21 March

I found myself a notebook, first page says 2. Grade Philosophy. Here, it says “Philo=love” and “Sophy=wisdom”.

I couldn’t find the cat in her usual places this morning, beside my purse, under the big old trash bin. It turned out she went to a construction area (?) nearby. She was shedding her fur lately. Just like I do.

Yesterday, a customer bruised my right arm, it still hurts, just a little. I need to find money to buy hormones. I’ll be working for a while. My skirt has a little hole in the back so maybe I should find new clothing too.

The sun came down, cat was hungry, and so was I. I decided to name her Lavinia. It’s a cute name, means “death flower”. My mom showed me one once, but I don’t think she thought I’d be one.

I think Lavinia thinks I’m her mother or something because she follows me everywhere. It’d been two… weeks when I found her thirsty and starving. I gave her my last water and took my pills dry.

Couldn’t find any customer tonight. We will sleep at the construction site Lavinia found. I really like this notebook, its purple with some pink cats. It helps me to remember things. Probably belonged to a high school girl. I wonder if she really liked “knowledge”. I hope she did.

Lavinia slept already.

Tomorrow!

• Call Begüm, ask if she can help you.

• Find food for Lavinia.

• Go to the bar street

It’s cold.

26 March

I can’t forget the gas station’s lights. I occasionally remember it, my first time in the streets. Backdoor of the station, two disgusting lamps poured some light onto the door of the restroom. My hair was still boyish, but I had a sundress on that I thought it was cute. Mom said she doesn’t want to see me ever again.

He was a fifty-year-old man, with his huge belly and a white mustache. Gave me 50 liras. Cold, the manly smell mixed with the smell of gasoline. A big hand covering up my face. Sweat, turd, and the feeling of the cold walls. The sound of a bus engine. The feeling of a man’s body hair on my face, between my thighs, I hate it. I still do. It is less hellish today, because it gives me shelter, money, and sometimes even food, I said to Begüm. She was rolling a cigarette for herself. We were at one of her friend’s bars in the bar street. Lavinia was sitting under the table, looking at the people moving back and forth.

Begüm said she can help me with finding more customers, even some elegant ones, but she said she doesn’t have any money too. She lives with her boyfriend; they want to marry when they have money. He knows some people that can help, people that have enough money to make it at a hotel.

Things are never permanent for a person like me, like a hotel room, or my gender, how I look, and even how people treat me. I am a woman when they need some treatment. I am a man when I have a fee. Lavinia sat beside me as I wrote these lines. I love her black and white fur. I once had black hair too. But I have to change it according to the demand.

I still remember those lamps and the door in the station. I see those lights every time I do it. My body changed. But the manly scene stayed on my sundress, the very dress I stole from my mom.

Tonight, I’m sleeping in a basement apartment. I wonder how he afforded me all night. He is skinny and, for me, ugly. Lavinia didn’t like the place too. She’s looking for an open door to escape. I feel her. Sometimes we both need an open door.

At least it’s warm here.

2 April

I couldn’t find her anywhere. I checked all the places I can think of, the backdoor of the kebab shop, the street where Begüm’s house stood, the construction sites scattered around the neighborhood. But she wasn’t there. Lavinia left me. I’m the only death flower now.

It had been six hours since I lost her. I called Begüm for help, we had an argument about money like a week ago, but when it comes to Lavinia, she came for help running. Her boyfriend was with her too.

I still couldn’t process the fact that she was gone. Maybe it’s about food. We didn’t eat for like three days. I couldn’t find any customers lately. It’s my fault.

She had not even belonged to me or to the streets. Her shinny fur was too elegant to be an outcast. I hope she found a warm home. It was nice to have company though.

Begüm let me sleep in their house for a night. Her boyfriend wasn’t so eager.

They had French fries left from dinner. I woke up at 03.00 to eat that thing. I don’t think they would care. I hope Lavinia finds something to eat too.

• Begüm said we will look for her tomorrow so maybe she could convince her boyfriend to let me stay one more day.

I miss Lavinia so much.

19 April

I saw Lavinia fighting with an orange cat as I lay down on the pavement. She arches her back, fur standing on the end like a bristle brush. Hiss, snarl, a whirl of claws. She was bleeding, her leg, and her nose. The orange one broke first, bolting down the alley. She came beside me; I was in the same position. My left eye was swollen, my belly, my hips, bruised. Lavinia curled down under my arm. It was just before dawn. She started to lick her scars. Maybe I should lick mines too. I need to find a way to leave the streets, permanently.

Damn all those fat middle-aged men. I remember his bald spot while he was punching me. That was all I could see. A red, furious face and a bald spot behind his head. He accused me of deceiving him, making him believe I was a woman. I am a woman. I didn’t even get my money. I said there’s no difference. He slapped my face.

Here I am, on the pavement. I saw the pain in Lavinia’s eyes.

I tried to reach my purse to call Begüm. She gave me an old-school keypad mobile to call the police in an emergency, but I believe it would be no good for me. I called her, twice. She didn’t pick up, likely lost to the small hours.

Lavinia came up to my belly. I guess it’s time to get up. We have to find a place to sleep. I grabbed her forelegs and took her in my arms.

It may be nonsense but… I believe tomorrow will be better.

9 May

We’re going to have a dinner at Begüm’s this evening. It will be my first time doing the shopping for dinner since I left home. I will use my own earned money. Also, Lavinia will have wet food tonight, so it’s a little fancy for us.

Last two weeks was great, nearly every night I had a customer, they were slightly upper class, so I always had a place to stay (Thanks to Begüm’s boyfriend, I guess). I don’t know what to say, it’s hard but money felt good.

However, I still think I need an ordinary job. I have never written this to the notebook before, but I really admire people who go to work every morning. I think it should be fun to do something every day according to a plan or something.

My first goal is to find a place to live permanently and then to have a job (cashier or something).

I also take my hormones regularly lately. Even if it’s hard to find in Türkiye, I managed to find a source.

My body became more feminine, I can feel my breasts looking like a woman’s, I can feel my hips getting bigger. I look at my face and start to see the person I always felt like. I was a woman before, even in my family house. Now, it feels like society is ready to accept me as I’ve always been.

I believe I will be truly myself when I lose my scars too.

Shopping List:

• Chickpeas

• Spinach (Begüm said there were frozen ones)

• Onion, garlic, and tomatoes (one or two for each)

• Carrots, potatoes, and lemon (for the side)

• 1L olive oil, 2kg rice

DON’T FORGET THE WET FOOD FOR MY GİRL!!!

29 May

The sheets were too white and smelt like detergent. I saw a suit left on the chair beside the bed. Lavinia was curled up on the armchair. The man was gone. I heard the sound of water coming from the shower.

I pulled the blankets over my face. My breasts have grown more recently. White sheets covered my body. I looked at myself under the blanket. I saw scars on my legs. I watched the one on my left thigh. It was from my ex. We were together for two years and we’d gone through a lot. We had a little apartment. He was always jealous because of my job but he didn’t work so I had had to do it. At the end, we had a big fight. One night, he saw me on the street, just a few weeks after I left him, and he stabbed me. I couldn’t go to the hospital for some reasons, so Begüm helped me.

I never quite understand what men were looking for in my body. Did they like me being a man or a woman? Maybe they were feeling in between too.

Lavinia looked beautiful while she slept. However, you could see her misery in her face when she’s awake. I believe that’s what the streets do to a living being. It wants you to disappear or else, you will see the consequences for yourself.

The shower went silent. Lavinia woke up too. It’s time to leave. The day started, I hope it will be a better one.

I need to find a way to wash Lavinia too, she has been smelly lately.

30 May

Lavinia is sitting under Begüm’s table. She looks stressed, like she understands what we are talking about. Begüm said she had a call from my uncle, back from my hometown. “He said your mom passed away, I didn’t know what to say so I called you. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. I don’t know how to feel about it. I haven’t seen her for like 5 years. “You’re dead to me.” She said when I left her behind. “You’re not my boy.” She was right, I’m a girl.

I was the last member of my family. My dad died like long time ago; I’m really surprised that I forgot when he died. I was the last person to take care of mom. She wouldn’t let me. Uncle said she was sick for the last two years.

I went to the bus station; bought a ticket with the money I got from the job yesterday. Lavinia was hiding in my bag.

The bus was filled with middle-aged Anatolian men and women. They had a distinct scent, cheap perfume and sweat, camphor oil and incense. I haven’t felt this for years. The bus driver stared at me as I sat on my seat.

It will be a long ride.

Note: Don’t forget to take Lavinia out of the bag when we reach the rest stop.

30 May-Night

I need to disappear. I don’t want to live in this fucking world with all these fucking people. My heart isn’t there anymore. Fucking smell, fucking bald spot, fucking body. I’m the fool to be here, to go to that old fucking town, to live in that huge city, to be a man, to be a woman. For a fucking moment, I thought I can move on you know? Maybe if I go to that woman’s grave, leave my past behind, I could live like a fucking human being.

We were there at the rest stop. I let Lavinia out and went to that goddamn restroom. It was dark and I couldn’t see shit. Two fat man, had some gray hair, punched me on my face, grabbed my arms, and punched me again. Again, that door, with those blinding lights. It smelt gasoline. Maybe I should have had a diary when I was a kid.

It lasted ages, I don’t know. It was pre-dawn when I woke up. Couldn’t see the fucking faces. Bruised. Only have the pain with me.

My bus was gone. I sat down at a table. Ordered tea. Where were you guys all the time. The waiter asked me about my bus. No answer. He probably saw the bruise on my face. Went back, brought tea and some ice.

Lavinia came, jumped into my lap. I cried. My tears fell to her fur. It’s a circle. Circle of this damn life. It’s never over.

I saw mom’s eyes on that circle, that old black ones.

31 May

Here I am, on the same street that all those boys kicked me, pulled my hair. Here they are, the beautiful gardens of our town, a kid and his mom are picking grape leaves as we pass. Here’s that corner where my dad slapped me because I was kissed by a boy. Here’s that bank Begüm said she loves me. And here it is, the frontyard where I helped mom to plant flowers.

Here’s the graveyard, here’s mom and dad.

I crouched next to the grave. How should I feel? It was a family grave for two. We had three members. It’s okay. I can’t say that I feel any hatred for these two. They’re dead now.

Wake up guys, here’s your boy, and woman within him.

Lavinia curled up on the grave. She closed her eyes; I saw her tears. The cold wind went through my skin, my skirt. I looked at my legs.

It’s the last page of this notebook. I drew a flower, Lavinia.

And a cat.

—

You can find Eray (they/them) on instagram at lilwestco.

a story freely and queerly adapted from an Icelandic folk tale

“But, Bertha,” said the pastor, “has Erik expressed any interest in becoming a priest… you know, received a call from God? A vocation?”

“If a vocation is the same as being devoted, obedient, ethical, empathetic, optimistic—“

“I get it, Bertha. Erik is a fine young man—”

“The best, Father Peterson. But he is fearless. That’s the problem, Father. He fears nothing.”

“So… that’s… the problem?”

“Exactly that. Such innocence to fear nothing! How will he cope in the world among those who might hurt him, take advantage of him? I need you to take him in the Church, Father. Put the fear of God in him… if not the fear of Satan... if not the fear of people! He’s nineteen, Father, too old to remain at home anyway. He's not a child.”

The priest took his time before answering. “Yesterday was New Year's Day, a holy day and a time for resolutions. Bertha, I shall house him here in St. Bridget’s, but only for as long as I see in him the signs of a vocation. Catholics are few in this country, Bertha, but we are growing and have need for priests with true callings.”

“Bless you, Father,” said Bertha as she left the pastor’s office.

Amenable as always to his mother’s directives, Erik packed his few belongings in a knapsack, kissed his tearful mother goodbye, and made his way to Saint Bridget’s Church at the hour for confessions. He waited his turn to enter the confessional and kneeled before the window which in time Father Peterson slid open.

“Bless me, Father, if I have sinned—”

“If? IF? Erik, the word is ‘for.’”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Go ahead now and list your sins,” demanded the pastor.

Erik broke the long silence that followed. “I have made you unhappy that I have no sins to report. Perhaps that is a sin?”

Flummoxed, Father Peterson said, “I think we’ll dispense with the Act of Contrition, Erik.”

“Very well, Father.”

“Erik, I shall put you up in the attic of the rectory while we determine if you have the call to the priesthood.”

“Very well, Father.”

The pastor was roused that evening by the constable who carried three bodies wrapped in bloody shrouds. “Awful accident, Father. The Olson family. Their horse must have been startled. It and the carriage with the family careened in the snow and ice off the high turn cliff.”

“Too late in the day to bury them now. Lay them in the center aisle of the church till the morning, Constable.”

Just before midnight, the priest called to Erik. “I left my breviary on the altar in the church. Go get it for me.”

Entering the moonlit church, Erik tripped and fell atop one of the corpses. He peeked at the face beneath the shroud. “Young Holger Olson,” he said aloud. “That’s sad.” He carried the body onto one of the pews and continued toward the altar only to stumble over the bodies of Holger’s parents. Erik lifted them to the pews as well, made his way to the altar, grabbed the breviary, and carried it to the pastor.

“And how did you find things?” asked the priest.

“It was just where you said.”

“So… you had no trouble finding it.”

“Well, I did have to move the Olsons out of the way.”

“The Olsons?”

“Their bodies. Someone must have left them in the church.”

The priest nodded and wished Erik a good night.

But over the breakfast Erik volunteered to prepare, the pastor said, “Erik, someone so nonplussed by death will never have the compassion needed for the priesthood. You will have to find your future elsewhere.”

Erik thanked the priest for lodging him before he retrieved his knapsack, dressed for the cold, and walked along the bank of the nearby river into the forest. He trekked all the dark winter day and all night until he spied the flickering of many large torches from a large cave where he thought he might find welcome and a place to rest. Against a wall deep in the cavern, he found a stream of spring water, a brick stove and oven, and a large table with utensils, pots, pans, and glasses scattered atop it. Deeper in the cave, he found a smaller chamber with twelve unkempt beds.

Never one to ignore a mess, he organized the kitchen and made the beds before, exhausted, he collapsed and slept on the bed farthest inside the hollow.

Hours later, men’s voices in the kitchen woke him. They wondered aloud who had straightened up their kitchen and, as they entered the smaller chamber, who had made their beds.

The men, twelve in number, wore handsome uniforms, Erik noted, and were heavily armed. Each of them stripped and got onto his own bed. One of them, tall and blond from head to toe, was surprised to find Erik in his bed. “Are you the fellow—”

Erik interrupted “Who did some house, er, some cavekeeping? Yes, I did. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Hardly,” said the soldier. “It’s a gift to us who must be out all day every day.”

“Doing what?”

“Fighting magical enemies.”

“Magical?”

“We rise early and head for the battlefield each morning, and although we kill every one of them by the end of daylight each afternoon, somehow they return to life every night. If we don’t awaken early and return to fight them every day, they will attack and kill us here in our cave.”

“How did they become your enemies?”

“This cave is rich with both raw diamonds and gold ore. That’s why we are here—fellow army veterans who sought shelter after the last war and found our fortune. But a troll who claims this whole area as its own wants us gone. It has raised a matching army of twelve from the dead.”

“From the dead?”

“From the undead, I should say. Does my story frighten you?”

“Not at all. It’s fascinating… amazing.”

“Do I frighten you?” asked the naked soldier nestling closer to Erik.”

“Not at all. As you can see.” Erik, showing off his hard member to his bedmate, replied. “I find you quite fascinating.”

“Then maybe you will consider staying with me—with us, I mean: taking care of the cave and us.”

“I should like that. I like you. What shall I call you?”

“I am Bjorn. The others are my brothers and cousins, members of my clan. And you?”

“Erik. By myself.”

“No longer, Erik,” Bjorn said as he wrapped the young man in his arms and legs, loosening them only when Erik heard zephyrs of exhalations from the sleeping warrior.

Having slept all day, Erik rose from the bed and busied himself in the cave. He collected and cleaned as best he could the piles of uniforms and armor at each bedside and made his way to the kitchen where he found enough provisions to prepare an ample breakfast for the men when they arose. Sometime after midnight, Erik returned to Bjorn’s bed and joined him in slumber.

When Erik awoke, he felt a hand other than his own resting on his morning erection. Bjorn, his chest hard against Erik’s back, whispered, “Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m glad,” said Bjorn as he proceeded to bring Erik to fruition.

The young man turned around and leaned in to place his lips on the head of Bjorn’s organ, but the veteran lifted Erik to his mouth, kissed him, and explained. “I am afraid to spend any more energy before returning to battle.”

As soon as Bjorn and his eleven comrades breakfasted, they dressed in furs and armor, collected spears and swords and torches, and left the cave and Erik behind.

After tending to the cave and preparing a sumptuous evening meal, Erik departed from the cave and followed footsteps pressed into the soggy moss to the battlefield surrounded by burning cressets. He spotted Bjorn fencing with an ape of a man who was nonetheless skilled with a sword. Other pairs jousted, battleaxed, and engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Erik wished he had a weapon and his own foe to fight.

He returned to the cave and awaited the safe return of Bjorn and the others. The twelve did return and thanked Erik for the wondrous supper he had prepared.

Later, in bed, Bjorn asked Erik if he was ready to return the morning’s favor. The young man answered by providing a masterful fellation, one that had Bjorn sliding to the edges and heart of orgasm, back and forth, for some thirty minutes before the performance reached its climax.

“Oh, my, Erik, you must have had much experience with other lads.”

“No, Bjorn. I just did what felt right for you. And for me. I liked it.”

“Oh, it was right all right. But, tell me, will you be afraid if we have more serious sex?”

“More serious?”

“If I slid myself into your bum and left my seed there after a while.”

“Let’s try it!” Erik turned his back toward Bjorn.

“Not now, Erik. Not now. Let us just…” Erik heard his bedmate’s snores.

Erik did not sleep. He needed to learn how his friend’s enemies, reportedly dead now, could possibly be alive and ready to fight again on the morrow.

Quietly, he left Bjorn’s bed, dressed in the fur and armor of one of the cavemen more his size than Bjorn, gathered a sword and spear, and made his way to the battlefield where he found in the light of the still blazing flambeaus, pools of blood and bodies separated from their heads. He hid in some bushes to wait to see how these corpses would reconstitute themselves.

Eventually, a troll arose from a pit with a small black pot it placed carefully on the ground. The troll made its way to one of the dead warriors, painted its severed neck with an unguent from the pot, and pushed the head into its place on the trunk of its body. At once, the warrior somewhat groggily stood. The troll revived two more warriors in the same way. Understanding the troll’s magic, Erik leaped from the bushes and ran his spear through the little monster. With the sword he carried, Erik decapitated the three doddering revenants.

Having retrieved the pot, Erik wanted to prove to himself the troll’s secret of resurrection. He sat next to the last warrior he had rekilled, smeared the neck of its severed head with the potion, and slowly pushed it back into position on the carcass. The warrior heaved a great sigh and sought to stand, but Erik was ready with his sword so to separate head and body for a third time just as Bjorn and his comrades arrived on the field.

They were astonished to find Erik amidst the dead bodies of their enemies.

“I worried so,” said Bjorn, “when I awoke and found you nowhere in the cave.”

“And my armor was missing,” chimed in one of the other cavemen.

“And my weapons!” said another.

“But it looks as if you have used them well.” Bjorn swept his arm over the bloody field. “Tell us what happened.”

Erik recounted all that he had witnessed and done. He showed the pot with its potion to Bjorn and urged him to try it on one of the enemies himself.

Bjorn painted the unguent on the neck of one of the loose heads and attached it to its trunk. Just as Erik had said would happen, the enemy shuddered and sought to stand, but Bjorn raised his ax and decapitated the man again.

Bjorn turned to Erik, embraced him and kissed him full on the lips. The other cavemen applauded and cheered.

“You will stay with us, Erik, and share our wealth?”

“Will I get my own bed?” Bjorn’s face drooped until Erik laughed and added, “Or maybe a bigger bed for the two of us?”

Bjorn hugged Erik. “But not too big. I don’t want to lose you even for a moment.”

Their plans firmed, the couple teamed up with their colleagues to collect the weapons of their deceased enemies and to build a great bonfire with all the loose heads and bloody bodies. Erik was given the honor of pitching the troll into the flames.

With the field finally cleared of its battles, Olaf, the giant of the cave-dwellers, concocted an amusement. “Let’s chop off each other’s heads and reattach them with the potion. We shall experience what it’s like to be dead for a moment.”

“No, please, no!” screamed Erik when he heard Olaf’s idea.

“Are you afraid?” asked Olaf.

“I-I-I guess I am. I am afraid this potion was designed by the troll especially for its zombies. It may not work on real people. I am afraid we will never be able to revive you.”

“Erik is right,” said Bjorn. Let us save the potion in case of an accident or emergency, but we dare not tempt fate. Let us rather revel in our victory, our safety, our comradery—”

“And our gold and diamonds!” agreed Olaf.

Bjorn wrapped his arm around Erik’s shoulder as the troupe marched back to the cave and said, “We have some reveling to do ourselves, remember?”

"Þrettándinn, yes. The thirteenth day after Christmas comes soon."

“I was thinking of a more intimate revel. Just between us. And soon. Afraid?”

“Not one bit.”

-

Expat New Yorker James Penha (he/him) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. The e-book of his story collection Queer As Folk Tales can be pre-ordered for a 50% discount prior to its October 3 pub date. His chapbook of poems American Daguerreotypes is available for Kindle. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Bluesky: @jamespenha.bsky.social

can

i

paint

you a

picture of

how it feels to be

lost in a dream?

the colors are all wrong

and the shapes never stay still but

every time i try to hold one

it whispers something

in a language i don’t know

but understand

perfectly.

—

Claudia Wysocky is a 16-year-old Polish poet based in New York, celebrated for her evocative creations that capture life's essence through emotional depth and rich imagery. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, her poetry has appeared in various local newspapers and literary magazines. Wysocky believes in the transformative power of art and views writing as a vital force that inspires her daily. Her works blend personal reflections with universal themes, making them relatable to a broad audience. Actively engaging with her community on social media, she fosters a shared passion for poetry and creative expression.

You can find her on Instagram @November.

On 19 March 1895, Scottish inventor and cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. Peter Braw performed a revolutionary operation at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, saving the life of Douglas Key Grant, 7th Duke of York—a successful businessman, and last year’s winner of the Queen's Prize in rifle target shooting. The Duke’s heart was replaced with an apparatus of Dr. Braw’s own invention. This newly patented technology, inspired by the intricate craftsmanship of Edward John Dent’s watchmaking, has yet to receive full endorsement from the medical community. Following several months of convalescence at Dr. Braw’s private estate, the Duke praised the remarkable level of care he had received. This miraculous procedure remains the subject of heated international debate—a testament to Britain’s great contributions to scientific progress.

“Peter?” the Duke asked, as if taken aback by his very existence. “What on earth are you doing here?” The tinge of nervousness in his laugh was so subtle Peter wondered if he could have imagined it. The room was loud, after all—the low buzz of high society could drown out the nuances of timbre.

Peter’s blood boiled, but he smiled, playing along. Perhaps Douglas had the right to be surprised. Peter in London was a rare sight—here only to attend events, deliver lectures, endure dinners. Each visit was a necessary evil. But he was used to those, like the twenty-one unsuccessful heart replacement surgeries before Douglas.

“Isabella Vale,” the woman on Douglas’ shoulder said, presenting a bejewelled hand for kissing. “A Duchess-to-be.”

Peter froze mid-bow. “I’m sorry.” He straightened. “What?”

Isabella laughed. “Is that such a shock?”

There were many ways to handle this—most of them not career-and-life-ending. “Well—” Peter started, like a man loading a gun.

Douglas’ expression said you wouldn’t, clearer than words ever could.

That was all the encouragement Peter needed. “Surprising, yes.” He nodded a few times too many. “The last time I saw Douglas, he was quoting another Douglas—Alfred Douglas, of all people. Calculating businessman by day, fancies himself a poet at night. Obsessed with the fact that I once held his beating heart in my hand. Said—what was it, again?” Peter stared into Douglas’ bulging eyes. “The literal met the metaphorical to create the perfect union—almost, yes, almost—as perfect as ours.”

“Peter—”

“However, I prefer simple over poetic,” he continued. “Simple like staying—rather than running off to marry the latest desirable heiress. But then again—”

A glove struck his face. The crowd fell silent.

Peter had somehow forgotten that Douglas tended to solve problems this way. In fact, the Duke had survived two duels—killed a man in France; was left with a limp after the second, but thought it a success, as his opponent lost an arm.

Peter wondered what it was he was afraid of losing.

The answer, to his horror, was not his life—but Douglas.

And Douglas was already lost.

***

“We can walk away,” was the first thing Peter said—a gun in hand, trying to ignore the two friends Douglas had brought to bear witness, the morning sun throwing long shadows on the grass at the edge of Douglas’ vast ancestral lands. “We don’t have to do this.”

Douglas weighed the pistol in his hand. “Apologise. Swear you’ll never mention this again, and I’ll go for your hip—not your head.”

“Apologise for what?” Peter licked his lips, still dry despite his efforts. “Is this what you want? I thought you—” Tears pricked his eyes, and he didn’t much care that others could see. “You were a different man when you were dying. A much better man.”

“I have a long life ahead of me now, thanks to you.”

Peter let out a bitter laugh. “You know I can’t actually shoot, don’t you?”

“I would have preferred if you’d left the country. I expected you to.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Yes, I don’t really want to—” His voice wavered. “But you must see I have no choice.”

“No choice?” Peter shook his head. “I was sure we’d be laughing at this ridiculous situation by now. I thought we’d be having tea in the garden. I even bought you a present.”

“A present? Are you serious?”

Peter took a small box from his pocket—two dress studs with a black stone glinting in the morning light.

“Jesus, do you ever stop? Can’t you see—”

“You don’t like them?” Peter asked, with a sniff. “I had them made for you. Silver and magnetite.” He placed the gun on the ground—movements slow as if Douglas were a beast he didn’t want to provoke—and stepped closer, then closer still.

It worked. Douglas let him insert the studs into the buttonholes of his shirt—his breath heavy, eyes locked on the two friends watching from a distance.

“What are you so ashamed of, hm?” Peter adjusted Douglas’ tie with a well-practised hand and gave his shirt a final pat.

“Step away,” Douglas said, voice breaking. “Pick up the fucking gun, you coward. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you like an animal.”

Peter hesitated.

Douglas aimed at him, grip unsteady.

“Let him collect his weapon,” one of his friends shouted.

“Step back,” the other one called to Peter.

But Peter didn’t move, tears flowing at last.

“Why do you make this so difficult?” Douglas asked, heart pounding.

Peter gave him a weird look—almost pity—even with the barrel pointing at his head.

“Why aren’t you afraid? Why—” Douglas’ heart thudded again, the rhythm irregular. He grabbed onto his chest with a shaky hand—but there was nothing there.

The thumping had stopped.

“Peter, it’s not working. Peter, can you fix it? Peter, please. I’m so sorry, I’m—” He stared at his lover with a glimmer of genuine care, the edges of the image turning black. “Peter—” he managed one last time before collapsing to the ground.

On 18 August 1895, Douglas Key Grant was found dead at his estate, following an illegal duel, which was interrupted before shots were exchanged, due to a sudden failure of his mechanical heart. The opponent—and the Duke’s former physician—Dr. Peter Braw, offered the following statement:

“Despite the great progress we have made, the artificial heart requires further fine-tuning. Similar to a watch, the mechanism is vulnerable to disruption in the presence of a magnetic field. Thanks to the generous bequest the Duke included in his will, our work at the Royal Infirmary can continue. His legacy will endure. We are heartbroken, but grateful for his immeasurable contribution to yet another pioneering advancement in Scottish medical history.”

The Duke’s fiancée, Isabella Vale, has been left devastated by the loss.

Hana Carolina can be found on bluesky and Twitter @HanaCarolinaSCO. Hana also has her debut novel out - https://readspaceboy.com/portfolio/the-inescapable-march/

Hephaistion’s death had in fact been no small misfortune for Alexander, and it seems to me he would have wanted to die first rather than live after losing Hephaistion, in the same way that I suppose Achilles would have chosen to die before Patroklos rather than become an avenger of his death.

— Arrian, Anabasis Alexandrou [The Campaigns of Alexander], 7.16.8, 4th century C.E.

There is only deafening silence, piercing your heart. The insides of your tent should be as familiar as your own home, but without his presence, his laughter, his soft voice, none of it feels known. Your lungs bleed with how laboured your breaths are. Your throat, where a scream that won’t leave is irrevocably lodged, is raw and sore. Too many painful sorrows have escaped your lips in the last days. Your eyes ache after so many hours awake and so many tears spilled. Sleep is a distant memory that haunts your every blink. Your hands strain on the Egyptian silk that surrounds you, and the mere sight of it sends you into a blind fury. You remember rolling in those same sheets with him a handful of days ago, his dark hair contrasting starkly against the pale colour of the sheets. He had laughter on his lips and adoration in his eyes, and you had thanked all the gods you could remember that those twelve years of war and journeys had not taken him away from you as you trailed kisses along his throat and collarbones.

Now you are alone in this too large bed, and you tear the sheets apart with the nearest weapon you can find. You must let out some noise, some sign of life, for Ptolemy rushes in, a hand on his sword and eyes alert. You don’t notice his presence until he wraps an arm around your torso and forcefully lifts you away from the bed, shouting something to a Bodyguard that waits outside.

“Enough, my king, enough!” His voice would be authoritative, but there is a slight tremble, a learned fear of what happens to those who defy you, be they allies or enemies. After all, he was there, laughing and drinking, when you had grabbed your spear and buried it deep beneath Kleitos’ skin. He had witnessed your reaction to taunts and jabs exchanged between friends, from sweet laughter to cold blooded murder. It didn’t matter that you had been filled with regretful madness and sorrows the next day, the deed had been done. No one had seen the hands around your torso, the heaviness of your body in his arms as Hephaistion waited for your mind to find its balance again

You allow him to stop you, your hands letting go of your dagger. You are nothing more than a broken toy in a cruel child’s hands.

“Alexander, this has to stop, Hephaistion—“

“Do not dare lecture me, Ptolemy. Do not speak his name. You know nothing of him.” It is unfair to say this. You enjoy the brief pain that illuminates his eyes. "He was mine, mine to be ripped away from. Mine to be torn apart by and to bring back together. He was mine!"

Terror, born of a slow realization, blossoms in his eyes: the anger of then does not equal the madness that has taken hold of you now. Your voice has lost all its magnificence, all of the glorious roar that roused armies and struck fear in the heart and soul of your enemies gone. You crumble on the floor, the dirt rising in a soft cloud that licks your ankles and exposed arms. You let out the scream you’ve been holding in for the past hour. Ptolemy, faithful Bodyguard, has the sanity of taking a step back. Buried beneath the unbearable grief and immovable anger, he trembles before the shadow of the leader you once were.

“Leave me alone.” Your voice breaks on the command.

He observes your diminished form, broken on the ground and so delicate. A careful “yes, my king” falls from his lips and he is gone. For a brief second, you wish he hadn’t, that he had stayed, openly disobeyed your order. You imagine hurting him, pushing your dagger through the hard planes of his torso and repeatedly breaking through the soft skin of his stomach. You can almost feel the relief it would bring you, to see him suffer a tenth of what you are suffering.

Your hand finds your dagger again, your fingertips toying with the sharpened edge of it, and you ponder for a moment whether joining Hephaistion in Hades’ realm now would be worth the momentary suffering. In a heartbeat, you know the answer is yes. Anything that could bring you back to his soft caresses and his amusement at your delusions of grandeur is worth it. You do not allow yourself this reprieve. Not yet. You know that you would never find him in Elysium if you don’t bury him, give him the honours and tributes he deserves. You remember from your lessons how Patroclus’ soul had haunted the grounds of the burned Troy, after Achilles' heirs had failed to built the headstone for his companion. It had taken too long for Achilles and his lover to be reunited in the realm of the dead. You do not wish to go through this with Hephaistion.

You lift the dagger carefully, place it at the nape of your neck, and start cutting your hair. Your beautiful mane of golden locks, which you had been so proud of, in which Hephaistion’s fingers had run through while he loved you, falls to the ground. It isn’t easy, cutting through the tangled mess of your hair, but the pace you set is harsh and unforgiving.

The last time you had cut your hair, he had been right there doing it for you. It had been a year or so ago, and the morning lights had streamed through the tent’s loosely tucked entrance. Everyone had known not to disturb you in the early mornings, not when Hephaistion was in camp too. You can’t remember what had made you upset, what tension you had carried in your dreams that night, but you can remember clear as day his hands tugging on your hair as you had kissed his neck reverently.

“Should I interrupt this,” you had laughed, “since you appear to have more urgent matters to attend to, general?”

He had grinned, slow and feral, an animal toying with his prey. He had been the only one to whom you yielded, the only one to whom you kneeled. No one else could have tamed the Great Conqueror of Persia, the son of Ammon, the one who had pushed the boundaries of possibilities. Hephaistion had been the only one who could take one look at you and know exactly what you were about to do. Your only fear had only ever been losing him.

“I was thinking, Great King,” he had teased, eyes dancing with mirth, “that your golden crown seems rather heavy those days. Perhaps this should be attended to?”

You had kissed him then, long and searing, but he had not backed down from it, and he had rolled away from you to grab scissors hidden at the bottom of one of your trunks. You had tried to cajole him into other activities, but he had been adamant on cutting it.

“You cannot look like a Persian king when you are putting the final touch on the conquest of Asia, Alexander,” he had murmured as he cut your hair carefully, dropping kisses on your shoulder and neck. “Think of the Athenians. They would attempt to rebel.”

You had felt completely at ease in his hands, trusting him completely. The morning had been filled with gentle teasing and soft kisses. You had felt his love in all of his touches, reverent and reciprocated with an endless faith.

Now it is shorter than you ever remember it. The sides are short, barely spilling over your ears, and asymmetrical. The top is slightly overflowing over the sides. You are unwilling to change it.

Hunger agitates your stomach, an almost unnoticeable pain amidst the ache that surrounds your body. You try to recall when you last ate or drank. You have the memory of idly drinking while the soldiers competed in the games, the voices of Perdikkas and Ptolemy loud behind you. It had been just before a messenger came in with the news. You can see yourself standing up abruptly, Perdikkas’ laughter dying as he caught sight of your distraught face. The walk to the tent, you can’t recall, the path unfamiliar. Before Hephaistion’s illness, you can’t remember ever being in different tents. Ptolemy and Perdikkas followed you, loyal Bodyguards and friends at the service of their king.

The doctor had been at the entrance of the tent, looking anywhere but at you, and Hephaistion’s servant had looked away too, shoulders shaking with fear. Pushing open the protective layer of the tent, you had stepped inside, and your heart had lurched at the sight of his lifeless body.

You had seen your fair share of dead bodies, had killed enough to not be disturbed by the sight of death. But seeing his tan face pale with the breath of death, realizing that no longer you would hear his loud laughter, it had made you stop in your steps. Your heart had faltered in its loyal beating, and you sank to your knees as you reached the bed, agony filling your lungs as you struggled to breathe.

Hours passed, your grieving form hunched over him, holding him against you, wishing endlessly for a comment to fall from his lips, for a sign of life instead of this slowly cooling corpse. Ptolemy and Perdikkas tried drawing you away from him multiple times, but their attempts were fruitless until early the next morning, when you were too exhausted from the crying, shouts and prayers to keep holding on.

You don’t know how much time has passed since then, but you know it has been at least two days since you last ate. A plate of meat next to a goblet filled with diluted wine on the large table comes to your attention as you glance around. There is a faint memory of someone coming into the tent earlier, but the shroud of your grief had still been too thick. You eat slowly, your stomach engulfing the food like an endless pit. It doesn’t satisfy your hunger, but it will do for now.

Mechanically, you go to the basin filled with water, the punishing cold a relief. You wash your face and your torso, washing away the remnants of your hair. Pulling on a clean tunic, you don’t bother with your armour, only fasten your sword and your dagger to your belt. The familiar movements aren’t any harder than breathing. You give a glance to the silver crown taunting you from the corner of the bed, where it was relocated after your earlier fit. You step outside.

The sun burns slightly at your skin and you close your eyes for a second, ignoring how the overwhelming noise of the camp dies down as your soldiers stare at you. You can feel the heavy presence of your Bodyguards, their armed figures a reassuring sight in this unfamiliar world.

“Bring me Glaukias.”

The doctor’s name falls from your lips like a curse, resonating in the void your presence has created. For a second, the rush of power that has been yours for many years makes you dizzy. You don’t want anything to do with it anymore, now that you have no one to share your victories with. You want to find your way back to him.

You stand unmoving while there is a flutter of activity around you. The sun prickle at your skin as you breathe in the dust, inhaling the pungent smell of sweat and dried blood inherent to the camp. You watch as the soldiers crowding the path to your tent move away to reveal the shaking doctor.

“My King—” he starts, but you do not allow him the luxury to speak.

“Do you know of your crimes?”

His mouth hangs open for a quarter of a second. A vicious twist shakes your stomach, a rush of pleasure born from the fear in his eyes. He starts to plead again, debasing himself in babbling and pitiful excuses. Soldiers crowd the space, pouring in the path endlessly. There is no end to the bloodlust of soldiers who haven’t seen battle in months. The same thrum beats under your skin. You repeat yourself, hand loosely wrapped around the hilt of your sword.

He starts to beg once more, voice meek and miserable. His trembling figure only upsets you further, brings back to you the memory of Hephaistion’s feverish body that you had left in his care that morning. Before you can think of it, your sword is through his stomach. The warm blood slowly trickles out as you pull the weapon out of his body, and you give it a quick wipe, ridding it of the blood carelessly. You bear no mind to the rippling noise of your soldiers as you walk back inside your tent.

You notice, not quite for the first time, but with renewed intensity, how empty and vast your tent is. The bed, pushed to the far end, seems enormous, more so with the lacerations that you caused. The table taking most of the space is empty of the usual maps and letters. You titter, on the edge of falling down and weeping again. The air feels too thick, not allowing you to breathe properly. You ground yourself in the moment, focus on the intense need for retribution that burns through your veins.

“Bring me a map,” you snap, uncaring that no one is with you at the moment. Your orders never go unheard.

Moments later, Ptolemy appears in the entryway you just deserted and there is a moment of uneasy silence as he takes in your tense stature, your hands gripping the wooden table harshly. Your knuckles are white with the strength you apply to it and your shoulders have the harsh set you carry into battle. You can feel his anxiety almost as if it were yours. The pleasuring image of his fear needles its way under your skin. The idea that he will be given the same fate as Glaukias, so exhilarating to you, is utterly terrifying for him.

The map is placed in front of you almost delicately. Ptolemy’s movements are slow and calculated, his instincts and sense of self preservation stronger than his friendship and compassion. You nod in acknowledgement and observe the map, letting go of the table to trace a route slowly.

“Ready the troops. We are leaving for Babylon tonight,” you command.

Ptolemy straightens, surprise quickly erased. The mutual awareness of the harsh walk to Babylon goes unsaid; you will not leave Hephaistion to be buried in the middle of those forsaken lands.

“Send a message to Babylon, I want the pyre to be built when we arrive.”

As you keep listing orders you can sense his hesitation, his surprise at the lavish pyre you are ordering to be built. It will be fit for a king, one even greater than yourself. You wait a few seconds to see if he will try to challenge your orders or try to make you see reason, but he is a smart man, with a keen awareness of his strengths and abilities. His fighting skills cannot compare to yours, and if he attempted to say anything, chances are you would kill him, like you have killed many others. Be they friends or enemies, loyal servants or filthy traitors, none of them ever stood even a silver of a chance. Restraint is not one of your virtues, and with Hephaistion gone, you cannot find it in yourself to try.

In the end, Ptolemy only nods and leaves the tent to go relay your orders. You ignore the low disappointment that fills you.

You look around, willing yourself to ignore the emptiness. You start putting on your armour instead, not turning when you hear steps at the entrance. Very few people would be willing to disturb you now, so you have a good inkling of who it is.

“What do you want, Perdikkas,” you ask as you finish reattaching your sword to your side.

“Who will lead the chariot with Chiliarch Hephaistion’s body, Alexander?” Perdikkas is significantly less afraid of you, even now. That he has been the one coming to ask is clever, you suspect Ptolemy sent him. Hephaistion and Perdikkas had shared many a hardship whenever you sent them in advance, and you trusted no one better than him to take care of your lover.

The use of Hephaistion’s title disconcerts you. You had forgotten the position you had given him, created for him. Commander of a thousand. Your right hand, your most trusted one.

No one will ever take his place.

“I will.”

You finally turn around, facing Perdikkas, who simply nods. You appreciate this willingness to let you get away with petty matters. He knows which battles are to fight and which are to lose. You are well aware that leading the chariot of a fallen soldier is no task fit for a king such as yourself.

“Very well. I will get the chariot ready. The messenger left for Babylon on the fastest horse we could find, and will reach Babylon six days before us. The pyre should be ready for our arrival.” For a moment, his warrior mask cracks and you can see some of your sorrow reflected in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry Alexander. He shouldn’t have died like this.”

You agree, the heavy knot in your throat returning. “Thank you Perdikkas.”

He takes his leave, throwing you a last glance before lifting the heavy pan of the tent. Some servants rush in after his departure, and none of them talk to you as you stay standing in the middle, but they are all very careful not to come too close as they pack up everything neatly. When their presence proves to be too much for your frustrated nerves, you leave the tent, banishing from your mind memories of golden evenings spent there with your love. Your greed for the world caused this. You are the only one to fault for his death in the end.

You walk aimlessly through camp, nodding at some officers as your feet unwittingly lead you back to his tent. There is nothing of it anymore, only traces left in the dry dirt. You have no purpose anymore. There is no Hector to kill in your story, no revenge to be had over the one who murdered Hephaistion. You are alone in your guilt. You are no Achilles without your Patroclus.

You have been riding for three days when your scouts come back. The fast pace at which they lead their horses can only mean one thing: enemies ahead. Straightening on your horse, you can already feel the restlessness of battle agitating you. For the first time since his death, your heart soars at the idea of something, even if it is the mere trifle of battling a nearby tribe.

You signal to Perdikkas to come closer and order him to bring you a horse fit for battle, as well as someone of trust to lead the chariot while you are gone. The scouts arrive near you moments after he leaves, and their quick summary of the situation ahead only serves to heighten the thrill of a soon to be won battle. You give a few orders to Ptolemy, giving him the command of a phalanx while you’ll take some of the cavalry.

A mere two hours later finds you in the midst of a bloodbath, charging at the tribe with glee. They are not ready for such an exchange, but there is no place in your heart for compassion today. You leap down from your horse and your sword finds the weak and tender skin, breaching it and killing in one swift movement. You roar with the rush of battle and you finally feel alive again as you let go of all control, killing whoever has the misfortune to stand in your way. To your enemies, you are a bloodthirsty crazed creature. To your own troops, you are a god gone mad. Perhaps there is no difference between them.

When there are no more enemies to fight, when every man, woman or child has been killed, you are left standing amidst the cadavers. Nothing stirs inside you at the sight. There is only one lifeless body tugging at your heart and soul and he awaits for you with the rest of your army.

A soldier brings your horse and you mount it again, your royal blood dripping lightly from a cut on your cheek.

“Burn the corpses,” you hear yourself say, emotionless. The emptiness has come back, stronger than before.

Babylon is magnificent, standing in between two rivers, lush with life and vibrant with excitement.

The pyre has been erected just as you desired. The seven levels are each clearly visible as a handful of soldiers bring Hephaistion’s body to his final resting place. You take a minute to admire the carvings. The artisans did a wonderful job in the few days they had, and it shows in the touches of gold and carmine that seem to already engulf the lavish pyre in flames with the dying sun. It is truly fit for a king. Behind you, the choir of lament that has accompanied the body since its entrance within Babylon’s walls keeps a steady rhythm.

You are standing just outside of the city, the walls looming behind you as the sun says a final goodbye to Hephaistion. No emotion crosses your face as your Companions, only second in your trust to your Bodyguards, slowly lowers their weapons to the base of the pyre, surrounding the formidable structure with an array of well cared and well used weaponry. You don’t move while your men go to put offerings to Hades and Persephone along the different levels. Only the top will burn completely, and then the monument will be sealed. Nothing will ever come to harm Hephaistion’s tomb. If you have to singlehandedly get rid of every single person who dare think of it, you will do it gladly.

“Alexander,” Perdikkas starts, and for once there is a hint of hesitancy in his voice, “it is time to start.”

You notice only then that the laments have stopped and that a few torches are aflame around you, waiting for your royal authorization. Something is missing. You turn around, dusk slowly settling around the assembled crowd. Your eyes find Babylon’s temple, standing proudly atop the highest hill of the the city, and within it you can see the sacred flame burning.

“Extinguish Babylon’s light.”

Your tone bears no contradiction and yet Ptolemy, ever the rational, attempts it.

“Alexander, have you lost your reason? This signifies the death of the king. When it will be gone, everyone will assume you’ve perished. This could endanger the empire, have repercussion back to Athens and Sparta!”

Your glance turns to him, your eyes looking into his for a moment, before your sword is out of its sheath, flat against his throat. Your face is cold, no affection for your childhood friend to be found.

“I said, extinguish it. I will not repeat myself a third time, Ptolemy.”

Perdikkas grabs your wrist and forces you to lower the weapon before you do good on your threat. There are only a few seconds of tense silence before Ptolemy springs back into action. Your hand stays on the sword until the light goes off in the temple. The messenger reaches his destination faster than you expected, but you only turn to the pyre when the warm embers of the sacred flame have grown colder than the night.

You grab one of the torches then and walk resolutely to the monument, climbing to where Hephaistion's corpse awaits this final rite.

This body looks nothing like the man you love. There is no trace of his thundering laughter, no sign of the loving caresses he would reserve only for you. The fierce attitude he would bring to battles to defend and protect you is nowhere to be seen. It is nothing more than an embalmed corpse, well on its way to decomposition. He has been dressed grandly, draped in the Macedonian emblem as well as his own cavalry’s, and the golden crown you gifted to him not so long ago sit atop his luscious hair.

You let the torch fall in the dry wood and hay, and you go back to your standing position facing the pyre. Others have followed the lead and the flames are now licking the body, slowly devouring his clothes and then his skin.

You don’t move while the plain empties. Neither Ptolemy nor Perdikkas try to convince you to move, and your four other Bodyguards show the same intelligence.

Tomorrow, you will start it all again. You will conquer and defeat, and your empire will extend its reach beyond the dunes of Arabia. Tonight, you let yourself stare into the fire until the morning light drills holes into your skin. Tonight, you grieve.

Aaron can be found on Twitter @aaronuniverses