The Ethics of the Truth

As I mentioned in my last post I'm a little uncomfortable talking about true crime cases. There are myriad issues when discussing true crime since these cases deal with real people and so they can have far-reaching effects. Not just on the perpetrator, but on their victims, the victim's families, even the perpetrator's families.

As I've said, it makes me uncomfortable when true crime commentators talk about criminals like monsters who should be locked up forever. But, my issue is not just about opinions - after all, a simple "the opinions within are my own" disclaimer is all you need there... no, my issue is the way we present the facts in these cases. But, that seems odd doesn't it? After all, we're talking about facts and truth, right? Sure, facts can be inaccurate, but if everything is presented as honestly as possible what's the problem with sharing the truth? Well, that's what I want to talk about.

Honesty is a Virtue, I believe that wholeheartedly. It's important not to lie or cheat. However, when it comes to honesty a lot of people make the mistake of believing that honesty is the same thing as telling the truth. But this isn't the case. For one of my favourite examples, because I find it quite funny, there are occasionally signs you see reporting common crimes in an area: "vandalism banned in this area", "diving off this bridge is prohibited", "bags have been stolen in this area", that kind of thing...
But on such signs they usually end with the phrase "if you have any information, please call this number", and the number for security or management or whatever. It always makes me chuckle, because I think it would be funny to call them up and say "Lima is the capital of Peru", or "Sharks have two penises", or whatever other fun fact comes to mind. After all, it's information! They asked if I have any information, and I do, I know a lot of information.

Obviously, I wouldn't actually waste anyone's time like that, but the point is that everything I said is "information", it's all true. They really should say "if you have any relevant information". I still think it's funny because I'm a pedant like that, but even though they don't write "relevant information", we all know they don't have to... because it's already commonly understood etiquette. You don't tell everyone everything that you know to be true. If you did, every conversation would take months.

So, we don't need to tell everyone everything, but what if they ask you, specifically? What if you know the answer to a question, but choose not to answer, that's lying, right? 

I don't think so. To me, honesty isn't about telling the truth it's about not trying to trick someone, or mislead them. If someone asks you something that you don't want to tell them, you don't need to lie, but you don't need to tell them the truth either. Obviously, if you let them you believe that you didn't know, that's a form of dishonesty, but that's solved by answering with a simpler truth:
"I'm not going to tell you that", "I'm afraid that's a secret", "it's not my story to tell", "I'm not at liberty to say", or in some cases even "that's a personal question, and I'm insulted you'd even ask!"
You're not lying, you're being clear that you have the answer, but you're not going to give it to you.

[Editor's Note: We'll leave discussions of coercion and force for later, but there's no ethical issues in dishonesty for your own safety. It's a sad but common fact that sexual and religious minorities, even majority-passing ethnic minorities, often lie to protect themselves from persecution and I see no issue there, but we're talking more about the basics of honesty and ethics, in this instance.]

But, if we don't have to tell the whole truth, then that means that we are making a choice regarding what we choose to share - which truths we choose to tell. It's not usually a huge drama, in every conversation you decide on stuff that's relevant, or something you think friends will find funny or amusing. That said, even in a simple conversation amongst friends, you will choose what you won't talk about. You're deciding which truths a person should hear, and that's not even 'censorship', so much as a pragmatic decision to use one's time more effectively. But, even that has its inherent bias. You're more likely to talk to friends about that wild night of drugs than, say, your parents. You're less likely to tell that dirty joke to your kids than, for instance, your partner. That's alright, since you're presenting yourself as you want to be seen, that's alright... but it would be less alright if you did it for someone else. And, we do occasionally do that. Especially if you don't like someone, you may be inclined to tell people about the nasty things you've seen them do or heard them say.
That's obviously not nice, but it's not exactly honest... I'm not saying it's "wrong" to spread gossip, but just as we pick and choose how we present ourselves, we also pick and choose how we present others. If you're talking about how much of an arsehole your boss is, you're more likely to talk about how much work they expect of you, as opposed to them buying you present for Christmas, just to keep your story straight. It's not exactly lying, but it's dishonest in a way, since it can unfairly present a person if you refuse to acknowledge other, relevant information.

So, how does this relate to True Crime? Well... even if we just look at homicide, according to the World Health Organization, in the year 2019, there were approximately 475,000 murders across the globe. In just one year. That's over 1,000 a day, it's almost one every minute. We can't talk about every single one, especially considering that true crime can include violent crimes with survivors, kidnapping, torture...
But, we don't, do we? True Crime doesn't simply discuss every single crime there is. People pick and choose particular crimes, the ones that resonate with them. This bothers me for two reasons.

Firstly, it has the potential to misrepresent the reality of what crime is. Like, for example, True Crime tends to have a few "subgenres": There's Historical Crimes; Missing Persons cases can be their own beast; Serial Killers is a big one; White-Collar Crimes have their own style, often focusing on the legal system; there's also Wrongful Convictions; & of course Unsolved Mysteries just to name a few.

But, as diverse as this is, this diversity doesn't actually represent crime accurately.

Do you know how many crimes go 'unsolved' every year? Most of them. In America in 2022, 63% of reported crimes haven't had a conviction, almost two-thirds went unsolved. Yet, "Unsolved Mysteries" only represents a minority of the True Crime spectrum. And, if you don't follow that particular genre, the majority of cases you hear about will be solved, because these are stories with a beginning, a middle and an end, and if you don't catch the killer, the story doesn't have an ending.

But even if you realize that fact, you may be more fascinated by the goriest, the rawest, and the more disturbing cases. In that case, as I alluded to in my last post, I believe that's what leads people to believing that the solution is a larger and more powerful police force, a less forgiving prison system and a greater reliance upon the death penalty. On My Favourite Murder, "just lock them away" and "why'd them let them out?" are common refrains, despite the fact that the police force is not always a force for justice, let alone a force for law or effective crime control, and when police are given more power, they usually start by locking up even more minorities. But, if your experience of crime is the "worst of the worst", then it makes sense that you'd think cops need all the help they can get.

It's actually a study that I'm very familiar with, narratology. See, we use stories all the time, human brains are satisfied by stories, because they're neat. They package everything up nice and tidy. There's a beginning, a middle and an end, there's a message in there, a hero and a villain. The problem is that life isn't tidy. Some stories aren't neat, so when we package up stories for a general audience, we often sand off the edges. Crime stories come pre-packaged with a villain, the criminal, so by the fundamentals of story-telling, the ones stopping them (the cops) become the heroes. In an odd (but in my eyes undeniable) kind of way, most true crime is a form of copaganda, pro-police propaganda that spreads the false narrative that cops are always a force for good, and they can do no wrong.

Secondly... (yeah, this was a list of two things, but that last item went long so let me remind you), the other reason why true crime bothers me is the way that it tacitly objectifies real people. I don't think that people "own" true stories - in fact, the News exists purely because people can't claim ownership of the truth... it's actually a modern issue with the news that because investigative journalism costs money, a lot of news programs instead choose to aggregate and regurgitate news from other news sources, turning the news media into one grand ouroboros that's constantly feeding off itself.
Anyway... the point is that even if something happens to you, you don't own that story, and that's understandable. However, what's less understandable is that even though it's your story - and it's about you - you lose all control of your story. It's something I came to understand after reading the fascinating novel An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire. Whilst it's a fictional story, it's about a regular woman, who loses her sister in an isolated incident of murder, but her grief is exacerbated when the media starts intruding into her life, questioning her, suspecting her and her friends, and even starts using her sister as a symbol of domestic violence. It's a fascinating story, but it brings up a very clear point. Even though this is her sister, her family, thousands of people claim this murder for themselves. They decide that this story is their story, monopolizing on their own grief, whilst ignoring the real victim who is refused the chance to move on from her grief because even her own memory of her sister is being twisted by the media. It's fictional, but there's a lot of truth there. For me, the most affecting chapter was when a group of feminists organizes a protest in the dead woman's honour, and starts parading around with her name and face plastered on their protest signs. The main character desperately calls up the journalists she's spoken to, asking if she can stop it. She's against domestic violence she just doesn't want her sister to become some martyr to a political cause, but the journalists tell her that she doesn't have the authority to stop a protest, it's their decision, all she can do is give them a quote... but she realizes she can't risk that since the story is so big she either has to endorse it or be villainized in the press for being against it.

The point is, whilst she doesn't own the story, people are still telling her story for her. She doesn't even want to tell her story, she wants people to leave her and her family alone, but she's denied that because someone decided that this crime was a story worth telling. Someone decided that this story belongs to Australia.

Y'know, it's thankfully died down now, but there used to be a lot of talk about cultural appropriation, taking something from another culture. Now, cultural appropriation doesn't actually exist, it can't, because cultures don't own things, culture is inherently memetic, it's not "property". However, when people talk about cultural appropriation, the actual cause of concern isn't theft, or appropriation, it's objectification. It's treating a culture as an object, to be used. But culture comes from people, by nature it's subjective, it's experience, it's history... by objectifying a culture, you dehumanize it and commodify it.
The same is true of stories. Nobody can own stories, especially true stories. However, as much as we wish we could consider true stories, such as true crime, like a narrative with characters and plot points and story structure, but that objectifies and commodifies a real tragedy.

You can share a true crime story, that's not inherently dishonest or even immoral, but it requires a deft hand because no matter how much it feels like a story, it's not a story it's the truth. The truth can be messy, it can be incomplete, it can be biased, and it may not always tell you everything. But more than anything, I think it's important to ask ourselves, is this my story to tell?

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and I guess I did end up talking a bit about the ethics of storytelling after all, but this was just a small part of it, I'll probably work on a much larger discussion in the future. For now, I hope you've enjoyed this, the last post of the second-last Halloween Countdown of this blog.
I wish you all a safe and fun Halloween tomorrow and until next time--if you're going to share a horror story this Halloween, make sure it's a good one.

True Crime Cases I Don't Understand

Since the very beginning, my philosophy towards this Countdown's theme hasn't been "the horrors of criminals", but rather the fear that surrounds them, and how bias and fear causes harm and dehumanization. For that reason, I didn't really want to do a post about "spoopiest crimes evar!" since that flies in the face of my views. Criminals aren't monsters, they're people that may do monstrous things.
Also, even when a crime is horrendous, true crime means we're talking about real people, and I don't want to treat tragedy as entertainment unless I can do so ethically.

That being said... I do find some crimes particularly horrifying. As I said in my post about True Crime and Women, I enjoy true crime as it helps my anxiety when I can come to understand something, knowledge is power after all. But, as a result, the cases that I find the creepiest, the ones that get under my skin, are the ones that I can't explain.
Rape, torture, cannibalism, these are all horrible acts, but they can be understood. Whether it's about power, paranoid delusions or sexual gratification, as unconscionable as these acts can be, they're all entirely explicable. And with explanation comes understanding, perhaps even mastery to the point that we can potentially reduce these crimes before they occur. That's the comfort one can get from true crime. But not all crimes can be explained, not by me anyway. Thankfully, they're few and far between, but there are five cases that stick in my mind, because no matter how I look at it, they refuse to make sense to me.

Before we get to them, a TRIGGER WARNING: for frank, in some cases detailed discussions of horrific crimes involving violence, mutilation, sexual abuse, cannibalism, torture, child abuse and death.

I haven't included trigger warnings for most of my posts since discussing war crimes and human rights violations is pretty obviously likely to be triggering, so I didn't feel it necessary. However, especially after my post on true crime and its broad appeal, I recognize that there are many different forms of discussions of true crime. So, consider today's discussion on the "extreme" end of the spectrum, since these are the kinds of true crimes that give people nightmares, and my research often took me to "worst of the worst" lists, so be forewarned... this isn't for the faint of heart.
But, if you are used to more extreme true crime, you may find this list confusing. There are several names that pop up a lot in "worst stories" lists for true crime which do not appear in this list. You may be thinking "Where's Junko, or Dahmer, what about Toybox, has he never heard of Schlosser or Yates?" to which I'll say, I do know those cases and they are horrible, but this list isn't actually about the most extreme or horrific crimes that were committed.

[Editor's Note: If you've not heard of the cases I've referenced, but curiosity is getting the better of you, I have it on good authority that Bailey Sarian is a youtuber and true crime commentator who talks about even those cases in a way that's more approachable.]

This is about the cases that I cannot understand. Horrible though those cases were, they're easily explained by extreme misogyny to the point of dehumanization, extreme sexual deviancy and mental illness exacerbated by religion. They're horrible, but they make sense if you can understand how these killers think. I'm focusing wholly and solely on the cases that I cannot make sense of. On that note, I've wasted enough time, let's get started.

5. The Weepy-Voiced Killer
The Crime: At first glance, Paul Michael Stephani is just another serial killer. Between 1981 and 1982, he assaulted five women, killing three. His first victim was Karen Potack, a student who studied at the University of Stevens Point, where Stephani worked as a janitor; on New Year's Eve of 1980 he beat her with a tire iron so severely that she suffered brain injury, he then stripped her naked and left her body by the railroad tracks. His second victim was Kimberly Compton, a recent graduate who was hoping to move to the big city, when she visited a diner and was approached by Stephani who offered to show her around; she was stabbed 61 times with an ice-pick and dumped by an incomplete freeway. His third victim was Kathleen Greening, a woman that he drowned in her own bathtub, although not much is known about why or how they met, as her death as initially ruled an accident. His fourth victim was Barbara Simons, a woman who was just out drinking and dancing at the Hexagon Bar, where she met a kind man, Stephani, who offered to take her home; she was stabbed at least a hundred times and her body was found on the banks of the Mississipi River. His final victim, Denise Williams, was a sex worker that Stephani hired, but after offering to take her home, Denise became suspicious when he was driving to a dark, secluded street; when Stephani began stabbing her, she smashed his head with a glass bottle and screamed, which alerted a man nearby who wrestled Stephani, and whilst her attempted killer fled, Denise survived the attack.
The Mystery: The reason why Stephani is called "weepy-voiced" is because after committing his crimes, Stephani had a tendency to call the police. That's not too unusual, as some serial killers call police so that they can gain notoriety for their crimes, and the most brazen of them will taunt the cops for failing to capture them. But, Stephani wasn't taunting, he was crying and clearly upset. He would apologize, beg police to catch him and expressed remorse for what he did. In one call, which you can listen to yourself, if you're so inclined, in one call, he's recorded as saying: "Don't talk, just listen. I'm sorry for what I did to Compton, I couldn't help it. I don't know why I had to stab her. I am so upset about it. I keep getting drunk every day and I can't believe I did it, it's like a big dream... I can't think of being locked up, if I get locked up, I'll rather kill myself than get locked up. I'll try not to kill anyone else."
Of course, there's the possibility that this is just a weird form of taunting... but, Stephani gave details about his murders, even telling them where to find the bodies as well as the murder weapon used, and if you listen to the calls, he sounds genuinely distressed. For that reason, I simply cannot understand why he did what he did. He implies that he feels compelled to kill and wants to stop, yet he keeps doing it. One theory is that killing is a paraphilia, and after fulfilling that fantasy he would get a post-coital clarity, coming to his senses after the fact... but the reason why I don't find that convincing is that his last victim, Denise, was a sex worker, and reportedly he only tried to kill her after her services, so it doesn't seem like a paraphilia. I don't know what kind of person can stab a person over sixty times... without fully wanting to do it. It doesn't make any sense to me.

4. The Arkhangelsk Cannibal
The Crime: Eduard Valerievich Seleznev lived on the streets of Arkhangelsk, Russia. He wasn't exactly an innocent man, having been imprisoned for a double-murder in 2002 not long after losing his job, but after a 13-year prison sentence he was released back into the public. However, Seleznev went straight back to the streets. He occasionally would sleep in homeless shelters, but he usually lived on the street where he would kill, cook and eat local birds, cats, dogs and other small vermin that he found just to survive. But, according to Seleznev himself, he found himself hungering for human flesh. In March 2006, he attacked a fellow homeless man with a knife as he slept, then used an axe to dismember his corpse. He cut off several pieces, which he cooked and ate, then wrapped the rest of the body in garbage bags and threw it in the river. He also killed and ate another man around this time, but information is lacking, as this happened in Russia, and investigators struggled to identify what remains they could find, due to large pieces missing. However, two years later, March 2018, Seleznev moved into the apartment of another man he knew and promptly killed, cooked, cannibalized and discarded the remains in the same manner as the first, although this time he stored some of the meat in the freezer, and lived in the apartment. When family of the victim came looking for the missing man, Seleznev claimed he'd found a job and left him to look after the apartment, and when they found strange meat in the freezer, Seleznev claimed that it was "raw fish". The family became incredibly suspicious, especially when they found IDs belonging neither to Seleznev nor the man who owned the apartment, and they contacted police.
The Mystery: Cannibalism is, in a word, gross. However, there's three main reasons why people engage in cannibalism. It could be out of starvation/desperation, it could be a sexual fetish, or it could be madness - there's many stories of unmedicated, paranoid or schizotypical persons who randomly attack and eat people (often their faces, weirdly enough). As gross as all of this is, there is usually some kind of reason behind it. For Seleznev, although he claimed to hear voices, after his arrest he was psychoanalyzed and they found that he was sane. There's no evidence of it being a sexual fetish, the most reasonable then appears to be starvation/desperation, as he was living on the street. However, there's two reasons to dispute that. Firstly, he only killed three people in two years, and two of those were before he had access to a fridge, and he said he survived eating animals he had caught, so it doesn't make sense that killing and eating a person would be necessary for survival. But what really boggles my mind and makes this all the more disturbing... Seleznev didn't have any teeth.
The reason he cooked his victims is because he would boil them until they were tender enough that he didn't have to chew - some sources even claim he liquified them (although, I think that's a translation error as I can't substantiate it, and most sources say he simply boiled them), so even if he was desperate, human meat is not easy to cook, kill and eat, especially if you don't have any teeth. Not to mention, there's something deeply unsettling about the idea of someone wanting to bite into you, who physically can't, and I admit it's partially why I so easily dismiss the sexual fetish theory, but either way, this is a case that I struggle to wrap my head around.

3. The Lawson Family Massacre
The Crime: On Christmas day, 1929, the Lawson family was celebrating the holiday at their North Carolina home; Charlie Lawson, Fannie Lawson and their children. Two of the girls, Carrie, aged 12, and Maybell, aged 7, were to set off to visit their aunt and uncle, when their father, Charlie Lawson, took a shotgun and waited for them near the property's tobacco barn. When they were within range, he shot them both down and ensured they were dead by bludgeoning them to death with a piece of timber. Charlie then returned to the house, where his wife Fannie was waiting on the porch, and he shot her dead as well. His eldest daughter, Marie, aged 17, heard the shot and screamed, and Charlie quickly killed her. Two of his youngest sons James, aged 4, and Raymond, aged 2, heard the commotion, and tried to find somewhere to hide, but Charlie hunted them down and shot them dead as well. The last of his family left in the house was Mary Lou, his 4-month-old daughter, whom he beat to death. After this massacre, Charlie took all of the bodies of his family members, and laid them out in the barn on their backs with their arms folded over their chests and rocks for pillows. Finally, he walked into the woods with his shotgun and after pacing around a tree for hours, he finally killed himself.
The Mystery: We're not sure why Charlie annihilated his entire family, but the leading theory is that he had molested his eldest daughter, Marie, and was hiding his crimes before her pregnancy was discovered. Whether that's true or not, familicide is surprisingly well understood. The psychology of this kind of massacre is sadly common, and when not due to hatred or paranoia, it's usually due to shame. It's when a father fails at his duty as caregiver and leader, and so kills his entire family in some disturbed attempt to save them from the shame and hardship of living with a failure as their lord and master, and then he will either kill himself or run away. This could be due to losing a job, or financial hardship, but in a large number of cases (which is why it's theorized here), it's because the father impregnates one or more of his daughters and decides to kill everyone to hide his shameful acts. So, what's the mystery here? Well, Charlie Lawson didn't kill his entire family. He killed his wife and six of his children, but he had seven children. His eldest son, Arthur Lawson, was nineteen years old and he was spared, and it's not because Charlie forgot about him or that he lived elsewhere - John Arthur Lawson lived with the rest of his family, but Charlie sent his son on an errand prior to the massacre. Apparently, Arthur and Charlie had gone hunting that morning, and Charlie sent his son to go buy some more shells for the gun. And that's what confuses me... if he was truly destroying his family to hide some shame or secret, why would he leave one child alive? It's not sexism, he killed all his other sons, and since he killed a four-month-old it seems impossible that he thought he was "the most innocent" of whatever shame he saw in his family. Some people believe that since Arthur is taller than his father, he was worried that his son could have overpowered him, but I don't completely buy that because he had a shotgun and the two were isolated, as they went out hunting alone. I'm not upset that he left a child alive, if anything it's a small mercy after this horrific act, but I just can't make sense of why he'd let him live, but kill everyone else, it confuses any sort of motive that people like him have.

2. The Villisca Axe Murders
The Crime: At 508 East 2nd St, at or after midnight the morning of June 10 in 1912; the entire Moore family and two young girls who were visiting their home that night, were brutally murdered. The day had been perfectly normal, Josiah and Sarah were a rich and well-liked couple in their town, along with their four children, Herman Montgomery, aged 11; Mary Katherine, aged 10; Arthur Boyd, aged 7; & youngest, Paul Vernon, aged just 5. They had spent the day at their local church, which was hosting a Children's Day Program. They returned home around nine-thirty in the afternoon, alongside Lena Stillinger, aged 12, and her sister Ina Stillinger, aged 8, as Mary had gotten permission for them to visit that night for a sleepover. After the family was asleep, the killer stole the axe from the yard where the family would cut wood, snuck upstairs to the parents' bedroom, and killed Josiah and Sarah with the axe so viciously that Josiah face was unrecognizable. Investigators even found gouge marks in the ceiling from the backswing of the axe. The killer then crept into the rest of the upstairs rooms and killed the Moore children by hitting each of them in the head with the blunt end of the axe, before returning to the parents' bedroom and hitting them several more times, before going downstairs and killing Lena and Ina, once again with the blunt side of the axe. Everyone except Lena had been asleep and unaware when they were killed, but she was found with defensive wounds on her arm and was not tucked into bed like the rest of the victims, likely awoken by the sound of her sister being killed. Whilst there were several suspects, and some were even arrested, nobody was charged with the murders at 508 East 2nd St, and nobody is sure why it happened.
The Mystery: This is the only unsolved crime in the list, and whilst I do find unsolved murders troubling because we literally can't know the reason, most of the time I'm sure that whatever the truth is it will make sense. But this case is so different to me because what evidence there is seems to dismiss every possible motive. Police at the time suspected that it was a homeless man who killed the occupants to squat there or steal food, but nothing was stolen from the Moore house and no food was eaten, and whilst police targeted several homeless suspects, they found no evidence whatsoever. It seems like it could have been some form of targeted attack, especially considering how brutally Josiah and his wife were slaughtered, but Josiah just didn't have many rivals. His closest rival was Senator Frank Fernando Jones, who lost some business after Josiah Moore opened his own business, but there was no evidence leading to Jones; there was also a rumour that Josiah had slept with Jones' daughter-in-law, but this was just a rumour and when police investigated, they found it was nothing more than that. I also need to add, most of the children were asleep even after Josiah was killed first so if he or his wife were the intended targets the killer could have slipped out unseen after killing them, so why kill the children, if they weren't the targets? Lastly, there's the serial killer theory. Some people tie this murder into the Billy the Axeman serial killer, an unknown person that some claim is responsible for a series of axe murders around the Midwest. It's an interesting theory, and it explains the motive, as for serial killers, the motive is more about themselves than the victim, but as neat as this seems, homes not being far from the train station, and killers using the blade and blunt side of an axe, I fear it's not that unique. In a small town, every house "isn't far from" a train station, and the Villesca house was almost a kilometre away from the nearest station, much further than every other house the killer would have to pass on the way. And if you've ever used an axe, you'd know that a blade can get stuck, especially in a wet, fibrous target, so flipping an axe over to kill with isn't so odd a practice that only one killer would think of it. So, not only will we never know who killed this family, it seems impossible to determine why it happened.

1. The Murder of James Bulger
The Crime: On the 12th of February, James Patrick Bulger, a two-year-old boy, was at the New Strand Shopping Centre in Bootle, a town in the borough of Merseyside, in Liverpool, England. His mother was shopping with him at the butcher shop, and had let go of his hand just to pay for her shopping, but when she turned around, her son was missing. He'd been taken by two people - later identified as Robert Thompson, and John Venables - who lured him out of the shopping centre. Together the boy and his two attackers went to the nearby canal, where he was dropped on his head, pushed and shoved. They travelled further down the road where they were seen by several passersby, some who said the boy was crying his eyes out, but when anyone approached the attackers, they simply claimed that Bulger was a relative or that he was a lost boy that they were escorting to the police station. Thompson and Venables then took him to the railroad tracks where they threw paint in his face, kicked him, stomped on him, threw bricks at him and dropped an iron bar they found near the tracks onto the boy's head, fracturing his skull. The two caused so many injuries that the coroner couldn't identify which was the fatal blow, especially as they left him on the tracks where his body was hit by a train and cut in two. At some point they also stripped him from the waist down, removing his trousers, socks and underpants. Some police who investigated believed that the boy was sexually abused, but both Thompson and Venables denied this. The two had hoped the death would be ruled accidental, but the forensic pathologist found that he was dead before the impact, and they knew it was a murder.
The Mystery: If you've never heard of this case, which is unusual as this is a world-famous case, I've deliberately tried to keep the most shocking part a secret. Because, to me, what is so deeply disturbing about this case is exactly who Robert Thompson and John Venables were. For you see, these two killers were primary school students, each ten years old, who were skipping school that day as they often did. They were caught less than a week after committing the murder, because they were children, they were captured on CCTV camera; there was blood on their shoes; the bruises on the body matched the pattern on one boy's shoes; they were identified by a mother who stopped them trying to lure her son away; & they both still had the same blue paint on their clothes which they had thrown into the boy's eyes. So, not only were the police quick to hunt them down, but they were just as shocked with the overwhelming evidence that this disgusting act was committed by two primary school children. How? I don't understand how this could possibly make sense. For me, this is the least explicable because, them being children, means that I just can't explain it. Especially because this was also pre-meditated. As I said, the two tried and failed to abduct another child, but their mother saw and stopped them. According to one of these boys, before going to the shopping centre the two had planned to steal a young boy and push him into oncoming traffic. And this whole time, I just want to know why? Why would they want to do this? Did they think it would be fun? They were kid's, for fuck's sake, how would this even occur to them as a thing that could be done, let alone something they wanted to be doing? A lot of people believe that Bulger was molested and that the motive was sexual, but there was no evidence of that. The most disturbing part, to me, is that during their trial and after the fact both boys were diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder for taking part in a murder. So, why would they do this in the first place? Why would they want to? What can make any child, let alone two children, want to kill another person and choose to prey upon a child much smaller than them to torture and murder... I've tried to be as logical as I can be, but I just don't understand it at all. How can anyone make sense of such a horrific act by two people usually referred to as "innocent children"? I don't know. Fuck... I just don't know.

—     —     —

That's my list. As I said, these are cases I don't understand. But, keep in mind that I am not a researcher or a scholar, I only have Google, news articles on websites, YouTube clips and the odd podcast; also, I'm not a criminologist, forensics expert, psychiatrist, lawyer or even an experienced true crime commentator. So, just because I don't understand something that doesn't mean it's inexplicable. You may well see these cases and, horrifying though they be, see them as easily explained by the facts at hand as I do so many of the others that aren't on this list. The answers to these mysteries are likely to be one of the answers that I've dismissed or something I lack the expertise to even consider in the first place. But, I share them to show that, to me, Knowledge is Power, and understanding brings me comfort. But that means, consequently, that ignorance (far from bliss) is impotence. And when facing something as disturbing as these crimes, being powerless to understand them makes me feel not just discomfort, but unsafe. 

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and I'm very understanding of crime and criminals, and I think we too often demonize them, rather than try to rehabilitate. But these few cases, well, they're the closest I ever come to empathizing with the cruel majority who want to lock up these evils up and throw away the key, or in some cases even exact revenge by killing them.
Thankfully, I'm still not close enough to empathize with that...
But for me? That's still too close for comfort.

Bizarre Criminal Connections

What makes a criminal? You may think the answer is "the doing of crime", but that's the boring, pedestrian answer. I'm talking about the strange connections you wouldn't have expected. I'm not talking about how all arsonists like watching things burn, or all cat-owners are sociopaths, I'm talking about connections you wouldn't expect. Like, did you know that being bottle-fed when you're very young makes you more likely to be left-handed? Or, have you heard that having light-coloured eyes, such as blue or green, is linked to higher pain tolerance?  What about how chewing gum during a task has been associated with an improvement in memory?
There are all kinds of strange connections out there, and they're not all as innocent as hair colour and a good vocabulary. Today, I want to share several of these strange connections that have been found between criminals.

[Editor's Note: For the sake of intellectual honesty, I feel the need to tell you that this is not the first time that I was planning on writing a piece like this for the Halloween Countdown. However, after doing a lot of research into "strange things that make people become criminals", I chose not to post it because just before writing the piece, I found multiple sources that disputed what I'd found. This post rather than claiming "this thing causes you to be a criminal" is about "weird connections several criminals have", but those sources that dispute all this research are many and varied. I tried to replace the most egregious inaccuracies, so I could write it for today's post... but the stuff I found to replace it was often just as disputed. Unfortunately, as time is of the essence, I find myself with little else I can post today, so I will go ahead with it, but with this disclaimer: a lot of the information within this article is heavily disputed, so please keep in mind that criminality is not defined by any one characteristic, correlation is not causation & most importantly, this is for entertainment purposes and not intended as legal or moral advice. I have found links between all of these things, but they're a lot more tenuous than you (or I) would have hoped.]

So, next time you see a criminal, and are wondering just what makes someone like them want to commit a terrible crime, you might be surprised to learn...

5. Flashers are Bad in Bed
This may just sound like an insult, and I'm sure that there are some exhibitionists out there who take offense to the statement (and as long as you're only engaging in exhibitionism with fellow, consenting adults, then I do apologize). But, there has been a clear connection drawn between having a dysfunctioning penis, and a desire to waggle it at people. And I say penis, because yes, it does tend to be men. Not just because women are less likely to be flashers, but because women with sexual dysfunction are much less likely to expose themselves. The reason this is so low on the list is because, well, of all the connections it's the most straightforward - people that are sexually odd, do odd sexual things - it seems pretty clear. But, nonetheless, I want to explain the theory behind it.
Theory: See, the connection between the two is actually twofold. Firstly, men who have erectile dysfunction, or are premature ejaculators, tend to be sexually frustrated (as do their partners), and frustration, shame and embarrassment are associated with impulsive, risky behaviours such as flashing, and so there's a clear connection there. But, also, if someone is sexually aroused by the idea of exposing themselves to a non-consenting stranger, to the point that they will be motivated to do it, then there is a high likelihood that they will find regular sexual intercourse less enjoyable as it doesn't cater to that fetish, meaning they'll be both less enthusiastic and less physiologically "aroused" in every sense of the word, meaning they usually won't be very good at it.

4. Arsonists tend to be Late
I'm sure that if you're too busy burning down a building to get to work on time, you're going to get there late, but this connection is much more than simply "burning stuff can take up your valuable time". The idea here is that the psychology behind arson is related to the mind of someone who tends to be late for school. Of course, it's not true of all arsonists... those who burn stuff down for revenge, to burn evidence, or in an attempt to commit tax fraud, their psychology is a bit different. I'm referring mostly to the pyromaniac, the person who enjoys setting things on fire.
Theory: This is one of my favourite connections, but it's also admittedly the most tenuous (which is why it's the first item on this list) but there are studies that prove it. Firstly, there's the idea of chronotype, the idea of being a "morning person" or an "evening person" isn't just a cultural phenomenon, some science has shown that people have an innate body clock that is more suited to early morning or late evening. Those studies also show a correlation between evening people, people who prefer to stay up late and sleep in, and risky behaviours. Now, being up late at night may be more related to insomnia than chronotype; but insomnia is closely related to (and may be comorbid with) anxiety which, guess what, is also closely related to pyromania. Also, being late to school may have more to do with a dislike of school, than sleeping in, that's fair enough... but once again, guess what else is related to arson? that's right, childhood delinquency, and poor school performance. No matter how you slice it, it seems as though people who like setting fires just aren't good at showing up on time.

3. Spree Killers are Failures
This one also just sounds like an insult, and I'm pretty sure that anyone that kills another person isn't necessarily a great guy (and I say guy because 80% of spree killers are men), but I mean failure not as an insult but as in someone who has failed. Spree killers tend to have an unsuccessful life, in particular they tend to be bad at school and have poor social skills (if not being outright antisocial), and especially right before they commit their horrific act they usually fail at something significant. They will lose their job, their partner/spouse will leave them, or maybe someone significant to them will die.
Theory: The reasoning given for this is that a spree killer feels like they don't matter, or that their life isn't significant, because of their failings in early life and their lacking social skills mean they don't have any kind of significant friend network to fall back on. Most importantly, they don't value the life of themselves, because they've failed to maintain friendships, and thus lack the necessary empathy for the lives of others. There's a lot here in regard to mental health, spree killers are often victims of abuse and bullying. So, when they lose that one thing, a friend, a job, a reason to live, they feel powerless and isolated, and thus see a massacre as a way of regaining a sense of self and feeling powerful. After all, any massacre affects dozens of people directly, but hundreds and thousands indirectly. In the mind of the spree killer, this is a kind of power, they usually (but not always) target the people whom they feel took their life from them. Basically, spree killers feel like they need a 'win', and for some sick reason, they see the massacring of several people as a kind of success.

2. Muggers are more likely to have Hayfever
This is the exact kind of thing I was looking for, and when I first heard about it, it sounded ridiculous. but, it seems to be true. If you have an allergy, especially seasonal allergies like hayfever, you're more likely to be a criminal. I thought this was crazy, but there are multiple sources that show that on days that have a higher pollen count, violent crime is measurably lowered. Some studies I read even suggested that this was such a strong predicter, policing could be reduced on those days with no ill effect. But, if all violent crime (including domestic violence) tends to go down, why do I associate this with muggers and thieves? According to pharmacists, the most commonly stolen items tend to be allergy and hayfever medications.
Theory: This one is fascinating, and it's all there in the data, but what isn't is why. The leading theory is that allergies are a financial burden, that puts people under undue stress that can lead to socioeconomic disparity (one of the causes of criminal behaviour). And severe allergies can affect schooling, yet another predictor of criminal behaviour, poor education. Of course, some researchers believe that it's simply a fact that 20% of people tend to have seasonal allergies, and so it may be that cutting the number of people on the street by a fifth gives criminals less victims... I'd argue that doesn't make sense, as less people sounds like less witnesses, since muggers and thieves tend to target one person at a time. And as for stealing drugs from pharmacies... well, it's all about infrequency. Pollen counts and sudden flare-ups of allergies can be unpredictable, meaning it's a sudden, unexpected financial burden to be paying for allergy medication.

1. Serial Killers Wet the Bed
This is one of the weird ones. There are some clear and logical connections for serial killers. Serial killers tend to commit animal cruelty as children, they tend to be poorly educated and they tend to be male, all of that is pretty well understood. But, the one factor that stands out is bed-wetting, especially late into their adolescence (i.e. past the age of seven). Obviously, if any kid is struggling with their toilet training, they deserve care and attention and you shouldn't be concerned that they're a young killer in the making, bed-wetting alone doesn't make one a killer. However, bed-wetting late in their childhood is considered an indicator that puts someone at risk of being a sociopath, and becoming a serial killer.
Theory: It's known as the MacDonald Triad, it is a set of three factors during one's adolescence which could be a predictor of violence into adulthood. Those factors are fire-setting, animal abuse and bed-wetting. If a child has any two of these factors, they're considered a potential risk, but if they have all three it's thought to be a possible predictor. MacDonald simply based this on studies of existing serial killers and violent criminals, and found these conditions retrospectively, but later studies (when they don't dispute the findings) theorize that late-childhood bedwetting can be an indicator is significant childhood stress, which can be caused by abuse or parental neglect. If a child hasn't been abused, it can be a sign of poor neurological development, but both of those are associated with serial killers. So, whilst there are some clear connections between bed-wetting and serial killers. I don't want anyone freaking out that their child's soggy sheets means they're a killer in the making, but it is a fascinating connection that even psychiatrists have used when looking into serial killers.

—   —   —

So, that's my list. As I said in the editor's note and disclaimer, please remember that these are correlations, not causations, and that they're not incontrovertible facts. They're just odd connections that I found and wanted to share. What's most disappointing is that some of the most unusual ones I found turned out to be complete bunkum [the connection between sexual inadequacy and killing the president, whilst interesting, turned out to be true only in a minority of cases, and possibly spread as propaganda, but it did lead me to learning about flashers, so there's that], but thankfully the ones in this list aren't so easily dismissed (even though they're all definitely disputed).
It turns out, as much as I really wished I could provide a list of strange connections all criminals have, or even a "recipe" for creating a certain kind of criminal, it's almost like crime is a complicated social issue that can't be understood simply by finding out who has an allergy to fish, a preference for wholemeal bread, or doesn't go to church on Sundays. So, even if it turns out that this entire list is total garbage, at least be thankful that criminals are just like any other human being: individuals.

Fiction in Flux: A Cautionary Tale of Criminal Publishing

Some of you may be confused about the post the day before yesterday, and rightly so, it was a fictional story that I wrote called Harpy Hunt. I love posting fiction for my Halloween Countdown, whenever I get the chance to write it, and I will usually try to post something relating to the theme. Although even I admit that I often will just post an unrelated horror story that I think you'll enjoy, whether that be posting Reaper, a three-part dark superhero story during my "Forgotten Fear" Countdown, or posting Howl, a horror story about being caught alone in the woods, during my "Sickness" Countdown, or posting The Facts in the Case of Patient S., a creepy poem that I wrote the year of my "Failure" Countdown.

But at least in these, and every other case, I was posting a horror story. The day before yesterday, what I posted was, for all intents and purposes, an action story; a sword and sandal story about trying to save children from monsters. So, what does that have to do with my Halloween Countdown?

Well, odd though it seems, I picked the story specifically for this countdown, not for the story within the page, but for the story without.

See, I was contracted to write that story ten years ago, in March 2014, for a small-time publisher known as Mythix Studios, as part of an anthology series known as Flux Fiction. I know the exact month because I still have a copy of the contract scanned onto my computer. Despite writing, and submitting, that story I was never paid. Now, I don't think Mythix Studios exists anymore, so you may not find them, but the person who owned, and is responsible for it is: Philip Lee McCall II
I'll gladly name and shame, he's an (admittedly small) public figure in the writing community, but he is a public figure, and it is a fact that he never paid me for my work. See, this was one of the first few stories I ever wrote for a publisher, and so I was to be underpaid—just $25 for a 5,000 word story—at the very least I was expecting US$ as McCall (who likes to use the abbreviation PLMII) was based in Florida at the time, but still even with an exchange rate leaving me with around AU$40, that's a woeful underpayment. But, I was young and foolish and I agreed to it, so as much as I find such underpayment insulting these days, I still agreed to it, and I am owed US$25
Now, this story was never published, if you look for Harpy Hunt you won't find it anywhere because the second Flux-Fiction anthology was never finished, but that doesn't matter, because like I said, I still have the contract. The contract is clear that I was to be paid, and I quote:

"Payment will be tendered to Author via PAYPAL and the transaction will be completed once the Work has been considered finalized and ready for print."

The work was considered finalized, I sent the work in and confirmed with McCall that no further work was required by me. The work was ready for print. It doesn't matter that the work wasn't published, in fact that's immaterial to me for this particular contract because all royalties went to the publisher anyway. I wasn't paying to get published, I was being paid to submit a completed work, and even though I clearly did, I wasn't paid a single red penny for my efforts.

Now, you're well within your rights to think "are you really this upset about twenty-five bucks?"
The answer is, no... it's not about the $25. I still hold McCall accountable for this petty theft, and will do so until he pays me what I am owed, is about the principle. But the reason I'm so upset is threefold.

Firstly, it's not about me... my story was never published, but my friends' stories were. If you google "Flux Fiction" and "Philip Lee McCall", you'll see that some books were published by Mythix in that series. I won't name names, but I heard about PLMII at the time through some mutual friends after their stories were accepted and published through McCall, and was encouraged to put myself out there. But even though their works were published they weren't paid either.
Philip Lee McCall II stole their work, made his profit, and never paid them for their work despite being contractually obligated to do so by a contract that he wrote! I can tell he wrote it himself, because he misspelled his own email address as "fluxfictrion@gmail.com" (I'm pretty sure this, and the correctly spelled version, are abandoned, so don't bother using it...). As far as I know, he never paid any writers for their work. Whilst I have no proof of that, I do have proof he stole work at least twice, and I'm not so generous as to assume we're the only ones.

Secondly, the reason why I'm so upset is that Philip Lee McCall II is just one example of the thousands of similar examples of small-time criminals that exist in the small-time publishing world. If you're not a writer yourself, let me assure you that there are millions of young writers out there, just starting out and eager to get their foot in the door. And waiting just beyond that door are millions of predators just waiting to feed on them.
These are young writers, and more often than not they lack confidence about their work. They don't yet know how good they are, and so they undervalue themselves, they undervalue their art and more importantly (for this discussion anyway), they undervalue their work.

Writing is an art form. We also have to consider art like a product (because Capitalism) but whether or not writing is just a fun hobby for you, a side-gig, trying to get a few ideas published or a job you want to do full-time, Writing is Work.
Yes, I have fun doing it, but how disgusting is this society that when I tell my fellow writers that writing is work, they say "oh, it's not work, I have fun doing it"—just because something doesn't feel like obligatory self-flagellation that you put yourself through out of fear of homelessness, that doesn't mean it's not fucking work. It takes time, it takes energy, it takes effort. I love doing these Halloween Countdowns, but after writing thirteen posts in thirteen days, I need to take a fucking break.
For fuck's sake - having sex is an awful lot of fun, I sure as hell love doing that too, but there's a reason most people are sweaty and out of breath afterwards - that also takes effort, energy and time!

[Editor's Note: It also bears taking into account, Sex Work is also Work, and Sex Workers require Workers Rights, but as much as that's an important topic, it's not the topic we're discussing today.]

Now this is some bullshit, but I was lucky insofar as that my story was never published (although, when contracted for work that I completed, I am still entitled to be paid). But, others are not so lucky. People like my friends, who had their work stolen and published against their will.
So, today, I am going to present 5 RULES for every writer, yes even (and especially) you newbies out there, who want to get started writing, but also don't want to get scammed... in fact, even those of you who do want to get scammed, because you allow this crap in the first place. Let me explain with this:

1. "For Exposure" is a Scam
Some people think that if they just get their work out their, it will improve their reputation as a professional writers. The reality is: writers who don't get paid, get a reputation as writers that aren't worth paying. Publishers that want to see some of your previous work want proof that they aren't wasting their money. If someone else didn't spend money on you, why should they?
Now if you're more of a "hobbyist" type, and you want to get your name out there but don't care about getting paid, there are millions of healthy ways of doing that without legitimizing scammers who will steal your work. create a blog on Blogger.com, just like I've done here; create a profile in AO3, FictionPress, Wattpad, WritersCafe, or Writing.com; hell, create a YouTube channel, and read your stories aloud. These are just half a dozen of the hundreds of ways you can post your story online without giving scammers money.

2. Never Pay to be Published.
I gets even worse than being unpaid. I've seen publishers that ask for a "submission fee". Remember what I said, Writing is Work. You don't pay for the privilege of a job interview, so why would you pay to submit your work to be considered for publication? I've seen some people argue that this is necessary for an 'editing fee' or to pay judges in certain writing contests or worse, that they're supporting a smaller publisher who can't afford to pay higher rates. This is just ridiculous. The reality is: If they can't afford to pay their judges, editors or prize money, they can't afford to pay you. You're a writer, not an investor, if a publisher can't afford to pay you, it's not your job to support a struggling business.
What really frustrates me about pay-to-play publisher scams, is that I have seen some "for exposure" scams, use their existence to legitimize their own scam. They call themselves a "free opportunity" with "no submission fee". This just normalizes a disgusting practice, and I offer every one of those scammers a "free opportunity" to eat shit and die.

3. Pay should start at 5 cents a word (at time of writing).

There are different pay rates, sure, and unless and until we do something about Capitalism, Elitism & Inflation, it's a sad reality that isn't going away any time soon. But, a lot of publishers have taken advantage of inflation to keep pay rates as low as they were in the 1950s. You might think 5¢ high, but it isn't, it's well below a semi-pro rate. Do you know what professional writers are paid?
According to the Australian Society of Authors, a fair rate (professional) rate for creative writing is approximately $1.03 a word. When I started, I thought eight cents a word was a professional rate, but it isn't. Semi-pro rates, by definition, are half that, they start at 50¢ a word. So, asking for 5¢ per word isn't asking too much. 
And yes, some writing may lose some value if it's outdated, or it's being published for a second time, or if you're writing it for charity, maybe it's a discounted rate. But always start at 5¢, so you recognize that half a cent is one-tenth of what your words are worth. If a publisher can't pay that, then they don't want your stories.

4. Literary Agents only get Paid if they sell your Work.
Maybe you're not small-time, maybe you actually have a few stories out there and you're looking for an agent to take you that next step towards getting your manuscript published. That's excellent, but you're not free from scams either. According to Penguin Random House an agent will take a percentage of the deal sales in exchange for their work earning the book deal, so their money comes from your profit, not from your pocket. The phrase they use is "money flows towards the author" - Just like a river, it may slow, it may stop, but it will never flow backwards unless there's something very wrong with the universe.
Even if you seem to be working for what appears to be a legitimate publisher, several scammers will deliberately pretend to work for a trusted name so that they can take advantage of that trust, to swindle you. So, you need to be cautious out there.

5. If you've been Scammed, you're a Victim, not a Villain.
I am giving you all of this advice not because I think you're stupid, or because it's your responsibility to stay vigilant. As far as I'm concerned, these people are criminals, and the law is simply ill-equipped to handle them on this scale. But, if you will, or already have, fallen victim to these scams just as I have in the past, you need to know that it's not your fault, it's theirs. Scammers take advantage of positive human compunctions towards empathy, hope and trust.
Whilst I will always promote the benefits of a healthy dose of skepticism, you're not a failure for wanting to trust someone, they're a failure for abusing that trust. Most importantly, don't be ashamed of what you've done, because you have nothing to be ashamed of, and they have everything to gain from shame keeping you silent.

I was lucky that all I lost was $25 (even though, as far as I'm concerned, that story was worth at least $250), and whilst it shouldn't be your responsibility, almost nobody is going to protect you and we bear the weight of it on our own backs, especially so long as this culture is complicit in letting publishers underpay them for their work and perpetuate scams as legitimate business.
If nothing else, I'm here to tell you that you deserve a lot more than what's being offered.

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and remember, this post is not meant to incite hatred or violence, merely education. I don't want anyone to "cancel", harass, or in any way abuse Philip Lee McCall II - he owes me 25 bucks, that's not worth an internet hate mob. Not that I even have enough followers for that kind of thing, but even if this could somehow explode into something much bigger, I am officially stating that I don't want it to.
He is just one small part of perpetuating a culture that exploits young writers. If you want to abuse and harass someone... well, don't. What's wrong with you? But, if you want to cancel someone, then let's cancel these scammers... but only in so far as cancel means "report their activities to the relevant authorities, and warn fellow writers to steer clear of them".

That would be a better use of your time, and it would mean a lot more to me than $25.
...but I still do want my money, Phil, and so do my friends. Come on. Pay up.

The Murderino and the True Crime Wave

I've been doing research into True Crime Media, lately. It has nothing to do with this blog, it's just research for a story that I'm working on. But, when it comes to this blogpost, I'm actually starting from the twist and working backwards. Because, the reason I'm doing my research is because I learned a few years ago that the main demographic for true crime... is women.

And when I say the main demographic is women, I'm not just saying that there's quite a few women who like true crime podcasts, or that more women watch documentaries on average.
According to Scott A. Bonn Ph.D.,a long-time true crime author and researcher, 80% of the True Crime audience is Female - and he saw it firsthand during a speaking tour to promote his books where he visited over a dozen states across America.
Nancy Jo Sales, an award-winning journalist and writer, adds that the popularity of true crime podcasts rose in 2014, and she points out that the popularity of true crime podcasts and shows rose at the same time that online dating became incredibly popular.
According to Amelia Anthony, who wrote her senior thesis on true crime podcasts, 75% of listeners to True Crime podcasts are women. So, whilst at first, I thought it may have just been word-of-mouth, a persistent rumour or just a surprisingly large minority, three-quarters of the true crime audience identifies as female.
Some of the surprise certainly comes from gender politics. The feminine ideal is that women are "cute, fragile and pretty", they're meant to be "emotional" and "motherly" with a "delicate constitution", so the idea of millions of women enjoying horrendous tales of the mentally disturbed engaging in cold-blooded murder, aggravated rape, extensive torture, mutilation, cannibalism, molestation and worse doesn't make a lot of sense. Of course, this is a blatant exaggeration based on stereotype and cultural sexism, but I do think it explains people's surprise when they learn for the first time that so many women enjoy true crime; they never would assume that women would like something so horrific.
But, what it doesn't explain is the actual numbers. Surely, if women are consistently the main audience, then there must be something about being a woman that makes true crime so attractive?

Bonn's theory is that women have an "empathetic nature", and so they empathize with the victims who are (more often than not) women themselves, and want to learn how to empathize with (more often than not) male criminals, so they can understand them and learn to identify "red flags", so they can stay safe. Whilst I would hesitate before telling an entire gender what their "nature" is, especially when I'm not a part of it, there is a clear correlation here.
When it comes to crimes against women, there are some worrying trends. In Australia, women are three times more likely to be physically assaulted by a family member or intimate partner; five times more likely to be sexually assaulted. And whilst it is true that men are twice as likely to be murder victims, accounting for two-thirds of murder victims, murderers are also five times as likely to be male—and in those cases where women killed men, in two-out-of-three of such cases, it was a woman retaliating against her male abuser.

[Editor's Note: Before moving on, I want to be clear that whilst these numbers can be confronting, according to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, less than 2% of people, male and female, experience physical assault, and these numbers are going down. I still think that number is too high, but my point is that I'm not trying to scaremonger. You're more likely to flip a coin and get Heads five times in a row.]

Sales agrees that women are more concerned about violence than men, and she says that dating is already a risky proposition, but the growing popularity of online dating—and meeting a strange men online, who they have no knowledge about—has exacerbated those fears.
Sales makes a valid point, and I don't think you should ignore what she has to say, but I feel it would be intellectually dishonest not to mention that "the dangers of online dating" is one of Ms Sales hot topic issues—she has written two books about the social media and dating apps, at least 22 different articles about the dangers of social media, especially online dating, and she appears to have written and directed a documentary about the negative impact that online dating has on relationships. I'm not saying that her opinion is invalid, far from it, she makes a valid point that the increasing distance our society has placed its citizens within thanks to online spaces, which has a tendency to increase interpersonal anxieties.
However, the correlation she has drawn between the popularity of true crime podcasts and dating apps... I fear is also the exact same correlation between online shopping and MMORPGs; I fear she's made a spurious correlation and failed to notice that the growing popularity of the internet in general is the lurking variable in this case.

Anthony suggests that the popular theory of "women are scared, and use true crime to train themselves for violence", whilst it has truth to it, it does ignore the fundamental aspect that true crime is entertaining—it's telling a story, and most true crime has more than one host, so the audience can empathize with a fellow listener, just as disturbed or frustrated by a crime as them. And I see some accuracy in that... after all, if women simply enjoyed seeing gruesome crimes, especially in America they'd be just as interested watching the news.
But true crime often packages true crime into a narrative, with built-in conflict and a beginning, a middle and an end. Not to mention, women's fascinating with crime is not new. In fact, according to Melanie McGrath, an author and fellow writer for the Guardian, women also make up 80% of readers (and authors) of crime fiction—or untrue crime, if you will—from whodunnits to crime thrillers, more women than men like stories of crime and mystery, and many people are aware of the most famous whodunnit authoress, Agatha Christie.
And lastly, there's me. What do I think? Well, I think there may well be another cause. See, of the podcasts I've listened to, and the YouTube videos I've watched, unless it's spreading outright mistruths, either by misstating the facts in the case or, much worse in my eyes, delving into pseudoscience and superstition (seriously, it's frustratingly common for true crime to overlap with conspiracy or even ghost stories, which are a severe, personal pet peeve of mine). I too have very much enjoyed the true crime that I've been consuming.
But, it's not because of my feminine side... I find it's because of my anxiety. I suffer from chronic anxiety, as I've mentioned innumerable times throughout this blog. One of the ways that I alleviate that anxiety is through knowledge, and perhaps even exposure. I find great comfort in taking a concept that I find concerning, and tearing it to pieces, parsing it out and putting it back together in a way that I can understand it more thoroughly - just as I did in my two-parter on war crime. I didn't understand it, but now I feel that I do. I can't speak for how women alleviate their fears (and based on the worrying number of times that women seem to think "never let killers out of prison" or "listen to psychic warnings" and other magical thinking and pseudoscience, will solve their issues, I fear that many of them are less worried about the right answer as the right now answer), but it's a fact that women are twice as likely to be diagnosed with Anxiety, in some form or another. I can't help but wonder if it's no coincidence that in every podcast that I've listened do, the hostesses often express that they have struggled with mental health issues at some point.
So, am I right? Well, I think I'm probably right for some women. The real answer won't be an easy one. After all, we're talking about millions of people. Women (and their feminine-expressing sisters) are not a monolith, I don't think you can tar them all with the same brush. I think I'm partially right, and I think that everyone else is partially right, just as I think we're all partially wrong as I'm sure there's multiple exceptions that prove these rules. The only think I know for sure is that, for some women, true crime is stranger than crime fiction.

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and if you haven't listened to true crime before, whether male or female, maybe give it a watch, a listen, or even a read. Of course, there will be some triggering topics for those of you who need time to prepare for such things, so you should always be careful when it comes to your mental health. But, I'll end this where I began. I've been doing research on true crime for a story that I'm working on and the reason why is because I believe the best way to find out what all the fuss is about, when it comes to any form of media, is to check it out for yourself.
Until Next Time, stay sexy, and don't get murdered... 

Harpy Hunt

Snapped and torn branches in the trees; deep, sweeping gouges in the dirt trail and the occasional ditch indentation where a large animal had been dropped onto the ground. Medusa saw all of these, as the path left behind by her prey. She had proficient skill in hunting, but she needed none to track this beast, it had ploughed down the path like a drunken bear, leaving all manner of mess in its wake. So she could maintain a good distance between them, needing only to glance at the damage around her to remain on its tail.
Her target was a harpy. Flying creatures were often harder to track, but the reason this one was so easy to chase was because it was carrying a large animal in its claws; and the reason Medusa had chosen to chase this particular harpy was because that large animal was her horse.
So, she had to chase on foot, each step splaying her vivid, red hair behind in a wild, unkempt swarm about her head. Despite the bow and quiver strung over her shoulder; the xiphos, a short sword, at her belt & the bulk of her leather armour, she moved freely and swiftly. She would have looked graceful, all but for the cruel scowl on her face. For, she’d been bathing in a small lake that morning, when three harpies had tried to attack her. Her bow, as always, was close at hand so she made short work of two of them, but the third had snagged her horse. Not only did that leave her with little choice but to quickly dress and chase after it, but since the dead harpies had fallen into the pond and bloodied her bathwater, Medusa felt even dirtier than she had before the bath. She was having a bad day.
Medusa stopped a moment and took a knee by the disturbed ground. There was a splattering of blood on the dirt. She ran her fingers through it and felt that it was still wet and warm, she knew that she was getting close. She stood and continued to jog down the trail, which was leading to a small farming town, surrounded by large, ploughed fields and paddocks scattered with animals. At first, Medusa thought that the harpy would give the place a wide berth, away somewhere that it could feed in peace; yet, the trail of shredded dirt and wild splatters of blood lead her straight into the town. As she entered the place, she saw a group of people crowded in the middle of the road, some of them crying. The trail of blood lead right to them, so she slowed her pace to walk amongst them.
The buildings were simple, pale stone; the road was dirt and the people were tanned with toned muscles, Medusa walked into the very middle them, pushing past townsfolk to see what had gathered the crowd. When she reached the centre of the crowd, the sight made her sneer. Although she knew it unlikely, she had hoped that she could salvage the horse; but on the blood-dampened ground in front of her lay the shredded remains of her steed. It was covered in scratches and its stomach was torn open and ravaged, intestines spilled on the ground. It looked as though the horse was missing its liver and a kidney, and there was a mess of bile and loose strands of its shredded innards spilled on the dirt. Most disturbing of all, the horse was still, slowly, breathing. Medusa frowned with disgust. She drew her xiphos sword and in one swift motion that made the people gasp, she put the poor beast out of its misery. Withdrawing the blade, she turned to the crowd
     “Where did it go? Where’s the wretched fowl?!” she sneered through gritted teeth. The people looked too shocked and scared to answer, all of them backing away from the armed huntress.
     “The nest, ma’m,” said one weary farmer in a sweat-soaked tunic, he sounded worn out. “please, stay your blade.”
Slowly and carefully, Medusa wiped her blade on the unsullied flank of her horse’s corpse and returned the xiphos to her hip. She tried her hardest to look calm.
     “I am Medusa the Gorgon. This was my horse, and I wish nothing more than to gut the fiend responsible for its death. Point me towards their nest, and I will slay them.”
     “I suggest you don’t. There are too many of them,” said a tall man, stepping forward. The man wore a chlamys, a loose cloak that hung from his shoulder, which he pulled it aside to show deep, claw-marks down his chest and leg which were still healing. “We tried to stop them, twelve of the strongest men of Metaxas went to fight. Only I and Anaxilaus survived.”
     “You are merely men,” said Medusa. “Farmers and mothers, all of you; but, I am a huntress. I killed two of these creatures this morning, I am sure that I can do away with these.”
“You are here to save them?” asked one woman, her white stolla - a draping dress - was torn and her face was streaked with tears. “Please, my daughter was taken. Can you help her?”
     “Your child?” asked Medusa, confused.
     “Yes, my Isias,” said the woman, crying, “Can you bring her back?”
     “They took my son,” said another woman, “Eudorus.”
     “My daughter Salpe.” said another. “and my son, Polybius.”
More of them stepped forward, offering more names and pleas for help. Medusa quickly founded herself surrounded by a swarm of bereaved parents, she stepped back.
     “Wait... wait!” she yelled, holding up both hands. “What you ask is impossible. Why would any of you even think that your children are still alive?! They can’t come back.”
     “No, I’ve seen them,” said the scarred man, with sincerity “They’re held captive within the canyons. Please, can you save our children? Can you save my daughter, Orianthe?”
     “Why would they steal your children and leave your cows?” asked Medusa, more out of rhetorical disbelief than inquisition. “Why would they kill nine of you and spare the children?”
     “They’re beasts of Hades,” said one man, “they enjoy our suffering.”
     “No...” muttered Medusa, frowning in thought. “It doesn’t make sense.”
     “Please, please,” cried the mother with the torn dress. “Can’t you help us?”
Medusa frowned. If their words were more than mere false hope, and their children were truly alive, then this hunt would not be so easy. The Gorgon didn’t like dealing with children. Her life was one of danger, and when children became involved, they would too often die. They are always so fragile, better suited to be wrapped in wool and left at home than let out into the world. She sighed heavily.
     “I can’t promise you anything...” said Medusa.
     “I’ll give you anything to have her back,” pleaded the mother again.
     “I said I can’t promise anything!” Medusa repeated, raising her voice. She took a breath and gritted her teeth again. “But... if your children are alive. Then I will keep them that way.”
     “Oh, thank the gods,” said the woman. She moved to hug the Gorgon, but Medusa held her shoulder and kept her at arms length, although the woman still bowed her head in praise.
     “For my trouble, I want a new horse,” Medusa said to the crowd, coldly.
     “If you return my son, I’ll give you my best,” said one of the farmers. So, it was settled, Medusa the Gorgon was going hunting for harpies.

†

Medusa insisted upon going alone. Some of the men had offered to aid her in her quest but considering that their best men were scarred and that they’d already lost so many men to these monsters, she refused their help. It would only lead them to their pointless deaths; besides, she preferred to work alone. The villagers gave her directions to the harpies’ nest, and she set off immediately. Although the villagers wanted her to rest, prepare for battle and perhaps bathe properly, she was always ready to fight and she had all the tools she would need. More importantly, these stolen children worried her, and she didn’t want to waste time.
Although they had faces and could stand tall on two legs, harpies were not at all civilized, they were simple beasts. They had no need for hostages, and they preferred larger prey, because they hunted for meat and children offered less than the plentiful stock of a farming village. So, Medusa could not make head nor tail of these stolen children. At best, these children were a snack to these creatures, but she had never known a harpy to keep its prey alive for very long, let alone the time it would take for a dozen men to travel through these canyons to their nest. Her only hope was that, for whatever reason, the harpies had not yet harmed the children; but it was like trusting lions with lambs.
The path to into the canyon was sheer and uneven, with green mosses and lichen growing over the ancient landscape. She ran, steadily, a rising rocky escarpment either side, slowly growing to tower over her as she entered into the canyon. The great divide was carved by nature a great crack between mountains. Moss seemed to envelop the surfaces within, like a parasitic skin, and the path down the very centre was a dry riverbed of smooth pebbles. Her heavy boots crunched the pebbles underfoot as she raced deeper into the great expanse, and the surrounding rock echoed sound back to her. The loose trail made it almost impossible to remain silent as she made her way to the nest, and the lichenous slopes either side were too treacherous to traverse. They would hear her coming before she was even close. Medusa unfastened the bow from her back, checked the tension of the string, then held it at the ready. If they did hear her coming, then she would see them overhead in this great, open space, and shoot them before they were even close.
She knew she was entering harpy territory when she saw the bones. Ribs, cracked femurs, beaks, shoulderblades, all left scattered about the edges of their nesting grounds, but from the smell and the splattered, black stains on the rocks, Medusa knew that these hadn’t been picked clean when the harpies had left them there. The birds didn’t need to eat much, but they were deciduous. They preferred the softer, inner organs, and in times of plenty would leave the gutted remains of their prey to die and rot on the rocks. They killed so many to feed so few, it was barbaric.
Medusa suddenly stopped still. She made no sound and waited for the echo to die. It sounded like a light, rhythmic wind, but it was echoing softly within the canyon walls. Wingbeats. Medusa nocked an arrow. She whistled, high-pitched, a falcon-call that screeched throughout the expanse. She wanted the birds to know right where she was. To fly straight and give her an easy shot. No such luck.
A harpy landed on the edge of the escarpment to her left and peered at her. The creatures were as deadly as they were beautiful. They had long, fair hair; light, untanned skin; sleek, smooth curves all over their naked forms and their winged arms were a flawless, alabaster white. They looked almost like angels, but their hands and feet were toned with muscle and tipped with cruel, curved and wickedly sharp black claws; and Medusa knew, from experience, that they had devilish, sharp, little teeth.
Medusa quickly spun and loosed the arrow, it slid straight through the monster’s eye. The corpse crunched as its hollow bones cracked on the rocks and she spun and looked up to the see a pair of attackers, diving at her. She fired two arrows in quick succession. She caught one in the wing and the other in the shoulder, then rolled forward, out of the way. They were mere fleshwounds, but the two creatures were paralyzed by the power of Medusa’s bow. Their bodies fell limply to the riverbed, face-first, cracking their heads like eggs. Swiftly and clinically, Medusa ripped the arrows from the dead beasts. As she did, one of them shuddered violently, in pain, as it regained its movement. The creature had been brained on the rocks, it was no threat, so she turned and walked away. She left it to slowly die and rot on the rocks.
Deeper and deeper into the harpies’ nest, the piles of bones and discarded bodies grew. because the connecting tissues were not all rotted away, she began to recognize what they once were from their shapes; owl, sheep, wolf, deer, cow. She also began to smell the stinking corpses, but what truly turned her nose was the sight of shredded clothing, seeing it gave her the urge to kill something. Medusa whistled again, with her piercing falcon-cry. The beasts knew that she was in their territory, but she didn’t want them to think she was dead. The more scouts they sent out, the less she would have to face when they found their nest; and the more they’d have to concentrate on her, rather than the stolen children.
Another band of harpies flies into view, around a curve in the canyon. They were far away all flying together, so Medusa lines up an arrow, takes aim and fires. She hits one them in the forehead, and it goes tumbling down into the rocks below, but the other five harpies scatter left and right, out of view, behind the high walls. Medusa readied another arrow, but the harpies were still hidden from view. She started to step forward, slowly checking the sky above her for signs of the creatures. Two harpies appeared over the wall to the right, and dove at her. She leapt up at them and fired an arrow. It sliced through a harpy’s eye. Her feet were unsteady and she began to slip on the mossy rock, but the harpy flew towards her. Medusa swung her bow like a club. The heavy bow cracked into the harpy’s jaw, sending it sideways. Its claws raked across her armoured torso as it fell. Medusa turned to face three more attackers. She leapt off the rock wall at the nearest harpy, screaming like a brazen bull. She collided with the harpy in the air, and the weight of them both slammed the harpy against the rocks with a crack. Medusa pried the claws from her arms, and turned back to the fight, bleeding.
The other harpies doubled back, so Medusa dropped her bow and drew her xiphos. One harpy flew around her with outstretched claws, and she sliced through its hand, spilling fingers and blood on the pebbles as it screamed and fell. Then, Medusa turned to the last creatures and sliced upwards through its face. It seemed to flip from the momentum before falling on its back with the splat of its skull contents. Slowly, Medusa turned to the harpy with the cut hand, it was fretting about, trying to fly and flicking blood everywhere as it tried to fly away, bleeding heavily. After a few seconds, the harpy began to slow, then it fell and passed out. It seemed almost cruel, but Medusa need only remember that the rest of the corpses were killed by these creatures, and she grimly bent down to pick up her bow.
     “Go away,” rasped a wicked voice. Medusa raised her blade and turned towards the harpy she’d smashed on the rocks. It looked as though its spine was broken, but the creature was still alive.
     “You dare speak to me?” demanded Medusa. “You kidnapping, torturing, murderous beast!”
     “Don’t hurt... children...” the creature said, choking on its own, broken neck. Medusa stepped closer and pressed the sword to the creature’s exposed chest.
     “If you have harmed any of our children, I will kill every single one of you.”
     “Hurt children... you die!” sneered the monster. Medusa slid her blade into its chest, and the harpy was silenced.

†

The nest wasn’t far now. Further down the canyon, the path turned sharply to the left, and up on the corner, there was a hollow in the wall. And the shape of the rockface looked like a howling wolf. From within its maw, a huge mass of twigs and branches covered the lower surface, decorated with ribs and sharpened bones. As she approached, Medusa whistled again, to draw the harpie out. However, she saw four, large harpies peek out from the nest and watch her approach. Medusa came within several metres, then stood her ground, underneath. The nest was up the mossy slope and three metres up the wall. And from their vantage point, four harpies peered down at her, suspiciously.
     “Come and get me!” cried Medusa, swiping her sword in the air, making a sharp whoosh with the tip of the blade. “What are you waiting for?!”
The harpies weren’t moving. It didn’t make any sense to the huntress. They were scavengers, and would attack on sight, killing on instinct even if they weren’t hungry. Yet, they sat and stared from their perch. Medusa used the opportunity to call for the children.
     “My name is Medusa the Gorgon! I have come to rescue you; can you hear me!” she cried out. There was no response, and for a moment, she racked her brain trying to remember. “Isis?! Dorsus? ...Polybius! Is anyone alive?! Orianthe!”
     “Help us!” cried a small voice. One of the harpies turned and hissed at the child as it wandered deeper into the nest. Medusa heard them shriek and so aimed an arrow. Letting it loose, one of the harpies fell out of the nest, an arrow sticking out of its forehead. The remaining two hissed and shrieked at her, but they still didn’t leave their perch. One of the harpies picked up a jawbone and threw it at her. Medusa batted it away with her bow and aimed with another arrow, but now both of the harpies were throwing bones, twigs and pebbles at her. Medusa had to dodge a few, so as not to get clocked in the head with a rock or pelvic bone. It was too difficult to shoot with the harpies hiding in their nest, and it was incredibly annoying having things thrown at her, so she put the bow around her shoulder and raced up the mossy slope towards the canyon wall. The creatures stopped throwing things, as they couldn’t aim their shots. Medusa looked along the wall surface for a good handhold, so she could climb up. when one of the harpies reached down and grabbed her by the shoulder. Medusa grabbed right back, wrapping her fingers around its throat, but the harpy dragged her up the wall, into the nest.
Bones and branches scraped at her body as she was pulled through the nest padding and into the mouth of the hollow. There the other harpy grabbed at her legs and bit into her kneecap. Screaming in pain, Medusa elbowed back at the first harpy, then punched towards the biting fiend, breaking its nose. The harpy behind grabbed at her neck, and Medusa instinctively grabbed at the offending hand. She’d be dead if those claws cut across her neck, and she could already feel the pinpricks of it digging into her tender flesh. Medusa turned her head and bit into the harpy’s forearm. It recoiled and Medusa jumped to her feet. She drew her xiphos and stared at the two harpies, with the third hidden in the darkness further back.
     “Who wants to see Hades?” she snarled. The harpy with the broken nose struck first. The lunge was one of sound and fury, so Medusa rolled with it. As the creature dove, the huntress ducked and kicked up at the harpy’s stomach as it sailed overhead and was booted out of the nest. Medusa rolled back onto her feet and swiped with the sword, splitting the harpy’s torso. Screaming, the harpy swiped back with her claw, slashing Medusa’s arm. Swinging again, Medusa cleaved the harpy’s head from its shoulders. Then, she saw the children, still being kept in line by the third harpy and was about to run forward to grab its neck, when she went flying sideways.
Something tackled her and she was falling out of the nest, she caught a glimpse of the harpy with the broken nose, which had flown back to attack. With quick reflexes and a little luck, Medusa managed to grab the harpy’s ankle and felt her stomach drop as her feet swung down with gravity. The harpy shrieked and grabbed onto Medusa’s wrist with her clawed foot, and the Gorgon let out a scream of animalistic rage.Without thinking, she swung her sword upwards, slicing through the harpy’s upper thigh and femoral artery. The harpy dropped her and Medusa fell, with a splay of blood cascading behind her. As she fell to the ground, and crouched to dispel the impact, the blood splattered on top of her.Medusa quickly wiped some of the blood off her arms, hoping it hadn’t smeared into her own weeping wounds.
“Gods, “she groaned, spitting in disgust, “I hope these harpies don’t have herpes.” Medusa took in her surroundings and found herself on the other side of the nest, with the dying harpy behind her screaming in pain as it bled out. Wasting no time, she ran and leapt up the rock wall. She slipped slightly, then pulled herself up and grabbed ahold of a twisted branch that made up the nesting and hauled herself up. Standing up straight within the nest, she turned to see the last harpy, and what looked like more than twenty children huddled behind her, looking dirty, pitiful and terrified. The third harpy looked slightly different. A little older, sagging in a few more places and with longer hair, but still as vicious as ever. Medusa the Gorgon held up her bloodied sword.
     “Just give me the children,” said Medusa, quietly, trying to remain calm. But through the dark, seeing the scratches and bitemarks on the children’s arms and faces, it wasn’t easy. All she wanted was for the harpy to move away from the children so she could kill it without the innocents getting hurt.
     “Our children!” hissed the elder harpy.
     “There are no more of you left, here,” said Medusa. “You’re the last one.”
The harpy replied with a harsh screech. “You can’t take them. They will starve!”
“Get away from them!” screamed Medusa. She stepped forward, and the harpy stepped back into the cave. But stepping into the darkness, Medusa saw something else amongst the children. At first, she had thought the dark shapes to be more children. But between the children were large, round objects, too smooth to be rock from the cave. They were large eggs. Medusa had never seen anything like them before, but they must have been harpy eggs. And those words suddenly sounded different in Medusa’s head: Our children...
Medusa started to walk slowly backwards. And slowly lowered her sword. She knew two things, first of all, that no fury could compare to that of a mother protecting her child, so she dare not risk getting two close. She removed the bow from her shoulder and slowly, carefully, aimed an arrow at the elder harpy. Because she also knew the reason why the harpies had stolen the children, and it wasn’t for a playtime with their newborns. It was for feeding time. She loosed the arrow, and it shot right into the harpy’s heart. It wouldn’t kill her instantly, but the power of the bow meant that she would be paralyzed. The harpy fell back, and the children scattered so she didn’t fall on top of them. Instead, she landed on top of one of the eggs,with a sick crack, spilling gunk throughout the patch of nestled twigs.
     “Come on then,” said Medusa, “let’s get you home.”

†

Because the nest was too high from the children to jump down from, Medusa knelt by the edge and, one at a time, she helped to lower the children down so they could drop only a metre or so. There were only twelve of them, but after seven of them, where safely on the ground, she called over the eighth, the youngest girl, but when she lowered her down, she started squealing.
     “No! I don’t want to fall!” she cried.
     “Let go,” ordered Medusa.
     “No, I can’t! Pull me back up!” the girl screamed, more high pitched
     “Don’t be foolish. You have to let go, so you can go home.”
The girl started crying, and Medusa was tired and had half a mind to flick her wrist and drop the girl, but instead she gritted her teeth.
     “What’s your name?”
     “Isias,” she said, closing her eyes.
     “Right, Isias? Your mother is waiting for you. Back at Metaxas, all she wants is for you to come home. Do you want to see your mother?”
     “Mhmm,” she murmured, nodding.
     “Then let go, and you will.”
After a moment, Isias opened her eyes. Her grip began to loosen and she slid off Medusa’s arm, and landed on the rock below. She stumbled, but still stayed upright. Medusa turned and helped the next child down. he didn’t struggle in the least. But, as she lowered him down, she heard something behind her. Crack. Medusa glanced behind her, and saw two of the eggs, wiggling. Crack, crack-crack. All together, the eggs were hatching. The boy let go, and Medusa grabbed the next child.
     “Quickly now,” she said. She lowered the boy down, and after dangling for a moment, he took a breath and dropped. “Alright, next.” Medusa turned to the last two children, a boy and a girl,but there was a frantic screeching sound, like bats deeper in the cave. The kids turned to it and quickly.
     “What’s happening?” asked the boy, sounding scared. As he spoke, four of the eggs had hatched and little, baby harpies were peeling eggshell off themselves. They looked hideous. They looked nothing like the little cherubs one might expect, they were skinny and emaciated, like tiny, old men, with spots on their skin, covered in yolk, with thin strands of hair matted to their heads, feathers bundled up under their armpits and their eyes were shut tight, but bulging madly out of their heads. They sniffed at the air and bumped into one another blindly.
     “Come on, quickly,” Medusa said, as quietly as she could. she grabbed the boy and lowered him down. He seemed eager to let go, fall on the ground and get away from the nest. More of the eggs began to crack and the others, still dripping with goo and covered in shards of shell, started to wander towards the light. As they did, the last girl started to whimper and whine out of fear, turning every blind eye towards them. To silence her, Medusa grabbed her close, putting a hand around her mouth. “You’ll be safe. Hold my arm.”
The girl did as she said, and Medusa lowered her down, but the girl’s frightened hands didn’t loosen her grip.
     “Let go,” said Isias on the ground, “you can do it.”
The girl seemed to be shaking when one of the harpy hatchlings bit Medusa on the leg.
“GAHH!” screamed Medusa. She flinched, flicking the girl off her arm, sending her screaming to the ground. Medusa drew her sword and slapped the hatchling in the face with the flat edge, batting it away so she could stand, then she called down “Are you alright?”
     “She’s okay!” said Isias.
Then something else bit Medusa’s leg. She swung the sword, cleaving the little thing in two, but then two more clambered up her other leg. They were crawling all over her. She couldn’t swing the sword into her own limbs, so she reached down and crushed one of their nubile skulls between her hands, but more of them used the chance to jump onto her shoulders.
     “Get OFF!” screamed the huntress, as she grabbed one by the leg and flung it into the stone wall with a splat, but more of the hungry monsters were grabbing at her with needle-like claws and biting into her, and even more were hatching. Medusa unhooked her bow from her person and swung it at her own body like a club, but the critters were fast, smearing her own blood over her as they clambered around her limbs. In pain, and desperate to get the creatures off, Medusa pulled her arms through the bow and pulled it over her head, then down her body before stepping her legs through it. As she did, the hatchlings were scraped off her body and fell to the padded floor.
Then, with obvious contempt and malice, she began stomping on the little bastards with her heavy boots, with a disturbing yet satisfying wet crunch every time. Then she took her sword, walked over to the unhatched eggs and with one swing, split the rest in half, spraying blood and yolk over the back wall of the cave.
Turning back, she walked to the edge of the nest and looked down at the children. They were all looking up at her, expectantly.
     “Come on, children,” she said. “Let’s take you home...”

†

The parents and people of Metaxas were overjoyed when Medusa walked through the centre of town, with a crowd of children behind her. They ran forth and there was laughter and tears from everyone as they were reunited, and families hugged, despite the grime and muck on all of the children. Medusa merely went to the farmer that had promised her a horse, and asked him to pay his debt. After hugging his son a dozen more times, he finally left, and came back with a strong, brown mare with a saddle on its back. Medusa thanked the man and was about to mount it, when a small child called to her.
     “Where are you going?” She turned to see which of them was calling to her, when a little girl tackled her leg, hugging it tight, despite the bite marks and blood all over it.
     “I’m moving along,” said Medusa, recognizing her as the girl she’d accidentally dropped.
     “We’re going to celebrate, you need to stay.”
Medusa frowned, but instead bit her tongue and crouched down to look her in the eye.
     “I don’t stay,” said Medusa. “I never stay.”
     “But it’s for you. To thank you.”
Medusa looked into those pretty eyes, on the girl’s dirty but otherwise sweet face.
     “That you’re alive is thanks enough,” said Medusa. She kissed the girl’s forehead, then mounted her new horse and rode off, without turning back.