Bastard Katrina Lising Litrus editor in chief On more than one occasion,
He had been accused of not having a soul.
The people in his life, mostly the women,
Cursed him time and time again.
They called him bastard—
The bastard with no conscience.
They told him he could not possibly be human—
Usually at the top of their lungs
Tears gushing from their eyes
Snot dripping from their lips
Yet they all loved him.
Of all the hate that spewed out of their mouths
Forceful and passionate
Cupped inside a woman's rage
None could find strength to cultivate in their hearts.
They all wondered why.
He was not a handsome man

Yet they gravitated to him
Like children to an ice cream truck on a hot summer day.
He was not ugly.
His frame was built for hard labor.
At a glance, or even a stare, His physical was mediocre.
They wondered.
It was his mind, or more accurately, his words.
It was his inner being that made him so painfully beautiful.
He was charming in the most addictive way.
He was "happy." He was joy—
Concentrated in one person
And every instant you were with him.
They all wondered.
They all knew.