He didn’t crave the money or the fix. He just wanted to look someone in the eyes; for someone to gaze back. His sign said LOST, and he was.
Hot damn! A mail-order bride! Harris placed his order. She arrived a fortnight later, but it didn’t work out. They’d forgotten air-holes.
Every year he would open The Box, leafing through the fading collection of old Valentines, each a forlorn memory marked, “Return to Sender.”
Charlotte knew she’d arrived in true Utopia. Printed in white block letters underneath the WELCOME sign was, POPULATION: 1.
He was photosensitive and only went out in the dark. He marked the days to the winter solstice, his favorite night, with anticipation.
Live on a video stream she writes in her arm with a blade and smears the cuts on a sketchbook. Reversed rivulets spell “IGNORE”.