Hunted I never liked that thing she did, the way she looked out from under her fringe, like some sort of come on. I didn't like her little smiles, her oh-so shyness, her high-ness, her flutter flutter lashes. I only twice felt sorrow for this lady of saintly ways; once when she was being hunted by a pack of baying news-hounds, camera beasts with photo eyes, snarling in the darkness, waiting for their unsuspecting prey to step into the light and then pouncing to sink their telephoto lense into her startled eye. She tries to run, but, cornered she just breaks into weary tears. The second was that night when the news broke that again she tried to flee the pack, but had, instead found a peace, her body broken in a mess of steel and concrete. but even as she breathes her last the pack draws in, the smell of blood thick in their nostrils, and their hot flash bulbs pop as they drain her.