So Like the Economy is, um, Bad?

It feels like a long time since I've written anything here, and I have to say I miss it. I miss your feedback, and I miss the stream of conscious writing I could always do for this site. ("First draft, Mark... First draft!") Things have slowed down a bit for my book, but I have an article under consideration at one magazine, just finished an article for a newspaper in Southern Ontario, and am working on my next magazine piece. I'll be getting married in July, and we've started planning for what all needs to be done. I have to say, I can't wait!! There are a few nuggets floating around the news lately, however, that I find frustrating.

Thought I'd rant a bit. Mind?

Okay, we get that the economy is in a recession. Without getting into the who's or what's, can we please stop making every article we read and every commentary we hear as further commentary on the economic 'plight' of our country. Please? Listen, we've known for years that the manufacturing sector was going to eventually get hammered. How can we compete with China or India, when their labour costs are a fraction of ours? I understand that losing our job is a terrible and frightening thing, it's happened to me before. And I am especially empathetic with those trying to support a family.

Here's my problem. The Canadian banks are stable, still raking in billions. I'm still waiting in line at Starbucks. (A five dollar latte, in the greatest recession since the thirties? Anyone else see the hyperbole here?) People are still paying $75 /hour for people to show them how to workout properly, and 100$/hr to have their muscles massaged.

I'm not saying that the economy isn't down, because it is, though it seems like it happens every ten years or so. All I'm saying is that I'd like to open up the newspaper and not read about the "dire" circumstances that proclaim the end of the world. Pretty soon we'll actually believe Chicken Little.

My second point is that maybe this is a good reminder to remember what's really important. I've never made more than thirty two thousand dollars a year. I live in a small room with 8 housemates. I work at a job that offers no sick days and very little security.

I've never been happier.

In Ottawa, I had a secure job with the school board. I spent $120/month on television, which I watched seven hours per day. I loved my kids, but the daily drudgery and job circumstances were killing me. I was miserable. Contrast that to now. The other day I went to do my laundry and noticed I'd put my detergent in front of my television. Except for the occasional movie or game, I don't even turn the TV on any more.

All I'm saying is that sometimes having less, is having more, and that maybe it'd do us all a bit of good to rethink why we're here in the first place.

And if you know any publishers, please tell them to stop with the Apocalypse Now crap. Let's leave that to John Hagee. The rest of should go outside and play, I hear spring is coming...

Steve

Resolution, Baby! Why New Year's Matters

I flipped my book down on the desk and sighed. Another cancellation. December was a hard month for trainers, and as we lived under the adage "they that don't work don't get paid", it'd been frustrating trying to get my clients into the gym. It wasn't as if I didn't understand the busy nature of the Christmas season. I did. None of that paid the bills however. I glanced over at one of the other trainers taking a break in our small room that served as our workroom or hideout, depending on the day.

"Another one?" He asked.

"Yup. Can't wait until January when the 'resolution babies' come in."

He nodded and smiled.

"It'll be all you can handle, bro."

I knew that he was right. January was the time when most people who hadn't thought about being fit decided to try it. It was the busiest month of the year for most gyms and any business that promised a renewal of some sort, anything that could tap into the "resolution fervor" of the New Year.

I always liked New Year's, and I was always a bit surprised by the people who didn't. ("The calendar turns. Big deal. What difference does it make?") I had family and friends who didn't celebrate holidays for that very reason. Some of them were religious ("There are no special days, every day is holy") and others were non-religious. ("It's just a holiday to get people to buy stuff, besides, I'm not religious") For a long time I often felt almost guilty about the way I enjoyed holidays, both the religious (Christmas) and non-religious (New Year's) ones. It felt as though I was caving into the commercialization of our culture and the capitalization of the commoditizing nature of our comfort zones... or something like that. Intellectually stupid perhaps. Or spiritually bankrupt. Or any one of a number of cold ideas.

The point is that I thought enjoying the holidays was okay but only if I didn't attach too great a significance to them. These days, thankfully, I don't feel that way. Holidays are an important part of the way we grow as people, and those who reject them do so at their own peril...


I looked at the phone in the trainer's room and with a shrug, grabbed my gear from my locker and headed into the back room to change. To be honest, I wasn't that upset about the cancellations. January would be busy, and for now, it would nice to have a break, even if I wasn't being paid. When I'd changed and packed up, I headed to the office to wish my co-workers a Happy New Year. After a round of handshakes, I pulled on my toque and headed into the winter night.

Flurries drifted from the sky, and I tucked my hands in my pocket as I headed north towards the subway. The sidewalks were busy, and I watched the people hustle through the cold, their breath fogging the air as snippets of their conversation flowed around me. Up ahead, the Eglinton Centre loomed like a distant castle. The three flags outside the Centre snapped in the breeze overhead. It'd be nice to have some time off, nice to have some time to think about where my life was going and what the new year would bring. As much as I'd heard people downplay holidays, it seemed to me that the ones who did so were always a bit sad.

Holidays -- which are derived from the idea of Holy Days -- are a difficult time for people who have lost family members or who have had bad experiences during certain seasons. It is no secret that the Christmas season annually gives us more suicides than any other time of year. But the idea of a holiday, an annual ritual that repeats the same customs to lend stability to the human condition, is to enhance emotion and help us recall our lives. In short, holidays are about looking behind us and looking ahead. And sometimes that can be very painful) In my experience, the people who dislike holidays -- whatever the reason they give you -- tend to want to avoid one or the other. Unfortunately, this tendency is psychologically and emotionally unhealthy. Because wherever holidays come from, depending on your tradition, they replicate the rhythm of life, the waking and sleeping and waking and sleeping of human existence.

It is hard to tell now, in this industrialized world that creates its own light, but throughout history most civilizations have been agrarian, not only respondent to the seasons, but dependent and woven around them as well. In an industrialized society, the dependence is abstract at best. Unfortunately, even religious people have copied this enlightenment ideal of "progressive civilization."

For example, I find it both sad and fascinating that certain Christians will not celebrate Christmas because "it's pagan."

"Jesus was not born on December 25th," They'll tell me with a triumphant look.

My response is always the same.

"No. According to what we know, Jesus was probably born in late February. The day is symbolic."

That's when I get one of those looks from certain personality types, the same people who equate symbolism with lying. You know who I'm talking about. (These people will give you 37 Bible verses or quote The Handbook of Modern Science to prove a point. Sigh)

Of course, Jesus wasn't born on Christmas Day! December 24th, since 45 BCE, was celebrated on the Julian calendar as Winter Solstice. (Pope Gregory changed it to December 21 in 1582, which we now mark as the beginning of winter) On winter solstice, the sun ceases to decline in the sky and the length of daylight reaches its minimum for three days, during which the sun does not move on the horizon. When the three days have ended, the sun begins its ascent into the northern sky and days grow longer. Thus the interpretation by many cultures of a sun reborn and a return to light. We can see why Christians began celebrating this association as the day to mark the birth of Jesus.

This idea of what's 'pagan' and what isn't, fascinates me, if only for the ardour with which it is pursued. In many religious traditions, the date often becomes more important than the event; the event in this case is the birth of Jesus. Instead of spending our efforts reflecting upon the meaning and praxis of God coming to earth, we spend it arguing over the triivialities of things such as dates and times and locations. Some argue that to offer proof in this regard, or coincidentally disprove it, affect the legtimacy of the claim and therefore the holiday itself.

Nonsense.

The reach towards "proof" is nothing more than an egocentric response towards divinity and away from the real meaning of the Incarnation. The significance of the birth of Jesus can't be found in its proof. The significance of Christmas is in its memory, that God loved us so much he became one of us, that the Creator of the world joined our messy, broken lives to walk with us for a time, and in so doing, show us the way to freedom. That's the significance.

Religious or not, holidays are both a great opportunity and a necessary one. The first holiday in Christian tradition is the Sabbath. The purpose: a day of rest and reflection. In fact, we can find many examples in the Old Testament of God showing us the way to dance to the rhythm of humanity, how to live in concert with the cycles of our world, and how to listen for the resonance of both heaven and earth and apply it to our lives. Without these breaks, be they the Sabbath or Passover or the Year of Jubilee or Christmas or yes, even New Year's Day, our lives often become a steady treadmill to disengagement.

I've often felt that without sleep our lives would be meaningless. Without that second chance to do tomorrow each day, what would our lives look like? Instead of merely fixing our binary connections, God has instead given us the rise and fall of breath and life that somehow exhales at the end of each day, with a chance for something new, something great, the next day.

New Year's is not a religious holiday, per se, but for me it is just as important. Once a year I look back and look forward. Once a year I take stock of my life and see where I'm headed, both emotionally and practically. And once a year I am reminded of how lucky I am, that with all my faults and mistakes, the blessings in my life are numerous beyond belief.

Humanity was created to live in cycles, in the fluttering rhythm of a broken world. The purpose of holidays is to help us see the opportunities for renewal that await us each day, each month, and each year. And to remind us that it is engagement -- with ourselves and those around us -- that points us both to freedom and blessing.

My prayer this New Year's is that you will take some time to think about where you've been and where you're headed. That you would push forward again with a new set of resolutions. And most importantly, that you wouldn't let past failures dictate your future ambitions.

Happy New Year, everyone.

-Steve

Meeting Warren... And Wally Lamb

Why did it have to be so cold, I thought, as I hunched over and made my way towards the subway. It wasn't snowing, but the frigid air was damp and seemed to penetrate my layers of clothes and sink into my skin. Despite my eagerness to get home, I stopped in at the Starbucks down the street and bought myself a coffee. At least I was done for the day. Five clients in a row wasn't much for some trainers, but it always wiped me out. The barista had filled my cup a bit high, and even with the lid snapped on tight, it sloshed over my hand as I stepped back onto the sidewalk. Damn! The coffee was hot. I slurped it, willing myself to relax after five continuous hours of human interaction. As cold as it was, it was nice to be silent for a few minutes. I paused outside the entrance to the subway to get my token ready and in the process glanced over at the large Indigo across the street. The past week I'd met one of my literary heroes, Wally Lamb, at a book signing. His new book was about the collateral damage of anger, specifically the aftermath of the Columbine shootings. Although the subject matter in his books was often grim (though laced with hope), he was a storyteller par excellence and a truly great writer. It'd been quite a moment for me.

I opened the door to the subway and nearly tripped on the man inside the door. He was sitting up, with a cup in front of him for change. I'd seen him here before, but usually he was passed out. I pulled some change out and put it in his cup.

"How're you doing?" I asked him.

"It's pretty cold out there." He slurred his words, so that 'there' sounded like 'thar'. I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Where are you going to sleep tonight?"

"Probably here." He said, motioning to the hard red tile at the top of a stairwell.

For a moment, I was at a loss at what to say.

"I'm Steve." I said, offering my hand.

He lifted his right arm to reveal a cast beneath his weathered coat.

"What happened?"

"I'm not really sure (shhurr). I think I fell down these steps." He paused. "I'm Warren."

I held out my left hand and he took it in his own, gripping it tight, as if unwilling to let it go. Finally, he released it.

"Have a good night." I said, not quite knowing what else to say.

He nodded, working hard to focus on me. I'd started down the stairs when he called out.

"If I don't see you before Christmas, have a good holidays, Steve."

I swallowed a lump in my throat.

"You too, my friend. You too."

The subway ride was especially long that night. I thought about Warren the whole way home. Just five nights earlier, I'd met one of my heroes, yet it was my meeting with Warren that stayed with me for the next week.


It was snowing when I woke up. The kind of snow I liked too, fluffy and thick and falling softly, the stuff that brought to mind other worlds and dreams yet unfulfilled. I stood on the stoop with my coffee, the steam rising from the mug, staring across the snowdrifts and wind that whipped across the street. It was a good day to be home, I thought. Although it was a Friday, I suspected that quite a few people wouldn't be working today. A good day to write and read and perhaps watch a movie. As I stared out into the whitened world however, my mind drifted to Warren. I wondered where he would be sleeping. Back on the subway steps or perhaps a shelter somewhere. I tried to convince myself that he was in a shelter. I'm not sure why it made me feel better, but it did. For the moment, at least.

I headed back inside to work on my book. After an hour or so, I stretched, made another coffee and decided to spend some time on the stoop. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that a day like this -- the way the snow was falling -- was my favourite weather. There was something in watching the snow fall that spoke to me, a whispered assurance of the world's gentler side. Or a covering perhaps, I wasn't sure. I found it helpful for my writing, which had received a boost after meeting Wally Lamb.

I sipped my coffee and thought about what it'd been like in that stuffy room at the bookstore. Wooden chairs wedged together, about sixty people in a cramped space, sweltering because some employee must have thought the author would be cold. (I guess they didn't realize he was from Connecticut) I'd had to hurry when I arrived at the bookstore; most of the people were already seated. I bumped into the woman sitting across the narrow aisle as I pulled off my parka, apologizing even as I tried to scrunch my large frame into the last seat on the second row. I glanced around, somewhat nervous and excited. Despite having written for a decade, I'd never been to an authour reading before. The faces around me were mostly those of women in their thirties and forties, and one man who looked like a college professor. No other sweating weightlifters with shaved heads however, none that I could see. I fidgeted and squirmed in my tiny seat. When Wally Lamb finally came forward, I was nearly exhausted from the heat and attempting to hold my body upright in the rickety chair.

Lamb was in his late fifties, and reminded me of Sean Connery, what with the glasses and last bit of snow speckled hair receding from a lean, unmarked face. He read first from his updated bio, and then a bit from his new book. He told us how he'd searched for a story after writing his last number one selling book ten years ago, and how it had come to him in a New Orleans cathedral shortly after Katrina. He took questions, of which I asked the first, and when he signed my book, he was gracious and encouraging. What struck me the most, I think, was how much he had inspired me.

"Steve, one more thing," he said to me as I was walking away, "Writing is more about perseverance than ability. Keep at it. You'll get there."

When I called Bethany, shortly thereafter, I was a bit giddy. Soon enough I was on the subway, planning my writing schedule for the next week. I bumped into three people at alternate places along the ride and exit, lost as I was in my plans for the future. I had literally ached the past twelve years for a word of hope about my passion, fretted and cried and laughed in my attempts to break through as a writer. I'd had some limited success, just enough to push me forward. Mostly however, I'd experienced too little recognition to think that I would ever really make it. Maybe this time, things would be different, I thought. Maybe Wally Lamb would push me past the finish line.

I interrupted my reverie to shovel the stoop, but it was still slippery even after I'd cleared it, and I walked carefully down the steps to put the shovel away. I'd fallen on these stairs before. Once safely at the bottom, I sipped my coffee, which was now lukewarm, and watched the snow fall. One thing bothered me. If writing was so important, why had I spent more time thinking about my meeting with Warren than the one with my literary hero?

We've all read stories of people who'd made it and their lives afterward. Part of the reason Wally Lamb had so appealed to me was his work with a women's correctional facility. Oprah's law, he'd said at the reading, when it came to success, was to take what you needed and pass on the rest. Collateral goodness, I thought. I wasn't sure where I'd heard the phrase, but it certainly applied here.

I liked Oprah. It was easy to be cynical about successful people, but she always struck me as someone who modeled what she believed. Here yet, was another example of her generosity. (Her Book Club had propelled Lamb to literary superstardom.) And here was Lamb, doing the same to give back.

I realized that my fingers had gone cold. I kicked the snow off my boots and headed inside to warm up. We all have ideas about ultimate success and what that looks like. Whether it's having our own business or being published or promoted or putting out a CD or making a movie or starring in one, it's hard to remember sometimes that the dreams we have are never less than the journey itself. That it is the journey towards the dream that must yield the fruit of a purposed and passionate life. Dreams provided hope and direction, but the more our dreams reflected egocentric ideals (this will be good for me), the less fulfilling they became.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that as much as I would love to have both the ability and career that Wally Lamb had forged for himself, a great success by any measure, my life would always be my own. Gifted, as we all are, with our unique set of talents and abilities, I realized that no matter how many books I sold, my life would always point to Warren. That the measure of my life would never be my literary status, but my willingness to speak to and for those who could not speak for themselves.


It is hard sometimes, to keep our eyes on those around us in the blinding light of our dreams, and harder still to keep our eyes on the finish line when life becomes difficult.

Dreams come cheap these days, don't they, especially at this time of year, when we are swarmed with requests and wants and needs. Through all the shopping dilemmas and packed parking lots and crowded malls, it is easy to lose sight of why we're here. My prayer this week -- this Christmas -- is that you will remember the dreams of your youth, not the small ones we rented as we got older, but the big booming ridiculous ones that once called to us to change the world. Lost in the great Wally Lamb of a dream, but aware that the true value of any dream was in the way it propelled us to help Warren.


Blessings, my friends, as you set the course for this next year. Don't be afraid to embrace your giftings and step towards what God has called you to do. Just remember that along the way, if you could, to provide the collateral goodness necessary to make both your dream, and your journey, a success.

Merry Christmas everyone.

-Steve

An Interview With Ravin

I fidgeted in my chair and glanced down at my watch. 5:27am. I was about to interview someone famous for the first time. Not only was she famous, but a known killer. The conference room was small, with white walls and no windows, as she'd requested. No place to put a camera without her seeing it. I thought about the movies I'd seen and what I'd read about hidden technology. There was always a place to hide a camera if you had enough money, but we didn't have the budget. (and this was Canada) I leaned on the oak table and tried to catch my breath. What did you ask an assassin? What did you ask the most notorious at-large criminal in your country's history, one that was more popular than Jim Carrey or Wayne Gretzky or any of its other celebrities?

I checked my watch again. 5:31am. She'd only agreed to the interview because of the piece I'd written for the Post, which outlined her crimes in a sympathetic manner. I hadn't expected to ever meet her, but when a woman had called and identified herself as the Blonde Nightmare's agent, I couldn't say no. In the literary world, I was nobody. My piece was one of the few I'd published in the past few years, and the only reason the paper had bought it from me was because of an incidental run in I'd had with one of her friends. With that lead in, and with the media feasting over any scrap of news about her, they'd snapped up the article.

5:47am.

I was getting nervous. Maybe she wasn't going to show up. Despite her popularity, the authorities were still avidly looking for her and had even offered a reward for tips leading to her arrest. She embarrassed them, I think. Her agent had said that she would meet me -- but that if things changed she'd be in contact with me. I sighed and doodled on my notebook. I didn't have to study my notes, I'd memorized them last week. What did I know about the Blonde Nightmare? About as much as everyone else, which is to say not a whole lot. Her story had become something of a legend in the past year. That she was a stripper, or a former stripper, only added grist to the story. When she'd started pulling men aside at gun point and making them strip, most of us thought it was little more than a wacky stripper pulling a well, very serious, college prank.

And then she'd shot her first victim. Roberto Gomez. He'd made the mistake of trying to attack her after she'd pulled a gun on him. She didn't kill him, but she didn't stop going after the men either. About a month after Roberto Gomez was shot, three young guys set a trap, but she figured out what was going on and one the three guys, Shawn White, was killed. The other two were hospitalized with gun shot wounds and bruises to the face, presumably from her kicking them repeatedly after she'd shot them.

There were two more incidents, and then she'd disappeared, amidst a swirling of rumors that she'd been captured by some Venezuelan cult. She'd come back from her experience changed, or so the rumors went. Her victims had changed too. She still patrolled the strip clubs, but the victims were chosen carefully, or so it seemed. Jeffrey Irons was a former group home worker suspected -- although never convicted -- of molesting two of the boys in his care. Marjorie Allenby was a convicted felon, a former foster parent who'd "accidentally" shaken a baby to death. There was a third victim, Jesse Stillco, a thirty two year old white male without any prior crimes or suspicious activity. None that I or anyone else could dig up, at least. All three had been killed -- two shots to the head -- execution style.

6:13am.

Apparently something had come up. I stood and tucked in my chair. Maybe it was for the best. Did I really want to interview a murderer? A killer? It reminded me of Dan Rather groveling before Saddam Hussein. A journalistic coup perhaps, but a cloying display that was nauseating to watch.

It was still dark and raining as I headed outside. I scrunched over and hustled down the stairs to my car in the underground lot. What had I been thinking anyway? I fumbled with my keys. Maybe it had been just some prank call, some kid-

"Robert Stephens?"

The voice was husky and strong. I turned slowly. She stood about five feet from me, and I glanced around the dimly lit parking space, suddenly realizing what I'd done.

"Relax, Robert, I'm not going to kill you." She said.

Her reassurance was strangely unnerving. I nodded, but couldn't find the words. Maybe I'd built her up too much in my imagination, but I felt myself nearly trembling in her presence. She was tall, nearly six feet, wearing a tight purple skirt and loose blouse. Her long blonde hair was pulled back and hung nearly to her waist. She wore no makeup that I could tell, but her lips gleamed a ruby red in the pale light. She carried a purse under her left arm, and I glanced at it, wondering if she was carrying a gun.

"I always carry a weapon." She said nonchalantly, reading my thoughts. "A necessity, I'm afraid."

I nodded dumbly.

"Well, when you're done staring, let's go for a ride." She paused. "You don't look much like a writer to me." She said, taking in my wide shoulders and shaved head.

"Well," I said, finding my voice, "You don't look much like a killer to me."

She laughed and touched my arm.

"Touché. Can we go?"

"Sure, but your agent said-"

"I don't have an agent."

"Then who- got it. Well, where to then?"

"Do you know where Vaughn is?" She paused and motioned to the receipts and empty Starbucks cups on the floor of my 1997 Geo. "I like your car."

I found her sarcasm annoying.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting the Queen to visit."

She smoothed her face and then laughed.

"Good." She paused. "Good. Maybe you're the one."

"The one to what?"

She didn't respond, and I didn't press. We drove for a while, and the only sound in the car was the swish of the wipers. I wondered why we were going to Vaughn. It was a small town, north of Toronto, but I hadn't heard of any previous connection for her there.

"Make a left at the next street."

The town was ragged looking, but maybe it was the rain.

"Slow down." She said. "In here."

She pointed to set of buildings, and I turned in the parking lot. Andrew Munson Elementary School. Rain slid down the windows and when I looked over at her I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

"Why here?"

"My mom went to school here."

"I wasn't aware- I thought your mom-"

"She died when I was young. After she died, everything went to hell. Including me." She rolled down the window an inch and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?"

I shook my head.

She lit one and took a long drag. It was hard not to stare. She reminded me of those classic actresses I'd seen in old film footage from the 1940's. Rita Hayworth and Ava Gardner and the like. The way she held her head, the way she fingered the cigarette as if it were a prop. Regal, I thought. There was no other way to describe it.

I gave myself a mental shake. She was a killer. She was a stripper. My old priest had once said that what a person did defined them, and killing was what she did.

"So how did you grow up?" I asked.

She turned and looked at me for what seemed like a long time.

"Why do you want to interview me, Robert? Why do you want to know my story?"

"Well, it will make me famous. I might even make a bit of money with this writing gig."

"Wow. Well, at least you're honest." She paused and flicked her cigarette through the open window. "But I don't believe you."

"I just told you-"

"I heard you, and I know some of that is true. But why do you want to interview me?"

I leaned back in my seat and glanced out at the sagging school. I thought about all the kids I'd worked with through the years, the ones that had no chance, the ones that could barely make it into the school because of the family mayhem, the ones left alone and lonely, the ones who would step into adulthood four years and a lifetime behind the others. I thought about the young girls I'd worked with, the ones without protection, the ones who learned to take the abuse of life without ever learning to live.

"Well?" She said.

"I want to tell your story because I think it matters." I said, my voice quiet. "I think it matters that you survived. But I don't respect what you do and I want to know why you did it. You're a horrible example. You make killing glamorous and sexy. I understand where the anger comes from, don't get me wrong, but who appointed you judge and jury? What do I say to the teenager who reads about your actions and tells me your victims deserved it?" My voice started to raise, as I thought about the "fan" effect of the Blonde Nightmare. "Did they really deserve it? If you're going to go that way, don't you deserve it? Maybe I should be the one with the gun right now."

She looked at me, her face impassive. I fidgeted in my seat and clenched my jaw.

"Thank you for your honesty, Robert." She pointed to the school. "I don't remember much of my mom. I was ten when she died-"

"I said I understood-"

"Wait, Robert, please. Let me finish."

I nodded and swallowed back a sharp retort.

"But I remember how beautiful she was, how the men would always be at our home. My mom never made it to high school, so she took care of us the only way she knew how. Men loved to give her gifts, and it wasn't just the sex. She wasn't a prostitute, the way we think of it now, she just dated a lot."

I imagined the little girl growing up in an environment like that. It felt so... inevitable. It didn't change things however, about who she was or what she did.

"What I do remember is asking my mom why so many men loved her. Her answer is as true now as it was then. 'They don't love me, kiddo. They love what they think they see.'"

"It doesn't change what you did." I said. "It doesn't change what you do!"

"What makes you think I killed those men?"

"The reports, the rumours, everybody knows..." My voice trailed.

Without warning, she slowly pulled up her blonde hair and tugged it off her head. Her black hair was cut short, she ran a quick hand through it before setting the wig on her lap. She looked at me, and I suddenly saw her for the first time. Her nose was bent at the tip, and there were lines beneath her eyes. She was hunched over, her arms folded across her stomach as if she was in pain.

"My name is Felicia Kovolchuk." Her voice was no longer husky, but soft and quiet with a bit of a squeak to it.

I was in a sort of daze at her questions and at the change.

"How did you- Who are you?"

She looked down in her lap, and then back at the school. Her eyes filled with tears as she fidgeted with the wig.

"I don't know, Robert. All I can tell you is that I didn't kill those men."

I found myself wanting to believe her, to comfort her, but I'd seen a lot of acting in my days working with teens.

"Have you ever killed someone?"

"Once. It was an accident..." She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I still think about it. He had a knife and..."

She took a deep breath. I could literally see her gather up her emotions and bundle them into a tight package, and when she looked at me again I knew that I wouldn't see that side of her again.

"Well, if what you say is true, why don't you go to the police?"

"Do you think they'd believe me?"

"Well, sure, I mean, why wouldn't they?"

She didn't answer, just looked at me as if waiting for me to get it. And I did. We were all just people, all guilty of stereotypes and projection. Felicia fit the bill perfectly for a classic femme fatale, and even as someone trained in helping young people find their way out of their projected familial roles, I'd done the same thing. There wouldn't be a jury anywhere that would believe her innocence, and certainly no police department. They'd assume she was acting, that she had purposely embarrassed them. And with her looks...

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"You've heard my story."

"The cult, the kidnapping, the sacrifice... are you saying it isn't true."

She shook her head and reattached her wig.

"No. It's true. But I want to tell you what really happened. Maybe someday I'll be able to live free again, if enough people believe your story."

"Okay." I said, just to say something.

She opened the car door.

"Where are you going?"

"They found me. I have to go."

"Who found you? What are you talking about?"

I checked my rear view mirror, where a grey sedan had suddenly appeared, and it whipped past me in the parking lot. Four men in suits jumped out yelling directions at one another. One of them pointed at me, and I stared back, too terrified to move. Fortunately, they seemed more preoccupied with finding Felicia, at which point I immediately felt guilty. You're such a coward! When I looked for Felicia however, she was gone. One of the men pulled a cell phone and chatted on it briefly, before motioning to the others. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as the car whipped past my own, and I waited a full ten minutes before finding the strength to start the car.

I pulled my car out of the parking lot. I didn't know what to think, because she'd been so much more, and less, than what I thought she'd be. Only one thing mattered however. I believed her. I believed that the Felicia I'd seen was the real Felicia, perhaps buried under years of allowing others to project their own fantasies on her. For a few minutes, she'd let down her guard and shown me the scared young woman inside that regal costume.

I hoped she would contact me again. And I wished I could do more to help her. I also wished I wasn't so scared at the thought of getting involved. I pulled out my cell and called my wife, who picked up on the first ring.

"I was worried." She said, without saying hello. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I'm good."

"You're rambling."

I took a deep breath and told her what had happened with the other car.

"What about her? What's she like?"

"She's a scared young woman. I... I... want to help her."

My wife paused, and I could hear what she was thinking. Why us? What she said however, was the reason I'd married her in the first place.

"We'll do what we can, Robbie. Are you coming home now?"

"Yeah, I'll see you in a few minutes."

The rain continued to bleed down my windshield as I zipped back onto the highway and thought again about our meeting. I wasn't sure I'd ever see Felicia again, but I'd learned a lesson I wouldn't soon forget.


Over the next three months, Felicia contacted me several times. We never met in the same place, and her outfits changed as often as her wigs. She never again revealed herself as she had in that first interview, but she did tell me her story. She also met my wife, Joy, and had dinner with us once.

She's gone again now, said she wanted to do some traveling. There's more to it, of course, but for her safety and the safety of my family, I can't tell you any more than that. If I've learned anything this past year, it is the realization of how dangerous fantasy can be. Not only does it prevent us from seeing and accepting people in all their weakness, but it also prevents us from seeing how truly remarkable they are. It's a difficult lesson, but when we project on others who we think they should be, we cover what they can be.

I know there are mistakes in the story you are about to read, and I did take some license in my own 'projections' when I wrote it. Felicia read some of my early drafts however, and gave her approval, although she was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of her being portrayed as any sort of 'hero'. "I did what anyone would do" she would often grouse at me, especially after I would comment on her courage. Her only demand was that I record this book as a novel. "It isn't a biography." She would tell me, "and people wouldn't believe it anyway." Much better, she would say, that they find what truth they could in the story itself.


It's raining today, just as it was the first day we met. Joy and I still talk about her quite a bit, about how much she changed our life, and about how much her story has grown. When it comes to people, I'm not sure you can create a mythical figure. As history has shown us, the person is important, but oddly, they often finish a distant second to time and place, to the culture in which the story occurs, and to the way people respond. Felicia was not what I had expected. Nor would, I suspect, Joan of Arc or Elizabeth I be exactly as I imagine them. I'm not comparing her to these two remarkable women of history, of course, except in the understanding that beneath the story is a person like you and me. The truly surprising part of this whole ordeal was that in discovering the person, I found her to be more remarkable than the tale itself.

There's something else I have to tell you. Although I wrote the story, I can't explain everything that happened. There are some things that happened -- many of which I was able to verify -- that made me question the very core of my beliefs. About what's real and what isn't. About God and the supernatural. About why certain things happen and why we live the way we do. I can't explain it and I won't try, because in the end, it's up to you anyway, isn't it?

This then, is her story. The story of how one abused soul managed to survive her nightmares and in doing so, create a story of mythic proportions. The story of how one woman escaped not only those set against her, but also the expectations of those who would have her be more than who she was, and how, in the process, she created a legend.

This... is the story of Ravin.

-Robert Stephens, December 2008