Claimed by Her Monsters

by Lexi Davis

“Hope is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson wrote, but my birds always get shot. They fall from the sky.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.”

I stumble back and get a good look at him, six and a half feet of solid muscle stuffed into a red-and-black flannel shirt with sleeves rolled back to display meaty forearms like he just clocked out from chopping down redwoods. Red hair, ginger stubble, a jaw carved from stone. Basically the dictionary definition of a manly man.

He clutches his chest like a Victorian maiden, green eyes bugging out. “Alister,” he squeaks, high and shrill, in a thick Scottish accent. “There’s a girl in your house. A live one!”

“How did Burger King get Dairy Queen pregnant?” I roll my eyes but play along. “I don’t know. How?” He’s bent over laughing before he even gets to the punchline. “He forgot to wrap his Whopper.”