J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been nominated three times for Best of the Net and once for the Pushcart Prize. He’s been published for over 30 years now, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. His latest chapbook, to live your dreams, will hopefully be out before 2025 ends. He has a blog but rarely has the time to write on it anymore. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
I didn’t expect to feel unsafe. That’s the hardest part to admit.
The person I was speaking with—a renowned sexologist, celebrated for their kink-aware, trauma-informed approach—had built a public reputation on consent, care, and empowerment. I had admired their work from afar. So when they asked about my medical condition in passing, I answered honestly. I was vulnerable, but I trusted the space.
What followed was not care. It was emotional domination disguised as engagement. The conversation veered into territory that felt coercive, destabilizing, and eerily reminiscent of a D/s dynamic—without negotiation, without safety, and without consent. I was misgendered after clearly stating my pronouns. My health condition was weaponized against me. They insisted on being the one to send the Zoom link, failed to ask if I wanted the session recorded, and never offered me control over the space.
And then—to top it all off, so to speak—it felt like they were playing cat and mouse with me. Like I was the tied-up sub and they were a literal psychopath hiding in plain sight. The dynamic was not therapeutic. It was predatory.
I left feeling retraumatized.
And I’m not alone.
We live in a time when boundaries are under siege—from political rhetoric that dehumanizes queer and trans bodies, to therapeutic and spiritual spaces that promise safety but sometimes deliver harm. The rise of authoritarianism isn’t just happening in governments—it’s happening in micro-interactions, in the misuse of power by those who should know better.
This is why instinct matters.
Instinct is not paranoia. It’s not drama. It’s the body’s wisdom speaking before the mind can rationalize. When something feels off—when a conversation leaves you feeling smaller, silenced, or emotionally cornered—that’s your signal. And it doesn’t matter how many degrees someone has, how many books they’ve published, or how many panels they’ve spoken on. Anyone can violate a boundary.
And anyone can choose not to listen when you say “no.”
As queer folx, as neurodivergent beings, as survivors, we are often taught to override our instincts in favor of politeness, professionalism, or perceived authority. But politeness won’t protect us. Only truth will.
So here’s mine: I was harmed. And I’m speaking up not to shame, but to protect.
If you’ve felt something similar—if your instincts whispered “this isn’t safe” and you doubted yourself—you’re not alone. You’re not overreacting. You’re remembering what safety feels like.
And that memory is sacred.
Let’s build spaces where instinct is honored, boundaries are respected, and care is more than a performance. Let’s haunt the canon with our truth.
About the AuthorKandy Fontaine (aka Alex S. Johnson) is a queer writer, editor, and literary agitator whose work spans poetry, fiction, memoir, and radical cultural critique. As the founder and editor of Riot Pink, Kandy curates voices that haunt the canon—centering queer, neurodivergent, and trauma-informed perspectives in defiance of literary gatekeeping. Their work appears in Neurospicy!, Nocturnicorn Books, and across underground zines and performance spaces. Kandy is also co-host of The Smol Bear N Pickles Show, where they explore the intersections of art, identity, and resistance with fellow visionary Alea Celeste Williams.
Kandy believes in the power of radical empathy, messy truth, and literature as a tool for survival and transformation.
Job’s ChildrenIt collapsed on them, and they are dead.
—Job 1:19
God let Satan kill Job’s children.
Seven sons and three daughters.
But it’s all okay because God later gave Job back
seven sons and three daughters.
Different ones.
But the same number.
Sometimes Job would take his new ten children
to the graves of the old ten children.
The boys would stand on the graves of the boys.
The girls on the graves of the girls.
Job would make them stand in age order.
Each had their place by a particular grave.
Sometimes when Job wasn’t looking
the children would switch places
because they were bored
because they were disobedient
because they wanted to remind each other
because they wanted to remind themselves
that they were not the same children
as the dead children.
These in the graves were dead.
Those on the graves were alive.
When Job caught them at it, he murdered them all.
Then he went out and bought new children.
Praise
God.
When I was eight years old and newly installed in the house my parents bought for our family, I received the ultimate answer to my dreams–for that week: nothing less than a Wham-O Wrist Rocket, the final word in slingshots. While today this product is composed of tellurium, whatever that is, and comes equipped with laser sighting mechanisms, the Wrist Rocket of my youth was a relatively simple slingshot, but with a difference. With the old-fashioned Y-shaped devices, you would simply grip it by the handle, aim and fire. But with the Wham-O weapon, it had a special brace, made of “Aircraft Aluminum,” which fitted over your wrist, giving you better leverage and increased firing accuracy. But at eight, I was only dimly aware of all this. All I knew was that they were fun! And now I had one.
Standing in my new back yard, I was on a safari, alert for all the ferocious creatures that stalked the neighborhood. I tried a few shots, one at our new metal garbage can. It struck with terrific impact and made a clattering sound that could have wakened the dead. Too easy. Next I tried a few trees, but they were still too easy, even the skinny ones. What I craved was live prey and there it was, up in the huge sycamore in our front yard. It was late summer and the trees were still clustered with leaves, but I spied a rich target: a gray-black bird with an orange belly, about fifty feet above the ground.
Inserting a rock from our newly graveled driveway, I stretched the rubber back nearly a yard, packing tremendous force into the shot. Then I let it fly, not really aiming but working on instinct. To my surprise–and resultant horror–the stone struck the little bird, shattering his wing. The robin dropped precipitously, thrashing his wings as he fell. He struck the ground on his back. He died instantly.
Eyes wide, I tentatively approached the beautiful creature, beheld his bright orange breast and searched for any sign of life. There was none; the robin was dead. I hurried away, too cowardly even to bury the bird. Other kids regularly preyed on small animals with slingshots, BB guns and the like, but I never had. Until now. I had unwittingly joined the ranks of the “mean kids,” who were marked by their abject cruelty to defenseless animals. And I didn’t like it. The next day it got much worse.
My dad was policing the property, in preparation for mowing the lawn, when he came upon the dead bird. “Someone killed a robin,” he said gravely. He looked at me. “You don’t shoot robins, do you?” he asked. He had a right to ask; I had mercilessly badgered him to buy the wretched Wrist Rocket. I shook my head no. I was never sure if my dad believed me; we never spoke of it again. I had never been aware of any particular feeling on my dad’s part, respecting birds or other creatures. Later I would learn that they had played a part in his growing up in the country, on a farm. And I admired my dad more than any man alive. Which brought home the enormity of what I’d done.
Distraught, I retreated to my bedroom, where I stashed the slingshot in my closet, never to use it again. The next day I threw it out. At supper that night my dad told my mom about neighborhood kids killing birds.
“You shouldn’t kill a robin,” he said simply, and I felt bitterly ashamed. It was the first and only time I lied to my father. A hard, life-changing lesson to learn at just eight years of age.
At this point it would be great to tell you that I became a millionaire and devoted my life to preserving wildlife and saving species from extinction. Not quite. I did well at math in school and ultimately became a college math professor. I settled into academia nicely. With only a few classes to teach and a few additional office hours, I had a lot of free time. After I got married and bought a house, I put up several bird feeders. I also supported the Audubon Society until I heard some negative things about it. After a spate bird-watching, I had to admit it bored me to tears. I reasoned that the best thing was to raise my kids, Sam and Judy, with respect for all life. On this my wife Susan and I agreed.
The kids won’t get any weapons, real or fake, as presents. I’m happy that Sam wants to study to be an environmentalist. Judy is making her old man happy too: she is doing great in her math classes, and wants to be a mathematician like me. On a research grant I used my math skills to work on species preservations. It wasn’t easy because there were so many variables: birthrates, predators, available food, genre ratios and the like, but I’m happy to say we’ve had some success. The Ontario Mouse that was near extinction is now thriving. The Klamath Darter, a small fish, is making a comeback.
I was invited to give a lecture on the subject in Eugene, Oregon, my home town. My speech was going well, but I wondered about a bald guy in the front row who looked familiar. He seemed to hang onto every word, even when I went into boring statistics. After the talk, I cornered him at the post-speech buffet and asked him who he was. He didn’t answer immediately, and then it dawned on me: Mr. Spangler, our neighbor from my neighborhood when I was growing up; I hadn’t seen him for 25 years.
“Is that you, Don?” I asked, stunned.
He admitted that it was and then went on to tell me how proud he was at how I’d turned out. He hesitated a moment and then said he’d had some misgivings about me back in the day. I furrowed my brow and asked him what he meant. Without a word, he turned up a brown paper bag and from it pulled a 30-year-old Whamo Wrist Rocket. He told me he’d seen me shoot the robin all those years ago and watched as I tossed the weapon of death into the trash. He’d saved it, he said, for just such an occasion. “I’m proud of you,” he said solemnly and it warmed my heart that my life had come full circle.
