The sirens drew closer. The red and blue lights banded the dark buildings, and soon the noise and commotion overshadowed the muffled sobs of agony.

Subscribe now

Chapter 2

The hospital bustled in the usual clamor, the business of injuries and ailments on a dark night no different from that of a bright day. The nurses rushed from one spot to another, accompanying elderly patients or hurrying the badly hurt to the emergency room on stretchers.

The sounds of cries, coughs, chatter, snoring and doors slamming crescendoed to a blustering din in the vast blue and white building where only the kind smiles of the young nurses drowned out the depressing ambiance of plastic chairs, the smell of medicine, sobbing, and rolling wheelchairs.

Night seeped through the window as Chaz stood at the reception, filling out a form for one of the newest patients. Her long, dark chocolate-brown hair was tied in a bun on the back of her head, her long eyelashes lowered as she delicately carved out words with the pen. Slender yet strong arms revealed the fitness of her tall body, concealed by the oversized white scrubs.

The exhaustion cast down her eyes, the fatigue of the long day settling into her bones. Only an hour was left before she could rush off to the comfort of her bed. She couldn't wait. Even though this was a volunteer job, Chaz often found herself just as tired as the doctors.

Suddenly, the front doors opened, and nurses ran inside, rolling the stretcher with a woman lying on it. A ventilator covered her face, but Chaz still caught a glance of red and dark purple skin covering part of her head. An elderly man who hurried after them stopped at the ER and leaned against the wall as though his wobbly knees were unable to hold him any longer.

Seeing his shoulders trembling and head ducking, Chaz put down the pen and hurried to the old man.

"Let me help you, please," she gently touched his arm.

The man looked at her with crazed eyes, at first scared, but soon relief became embedded in them. He obeyed, following Chaz to the line of chairs in the lobby.

As he took the seat, Chaz quickly poured him a glass of water.

"Thank you," the man mumbled and gulped the water.

Then his eyes flitted toward the ER door, dread twisted his ashen features again.

"Will she be okay?" he mumbled. "She was burnt with acid."

Chaz's eyes followed the man's gaze, and the memory of the woman's shriveled face flashed in her mind.

"She will be okay," Chaz smiled, trying to encourage the man, but she wasn't sure of her words as acid burns were difficult to heal.

The man seemed to calm down, stopped shivering and color returned to his face. Chaz pointed at the papers sitting next to him.

"Whenever you can, please fill out this form, mister," she said.

He nodded.

She wanted to cheer him up but heard her name.

"We need your help, Chaz," the nurse who hurried out of the emergency room waved at her. "She needs bandages. Room 205." Nodding, Chaz stood up, seeing the man already filling out the form. Preparing the white bandages, Chaz quietly opened the door and peeked inside. The artificial lights brightened the small hospital room, austere and empty of furniture with only white curtains and a bed in the corner.

Closing the door behind her, Chaz walked toward the patient sleeping in the bed, the blanket covering her lower body and the rest of her wrapped in a bluish patient gown. The slight dripping sound of the IV lanced the stillness.

As Chaz's eyes landed on the woman, she winced, feeling like ants were gnawing at her skin with their sharp mandibles. She couldn't help but feel the pain the patient had felt: a large part of her face was nothing but a mash of blisters, burnt skin, and drying blood. “Poor thing," Chaz whispered.

The patient's long red hair had spread on the pillow, her white neck and the unharmed half of her face revealing her beauty: the acid hadn't injured her full lips, pointy nose, and elongated right eye. Though her left cheek and eye were buried under the scorched skin.

Chaz gently wrapped the bandage around her injury, checked her pulse and blood pressure, and walked out. The dread creeping from the back of her head whispered in her ear that something was not right, that this couldn't have been an accident.

The nurse who had brought the burnt patient stood outside, pouring instant coffee while rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"Where's the old man?" Chaz asked. "The one with the woman in 205."

"We convinced him to go home and rest," he replied and sipped the tasteless coffee.

"Do you know what happened to that woman? Did someone burn her with acid?"

"I have no idea," he shrugged. "She was like that when we got there."

He turned, sauntering toward the hall, dragging his tired feet.

Even though the exhaustion weighed down Chaz's shoulders, too, her curiosity was stronger than her fatigue. She sneaked toward the cabinet behind the reception. She peered around, ensuring no one was around, and quickly slipped the old man's document from the top of the pile. Her eyes hastily skimmed the paper.

"Eugene Akter, 67 years old," Chaz muttered, her eyes sipping up every word. "Grocery store in Queens."

Putting the paper back into the folder, she hurried to the corner of the hallway, taking her phone out of her pocket. The clamor had died down, and the hospital was now falling into a dormancy of hush, the calm between storms.

Chaz hurriedly typed a number.

"Hey, Cam," she let out after a few beeps. "I have some news. Grab a pen and paper."

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Chapter 3

The clouds had scattered from the sky, leaving it blue and calm, like an ocean after a squall. The sun blazed out from the pure blue, unbearably hot. The scorching light quickly dried the damp ground. The trees quivered in the slight breeze, as if startled. But the breeze didn't bring the scent of newly blooming flowers or the tranquil buzz of bees. Instead, the air reeked of cigarettes, car pollution, and the unerasable stink of dirty laundry.

People had filled Eugene's grocery store: elders strolling down the aisle, teenage girls with colorful hair picking out soda bottles and giggling, a mother trying to calm her squawking kids, office workers buying cigarettes and instant coffee. The accumulated din mixed with the noise of busy streets and car honks outside.

Standing in the corner, Cam peered toward the shop owner, remembering his detailed description from Chaz's story. The man standing behind the counter, observing the customers, matched the description. No one else could be 67-year-old Eugene with gray hair, a bushy beard, and kind eyes.

Wearing a long black jacket that almost resembled a cloak, Cam blended with the dark background of the faintly lit corner, her honey-blonde hair hidden under the cap. She peered around a shelf and grabbed a pack of noodles, a reason to approach Eugene, when suddenly she saw him turning tense. Her eyes followed his glare, landing on the two men standing with newly bought beer bottles. With hanging bellies and unshaven faces, they looked like lazy husbands living off their wives' hard work.

"Did you hear what happened last night?" one of them asked his friend. "Someone attacked a woman not far from here."

"Yeah, I heard," the second man said aloud and gobbled his beer.

"What did she do to deserve it?"

"She must've talked to someone she shouldn't," the man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Or forgot her place at home."

Suddenly, with a reddened face and eyes glowing with anger, Eugene slammed his fist on the counter.

"How dare you speak like that about a person?!" he yelled, attracting everyone's attention. Silence fell, and every head turned.

"I saw her face melting away from her skull like a popsicle in a fire. Do you know how much pain she was in?"

The men fell quiet, but a sinister smile still danced on their faces.

"Why aren't you asking how a man can do this to someone?" Eugene continued, rage thundering in his voice. "Why aren't you trying to put yourself in that poor woman's shoes? She never deserved such torment, whatever she had done. This is just a result of an insecure and weak man. I think we all know a few of those, don't we?" He locked his eyes on the men.

The customer guffawed, his eyes revealing no compassion.

"Put myself in her shoes? Now, why the hell would I do something so silly?"

"So you would throw acid on the face of someone in your family or anyone for that matter, to prove a point?" Eugene bumped the counter with both fists. Sparks of anger spilled from his eyes. "Because clearly, you're so stupid you don't even know how to express yourself verbally, so all you would have left to do is abuse them, deform them, traumatize them for your own self-worth!”

"I don't think that's any way to speak to a customer," the man interrupted.

"I don't care if you come back again!" Eugene shouted. "I am the one who had to call the police so that this poor woman could make it to the hospital without dying."

He grabbed the cash the men had just paid him for beer and threw it into their faces. The silver coins rattled on the cold floor tiles.

"I would rather have no customers than have customers like you!" Eugene growled, about to bare his teeth like a feral animal.

The men peered around, noticing how everyone stared quietly, unwilling to defend them. Finally, they turned, bewildered and humiliated, leaving with hurried footsteps. As soon as doors closed behind their back, the chatter resumed, the customers now immersed in judging what had just happened.

Cam gazed at Eugene huffing and holding his chest with his hands as though trying to tame his galloping heart. Her eyes, hovering below the thick brows and dense lashes, narrowed with satisfaction. Holding her instant noodles, she approached Eugene.

"Did you see the men who burned that poor woman?" Cam asked as she leaned on the counter.

Still red like a pomegranate, Eugene jerked on the spot, his eyes dilating.

Cam hid her face under the cap, the shadows darkening her eyes, but Eugene still

crouched closer, realization lighting up his face.

"It's you, isn't it?” He paused, gazing at her veiled features. “The Legion... I've heard about you guys."

"What can you tell me about those men?" Cam's demanding tone pushed Eugene to hold back from asking more questions, and instead to start rummaging through his memories.

"I saw them in my shop earlier," he said with reflective eyes. "Two young men, dark skin, dark hair. I think one of them had a tattoo on his neck."

"You think?" Cam's voice deepened like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake.

Eugene swallowed.

"He had a tattoo," he replied. "They bought cigarettes."

"Anything else? Something distinctive."

"No," Eugene pursed his lips before his eyes gaped. "Oh, right! They talked in Pakistani."

Cam nodded, her sharp mind memorizing every word. She felt the anger bobbing up to the surface of her psyche: the unmitigated wrath she felt toward these men. She had known hundreds of men like them. Cowards unworthy of her sympathy. She didn't need to see their faces or study their behavior to know what needed to be done.

"Okay, thank you," she said and slid cash toward Eugene. "Please, keep quiet about our conversation."

Now more confused than angry, Eugene couldn't peel his eyes off her face. Cam stepped back, lowering her head to mask her face.

"If you remember more, please, contact me," she murmured.

Looking down on the counter, Eugene noticed a small white card under the cash with a phone number engraved in the center.

"What is your name? What is the name of your group?" Eugene couldn't suppress his curiosity. "I've been trying to think maybe I'm wrong, after all, it is just a legend,” he stammered.

“But I do remember, years ago, people talking about a rogue group taking vengeance on the most irredeemable criminals in our city. But it was all fake, right? Stuff of legends. At least, I thought so..."

"We have many names," Cam's voice dropped to a whisper. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the customers walking toward the cash register.

"It's something like Talon or Rex," Eugene kept on.

Without uttering more, Cam turned, hurrying to the door. Eugene's loud, hopeful voice followed her quick steps.

"Oh, it's Lex Tal Legion, right?! That's it!"

Without glimpsing back, Cam slid through the door gap and vanished from sight.

Chapter 4

The darkness was damp and suffocating, crawling around Munir as she stood in her tunic shirt and pants, her pitch-black hair freshly cut to the ears. Standing in the gloom, she felt the stuffy air filling her lungs, choking her. Gasping, Munir sensed dread crawling from the back of her head. She wasn't alone.

Soon she heard hissing sounds, as if snakes had slid down from trees, coiling toward her. Horrified, Munir cowered, scared of the night crawlers squirming out of the darkness. But instead of snakes, hands appeared and melted out of the gloom from every direction. Circled by these hands, Munir swallowed, realizing that she preferred being bitten by snakes to being touched with these fingertips.

She wanted to shrink, to turn into an ant so she couldn't be touched, but the hands got closer and closer, reaching out to her. The grotesque hands: big and dirty, covered with layers of gray hair, wrinkles and age spots, brownish patches and warts, curled out of the darkness to grasp at Munir like monster tentacles, trying to wrap around her and take over every inch of her body.

Sweat beaded her face, and tears welled up in her eyes. Soon, smiles appeared around her, too, the sharp smirks glowing like silver scythes.

"You look so pretty, Munir," their distant yet close voices reached her, with honeyed tones and softened words. “Boy clothes fit you so well.”

“Perahan tunban looks so good on you. You are a pretty boy.”

"Why don't you take this shirt off? You'll look prettier."

"I have a gift for you. If you take your pants off, I'll give it to you."

Munir felt the hands crawling up and down her, feeling her body through the fabric, grabbing and punching while the smirks grew wider, amplified by satisfied scoffs and pleased chuckles.

She shivered, trying to brush off these hands, but they kept clinging to her, the gentle voices urging her to get undressed, the fingers twisting in her hair, palms caressing her cheeks.

The darkness got deeper, the air more suffocating, and Munir felt the hands now unbuttoning her shirt, fumbling with the strips and laces, crawling to her neck and working their way to her chest, still flat and undeveloped. Munir's childish body cowered with fear, well-aware of what was about to come. Suddenly she heard someone calling out her name and she soon woke up.

***

The night was deep in New York, seeping through the open window. Munir found herself in her bed, damp from sweat, hair sticking to her wet forehead. With her heart racing and pulse hitting the roof, Munir looked around, still disoriented.

"It's okay, it's just a dream," she heard a gentle voice and a soft hand caressing her arm. Her eyes flitted around the dark room and landed on the woman sitting beside her, smiling.

"Lia," Munir sighed and covered her face. "I'm so tired of these nightmares."

"Still the same?"

"Same one."

She sat up, staring at Lia, still comforting her. Munir had hated to be touched, but

somehow Lia's hand was always warm and soft, skimming on her skin like velvet, calming her. The streetlights lined the room, and Lia's fiery red hair seemed even more vivid, contrasting with her pale skin. Her blue eyes had lowered as she shared Munir's pain.

Munir pushed back her black hair and wiped her forehead, her hickory-brown eyes still watery.

"I'll never escape this curse of Bacha Posh," she murmured and swallowed the tears.

She would never forget growing up as a boy, forced to dress and act like one to conform to her families needs as there were no boys in the home. At times, she was forced to entertain and please adult men who had a thing for virgin youth. Masked as more freedom to attend school and work, turning her into a boy had brought her nothing but pain. Munir never had a childhood – and though she had escaped the pits of hell, she had lost the best years of her life.

"You will," Lia's voice echoed in the dark. "That’s not you anymore. You are far away from your past now, from that cruel reality. And you have grown into a strong and powerful woman. You protect yourself."

Munir looked up, nodding, a sense of relief washing over her. Lia was right: the nightmares were only her dreams. Her reality was different from her past. She would never go back there.

"Thanks for waking me up," Munir tried to smile, but her lips were still quivering.

"Again."

"No problem," Lia's red curls slipped from her shoulder like stems of some exotic flower.

"You know I don't sleep."

Munir stood up, and standing with her back to Lia, pulled her damp shirt over her head. The wardrobe creaked quietly as she searched through it.

"When are you going to check on your insomnia," she said worryingly as she slipped into an oversized black shirt that reached down to her knees.

"I don't want to fix it, though," Lia smiled as they walked out of the room. "If I wasn’t an insomniac, who would spend nights finding the information we need?"

The cold blue light of the computer screen brightened the living room as the women walked toward the kitchen. Munir glanced at the laptop open on the table and multiple tabs overlapping on it.

"Any progress?" she asked as she followed Lia, watching her hair bouncing behind her shoulders. Soft carpet swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Munir watched Lia's delicate stance, her hands gently swaying at her sides.

"Not yet," Lia shook her head. "The faces weren't caught on any surveillance cameras."

Dim yellow lights brightened the small kitchen, the white cabinets and round table in the center. Lia put on a water boiler, and the white mist soon floated above it. Munir sat at the table, folding her legs on the chair, her eyes pinning on the white tulips in the glass vase. She felt calmer now, but the images of the horrifying nightmare still gnawed at her consciousness.

"Are you going to see that girl again? Sofia, right?" she asked and looked up at Lia, putting out two mugs. "The one you had dinner with last week."

The water boiler began screaming before Lia turned the gas off and poured the sizzling water into the cups, then threw mint tea leaves and a spoon of sugar in each.

"Mmm, I don't think so." Lia pursed her lips to one side and sat across Munir.

Murmuring a thank you, Munir clasped her hands around the mug and let the hot mist fondle her nose.

"Why?"

Lia smiled, taking a sip.

"She assumed that there's no way Cam and I don't occasionally hook up," Lia whirled the spoon in the mug, tiny bubbles bobbing up on the surface. "Because we are both lesbians and live together, she said, we must be hooking up once in a while."

"Oh," Munir giggled.

"Yeah," Lia raised her brows with sarcasm. "I didn't really like that. And she kept pressing on it. Got really annoying in the end."

"I see..." Munir pouted and took a sip. The hot liquid flowed down her throat, washing away the last bits of the sour taste the nightmare had left in her.

"Too bad. She was cute."

Lia shrugged, her eyes lingering on the window.

"It will soon be sunrise," she said, gazing out at the quiet city, empty streets, and shady windows. "You should go back to sleep."

Sighing, Munir nodded and stood up with the mug in her hand. The cloud of steam shaded her face like fog in a mountain forest. Her kind smile was sculpted out of the white mist.

"Thank you, I feel better now," she said.

"No problem," Lia beamed.

She watched Munir's silhouette disappear into her bedroom.

The street lights dimmed with the twilight pouring the first strings of light over the horizon. Lia returned to her laptop and put on her glasses, which soon left red dots on her nose. Knotting her brows, she put her face close to the screen, letting the artificial blue light sting her eyes.

Lia began watching the video once again, shot from the camera across the street from Eugene's store. The images of two silhouettes running through the dark reflected in her eyes like mirrors, she paused again, zooming in on the men, but they were darkened like shapes cut out from black papers. Finally, frustrated, she hit the button and resumed the video, staring patiently before her eyes widened.

"Car!" she murmured excitedly, as she saw the men hopping in a gray car and peeling off. She paused and zoomed in on the plate number. In a second, a smile rose to her colorless lips, her sleepless eyes brightening.

She grabbed the phone, quickly typing a text.

Escape car plate number: SCL-5684.

In a second, the screen lit up with a message from Cam.

Thanks. I'll check the details in the morning.

Sighing with relief, Lia dropped the phone and sunk deep into the couch, her eyes slowly closing. Now she could sleep for a few hours, without the gnawing feeling of failure nibbling at her heart.

Thank you for your support!

Check back next week for part 2 of Issue 1: Burning Vengeance

As darkness falls on the city of New York, criminals come out to play. Too long we have waited for justice to prevail once the games are through. Is it enough for a murderer to rest behind bars? Is it enough for a thief to only pay a fine? Is it enough for domestic violence victims to continue to have nowhere to go except back home to their abusers?

The Lex Tal Legion doesn’t think so.

A group of vigilantes who have walked through the fire and looked past the scars on their own bodies, minds and souls. Who utilize resources at their fingertips and rely on their intelligence to get back at the people who make hell the 6th borough.

Step into the life of this bad ass crew as they show us all what true justice looks like.

Issues 1 of Legends of the Waif will go live on 9/7/22 - Thank you for your support.

Remember when the priests had their grubby hands all up in the governments of these states you are now running away from? Just like in all those heatheness countries around the world that don’t let their women have any freedoms, because their backwards religion says so? Isn’t it hilarious: this is now the reality in America. If it were really about life, wouldn’t you be more concerned about the life that fully exists already, in the here and now, instead of the possible life that hasn't even evolved from a clump of cells yet? Does the clump of cells start reciting the Lord’s prayer after its 3rd or its 4th cell division? Tell me, I want to know. What hymns does the 5th cell division clump sing? Is it Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus? But wait: that clump of cells is still many divisions away from developing anything even remotely resembling eyes. Maybe it should just stick to Amazing Grace.

Forget about the gun laws and how children are being shot up in schools left and right, how about we talk about our poor adoption institutions. How the very fabric of what they are made from is laughable in itself. How there is absolutely no way for a small child in the adoption programs to feel the love and connection that a biological parent could ever give them. In Arizona alone, my state, there are over 15,000 homeless children. Children who have been forgotten about by pro-lifers. Children who are wandering through the parks looking for scraps of food while their mother and father are sitting under a tree shooting up heroin and sniffing cocaine.

Those are the lives you should care about, are they not? Isn’t that what it means to be “pro-life?” To actually be there for the lives that are here now, and not the ones that you merely wish for? You hate the thought that a woman, this alien life form that exists as your companion on earth, who came out of Adam’s rib, who is so much weaker than you, could have that much power as to terminate a life. Especially a life that comes from you. That is fucking crazy isn’t it?

That’s really what the problem is, isn’t it? Any time I hear someone talk about pro-life it’s always backed up by their religion or by their balls. If you care so much about

life, then why don’t we stop conception at the very beginning? Why don’t we nip it in the bud, if you will? If you care so much about abortion then let’s prevent pregnancy altogether. Doesn’t that sound like a better option? And if that’s the case why don’t we talk about vasectomies? How about we do forced vasectomies for people who are sexually active, but too young to afford a child?

Subscribe now

Now, let’s be serious for a second and discuss this. What about vasectomies for men who are currently incarcerated for rape, or men who choose to be deadbeat dads? How about vasectomies from men who are too poor to afford a child or to pay child support? Or, how about vasectomies for men who are just too plain fucking stupid to be a proper parents? What about forced sterilization for men who commit too many crimes, who have no education, who live under the poverty level, the list can go on and on. Why don’t we talk about that?

So, who is really responsible for a woman who gets pregnant? We already know about the staggering research papers produced on sex between heterosexuals, which show how the woman does not orgasm nearly as much as the man. And as sad and pathetic as that is, that tells me that it’s the male orgasm that results in a woman getting pregnant 100% of the time. The man can have an orgasm, the woman cannot, and yet she is the one who gets pregnant. The man can have an orgasm and the woman can have an orgasm and she still gets pregnant. Why is that? Well, it’s because it is the semen from the man’s ejaculation that gets her pregnant.

If it were a matter of the woman having to orgasm in order to get pregnant then we wouldn’t have anything to worry about now would we? We wouldn’t have overpopulation, we wouldn’t have the issues of abortion and discussions of pregnancy that we do, because there wouldn’t be as many children on earth would we.

But because the “sexual equality” that exists in heterosexual sex is so fucking pathetic that a woman is not even able to have an orgasm, because her partner is such a poor lover, at the end of their sex all she is left with is a cold wet towel to wipe herself with and a man’s fucking baby that she can’t even get rid of. Now isn’t that depressing? But I don’t think you’re comfortable talking about vasectomies, are you?

Is it because you don’t like the idea of some gay woman telling you what you should do with your nutsack? Just like I don’t like the idea of some man telling me as a woman what I can do with my body, because you and I both know this is just the beginning. Like I said, this is not about life, it’s about control. Even though I will never have an abortion in my life because I’ll never get pregnant as a lesbian, I understant

that this is more about control than anything else. This is about men in our government having control over the lives of women and making women feel inferior to them.

Maybe we have too many freedoms. Maybe the right to vote, the right to own a home, the right to drive and the right to work is just too much for the men in our society. Maybe men just need to feel superior to women, and this is just another step in doing so. I’m not certain. But what I do know is this: if we take the woman out of the equation the negative effects extend far beyond women’s rights. This travesty of legislative overreach is affecting our sons, brothers, nephews, neighbors, and classmates. This is affecting everyone in society, because guess who is also going to have to parent that little baby?

Yep, your stupid ass son who doesn’t even know how to control himself. Or that young cocky kid who’s the star of the football team. You think he’s ready to be a dad? No one is realizing that this is also going to affect the boys. Girls are now going to be way more smart when it comes to choosing their sexual partners, and they’re going to choose the jocks, the guys who for sure have a really good future ahead of them, or the ones that come from money. Because if she can’t get an abortion guess who’s going to take care of little Timmy? It will have to be the child’s rich grandparents, or the full ride scholarship that he’s got to Harvard, or the lucrative contract that he signs with the football and basketball teams. All of that money is going to her and her child. So, gentlemen, good luck with this decision you’ve worked so hard to bring about.

Beat made & edited by: Kendo Darius

Animation created by: Prahz

Historically, women have been forced into the confines of culture and society, staying behind as wife and mother, which has too often become synonymous with being silent and submissive. Women have seen war first hand as fighters, but more often as victims. Women have had to stay in their homes, which were also the front lines, waking up to villages burnt down, family and friends murdered, and children victims of sexual abuse. Cultural conflict has divided not only particular regions but also the world as a whole. People want answers, and oftentimes those who seek answers are the women at home, who must endure the discovery that their sons in battle have died or gone missing. It doesn’t matter so much at this time whose side they were on or what they were fighting for, the result is the same. 

Women see and feel the same terrors of war as men do, arguably more than men do. They often stay home and see the battle, left with thoughts of their loved ones involved, or having to play a passive role in the conflict itself. They are sexually abused, houses are raided or burned down and every day is a new beginning that may end tragically. The Liberian Women’s Initiative (LWI) was started by women in Liberia who were tired of the conflict that was taking place at their front doors. The conflict started between the various ethnic groups in that region and their fight for natural resources. We have seen many times that migration patterns and displaced persons have often created conflict in regions due to resource scarcity however, what was coming from the terror and brutality? 

The Liberian women of this region were growing tired of what they were witnessing day in and day out. Their families were being torn apart; they couldn’t properly care for their children and were forced to leave their homes at times due to gunfire or bombings. They had to witness the young boys in their regions forced to join the “Small Boys Units” where they were forced to take drugs and participate in acts they did not want to do. The Liberian women were growing tired of what their lives had become and what they had to witness for their children. It was time to stand up to this conflict to make a difference for the better, but what could they do and who would listen? 

Organized resistance began in a women’s church group. A member had taken a strong stance: she expressed her frustrations and demanded change. The other women were compelled to join in: they all felt the same pains and concerns. They may have not known each other, but they all knew each other’s pain. Ultimately, this is what brought them together to create the LWI. An unlikely ally in this group of Christian women was a Muslim, who shared the same frustrated emotions and urgent goals as the group. She stood before the group and expressed her alliance with these women. Then she announced that she would also take this message of solidarity amongst women and transmit it to her Muslim sisters, which she did.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

We seldom see in history two groups of differing religious affiliations come together to fight for the same thing. They were able to focus on their similarities while putting differences aside, so they could fight for the greater good of their communities. This greater good would not only benefit the women, it would also benefit the men. The LWI began peacefully protesting, demanding a change in their government and demanding that they speak with their president, Charles Taylor. Not only did these women stand up to their government, their president and violent combatants, they set a productive and inspiring example of differing faiths coming together to make their shared community a better and safer place. If these women could do it, why couldn’t other groups of Liberians, as well as people of divergent views around the world, do the same? 

Other examples of these mass demonstrations of peace come from thousands of miles away, in Ireland, where mothers and wives provided food to Irish families affected by conflict during the time of the Troubles, from the late 1960’s to 1998. This caused disorder in the British military, as these women were not focused on fighting, but rather on helping those who were most affected by the violence. These women knew that they were disavowed from the conflict itself, but that did not preclude them from helping their countrymen in need. Two women from Northern Ireland, Mairead Corrigan and Betty Williams, took action and demanded peace after the death of Corrigan’s sisters, three children and another young bystander who were killed amongst the violence from the conflict. 

Calling for peace seems like something that should come naturally, as it benefits everyone, yet it often seems to be more difficult than waging war. Women haven’t been included in peace talks, as it has been thought that including women means they would talk mainly about women’s rights and equality rather than the martial issues at hand. According to a former U.S. ambassador to Africa, there is discrimination against women when it comes to policymaking as “the impact of decisions made at the table are rarely considered through the experiences of women who have lived with them.” (Anderllini, 62) 

The complex issues around war demand complex and nuanced solutions. As mentioned by Anderlini, peace talks often send men back to a home where their wives and children are more used to their absence than their presence. All these men know is war, so they often begin to wage it in the confines of their own home, in the form of domestic violence, severe alcoholism and acute drug abuse. 

This reality is often ignored or underplayed when policymaking and peace talks are discussed by men alone. Men engaged in “peace talks” are the same who perpetrate violence behind enemy lines. Thus we know that transitioning to a “normal” life after battle isn’t always as easy as it sounds, not just for the perpetrators but for the victims of violence as well. Though the argument has been made that some women in war zones have detached themselves from the conflict, this does not mean that they cannot be forthcoming and responsive to the societal ills that result from the violence. Swanee Hunt, former U.S. ambassador to Austria, says of the conflict in Bosnia: “Women…disavowed the violence…but they leaned forward, rather than pulling back, to confront the challenges of postwar Bosnia.” Swanee argues that, precisely because the war was not a women’s war, it is the women who are best equipped to shape the peace. 

Women have the ability to positively influence post-conflict peace and can bring fresh ideas to crafting lasting stability, if they are given the chance and taken seriously. According to Hunt and Posa, research in the social sciences show that women are more collaborative than men and are more capable of reaching a consensus and compromise, something that is necessary for peacemaking. Women are well suited to “walk the walk and talk the talk” when it comes to living in peace, whereas men in positions of power may say one thing and then act in a totally different manner, as they are often swayed by other men in politics who have varying agendas. Men in war zones have a hard time getting on the same page, which makes productive compromises in the name of peace very difficult. In the article Irish Talks: Men Posture, Women Progress, Monica McWilliams, a delegate in Northern Ireland's all-party peace talk said: “Some of the men at the table think that compromise is a weak word, we believe we can show it to be a very strong word indeed.” (McWilliams, 1996). 

Women are sometimes involved in the conflicts themselves, as we have seen in the Rwandan genocide as well as within the ranks of the Tamil Tigers of Sri Lanka. However, their inclusion in peace can often bring more women together, as well as shed light on issues at home that others might not be aware of. It is important for all people involved in a conflict to come together to find a common ground, including the fighters on each side. The women who reside in war-afflicted regions such as Uganda, Rwanda and Palestine cannot ask their fighters to simply retreat and go home, with only memories of war. The fighters’ homes, villages and familiar cityscapes were often the front lines. They now need to find new places to call home and rebuild communities anew. Moving on from a war zone involves more than just ceasing fire; it demands a total rebuilding from the ashes of terror and death. 

The roles that women can play in peace talks are myriad. As mentioned above, there have been arguments made that women should not be involved in peace talks, as they have not taken part in the conflict itself. Additionally, there have been arguments made that women are not well versed enough in politics to make a stand for policies and peace. While this may be the case for some women, there are many exceptions. These exceptions include the Liberian Women’s Initiative, the women of Northern Ireland, and all the other powerful women who have made their positons heard, even amongst those who did not believe them worthy of a voice. “If Muslims or Hindus, Jews or any particular race of people were systematically absent, there would be an outcry and accusations of prejudice and oppression. Yet exclusion on the basis of sex is readily tolerated.” (Anderlilni, 62) Toleration is the issue at hand. For too long have women stood by while men make decisions for them. We assume that just because people are in the government and involved with policymaking, this means they have the ability to make the right call for all the stakeholders involved. This is not always the case, of course, as the mother’s loss of a child, or the burning down of a village is often not the lived experience of those making the decisions. As Betty Williams said during her Nobel Peace Prize speech: “As far as we are concerned, every single death in the last eight years, and every death in every war that was ever fought represents life needlessly wasted, a mother's labor spurned." (Williams, 1976)

As we have learned, war isn’t just a man’s game. Women are just as involved, if sometimes in differing capacities, and thus peace does not have to be decided only by men. Women can make a positive difference in crafting a sustainable future for war-torn communities. Men and women, together, can bridge the gaps between gender, society and culture.

War is ever changing, and so too should be our approach to peace. Instead of governments excluding women’s voices at the negotiating table, they should be willing to hear many different ideas for a ceasefire, as well as how to maintain stability in communities after conflicts. Instead of holding biology against those who can make a difference in post-war community building, embrace all the voices who were affected by the violence. We must evolve on who we allow to negotiate peace. Without evolution, the world would not be where it is today. Women would not have the right to vote in the United States, nor would they be able to drive in Saudi Arabia. The science and art of conducting peace talks and crafting post-war stability would be much more advanced than it is now, had there been adequate inclusion of women to begin with. But it is not too late to begin.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

References 

Anderlini, Sanam Naraghi. Women Building Peace: What They Do, Why It Matters. Lynne Rienner Publishing, 2007. 

Hunt, Swanee, and Cristina Posa. “Women Waging Peace.” Foreign Policy, no. 124, 2001, p. 38., doi:10.2307/3183189. 

Karim, Sabrina. “Restoring Confidence in Post-Conflict Security Sectors: Survey Evidence from Liberia on Female Ratio Balancing Reforms.” British Journal of Political Science, vol. 49, no. 3, 2017, pp. 799–821., doi:10.1017/s0007123417000035. 

Wynne-Jones, Ros. “Irish Talk: Men Posture, Women Progress .” The Independent, vol. 1996, 16 June 1996.