If they ever asked the reason for it all, he always proclaimed divinity. Yes. But they never asked.

The solitude of the fields: serenity. The natural scents, sometimes pungent, invoked tears. Tilling the soil, sewing seeds. Come autumn, there will be great rewards. For now: patience, reflection, meditation.

Last year’s harvest was spectacular. He longed to share his bounty but so few could appreciate the beauty; Gein could have, Dahmer too, but they now reside in the underground.

She moved. He couldn’t believe it, all those strikes with the tire iron, wow, she was tough. He took out his knife.

William Pacquet is a writer living in Virginia.

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