Everything is random, until it isn’t. Chantey knows this all too well. That’s why she’s sitting alone in a diner with her brown eyes glued to the front door. Every minute she’s checking the time on her phone, and nervously tapping her feet. As she looked over her shoulder for the fourth time, she ran her fingers through her permed dark hair. Her nerves were so on edge, Chantey nearly jumped out her skin when the waitress said, hello. “Can I get you anything?” A young black waitress asked with her hands on her hips. Chantey’s eyes darted back and forth between the waitress and the front door. She cracked a partial simile and replied, “I’m just waiting on somebody.” “My boss said that rent has to be paid on these booths. So, you have to order something, or wait outside,” the waitress said pulling out a pen and flipping open a pad. Chantey sighed as she looked around the greasy spoon restaurant and noticed that every booth was filled. Customers licking fingers and smacking lips as they enjoyed Herb’s Louisiana Catfish. She had picked this place because it was way out in Brooklyn. Far from her college campus in Queens, so that no one would recognize her or her protégé. Chantey picked up the sticky menu and said, “Just give me some fries and a coke.” The bell chime at the front door went off and in walked a tall, lanky, man, wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt, Converse All-stars, and fedora hat. His white skinned looked like he was in desperate need of a tan. When Chantey saw him, she stood up and waived to get his attention. He quickly made his way over to the table and slid into the booth across from her. “What’s up Tey?” Corey said locking eyes with her. “It’s about time,” she said sitting on the edge of her seat. Chantey eagerly asked, “Did you get it?” Corey’s face curled into a smile, “My word is bond. If I tell you there’s cheese on the moon, go get your crackers.” “Whatever boy,” Chantey replied with a chuckle and dismissive waive. Then she reached out with an open left hand and said, “Come on with it.” Corey reached into the small of his back and pulled out a folded manila envelope. And just as he was about to place it in her hand, he pulled it back and asked, “What you got for me?” Chantey shook her head. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a freshly typed paper that was neatly stapled. As she slid the paper across the table she said, “I almost forgot. One lit term-paper breaking down, The Catcher in the Rye and its significance on 20 th century literature.” Corey took the paper and thumbed through it with a smile. He nodded while saying, “Cool, cool.” Then he handed the enveloped to Chantey. “Here you go. I hope you know what I had to go through to get this for you. If the administration found out, I’d be expelled.” “You have any idea how long it took me to write that paper. We even.” “It’s not that. I’m just saying. Since you’re an aspiring journalist and all, I hope my name stays out of this.” “You’re a source. I would go jail before I would reveal a source. Your secret is safe with me.” “Cool. Just let me know if there’s anything I could do for you in the future,” he said gently touching her smooth dark-skinned hands, “And I do mean anything.” Chantey glanced up with a smirk, “I like my men tall, dark, muscular, and handsome. You only got one out of four. Sorry honey.” Chantey took the envelope and went straight to the editor of her school newspaper, Justin Copeland. Justin was a graduate assistant, and was the one who gave out the assignments. She rushed to his office and pounded on the door before letting herself in. “Justin, you won’t believe what I got,” Chantey announced, barely able to contain her excitement. Justin stopped typing and turned around from his small desk that faced the wall. He adjusted his black rim glassed and hooked his long blonde hair behind his ears. Offering Chantey a seat next to him, he gave her his undivided attention. “I was able to get my hands on these reports,” she stated as she handed him the envelope. “Three woman who went to coach Franklin and reported they were sexually assaulted by a member of the football team.” While Justin read through the pages, he asked, “How did you get these?” “A true reporter never reveals her source,” she answered with a smile. Justin finished reading and exhaled loudly. Shaking his head, he handed Chantey back the paper. “Chantey, you were supposed to be writing an article on the life of coach Jim Franklin. Highlighting his accomplishments for his twenty years at the university. Not digging up unfounded dirt on him.” “But Justin, he knew what happened to these girls and he buried it. We have to follow up. Report it,” she pleaded with her words and her eyes. “You have a redacted report. So you don’t have the names of the alleged victims or the accused. The details of the alleged act are generic. Do you have any other sources, other than the person that gave you these reports?” “No,” Chantey replied with her head hanging down. “You have to have at least three confirmed sources for us to publish anything. Look, I applaud your effort. But Chantey, this is a small school newspaper. Not the Washington post. You’re not Bob Woodward, and this isn’t Watergate. Coach Franklin is the most powerful man on campus. He’s beloved. He’s well respected and connected. And he could kill this article before it’s even printed. And, he could have both of us kicked out of school for even suggesting he had anything to do with this. My suggestion to you, forget about this,” Justin said holding up the files. “And get back to writing your original article.” Chantey sat there with her legs crossed, dejected. She had on a cute pair of black legging that accentuated her curvy body. This caught Justin’s attention. He licked his lips before casually placing his hand on her knee. “I’ll be more than happy to help you get back on track. I’m free this evening. Maybe you can come by my place later and we can work on it together,” Justin smoothly offered with a sly grin as his hand inched up her thigh. Chantey grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand back as she rose to her feet, “I think I got it. But thanks.” Chantey quickly exited his office and went back to the dorm. She was use to men coming on to her, but not to having her ideas dismissed. Determined, Chantey pushed Justin’s words and actions out of her head. She walked in her tiny room, and was relieved that her nosey roommate was out. She took a seat at the small desk and placed the reports side by side to look for any clues. There wasn’t much to go by. The reports were generic. Just a date, time, the accusation, and the name of the Amanda Lewis. The secretary who logged the report. She racked her brain on where to start. Then it hit her. She grabbed her things and went to the athletic department. One the way, she stopped by the cafeteria and grabbed a hand full of onions from the salad bar. She messed up her hair a little, and rubbed the onions on her eyes. Pulling a hood over her head, she went through the lobby and to the desk of Amanda Lewis. Amanda sat up straight, flashed her pearly whites, and asked, “Hello. How can I help you?” Chantey pretended to look nervous. She leaned in close and whispered, “Excuse me, but is it possible for me to speak with coach Franklin. There was an incident with one of the players I’d like to discuss with him.” Amanda looked her up and down and shook her head. She reached into her draw and handed her one of those same report sheets. Leaning forward, she whispered back, “These boys are out of control. Do me favor and fill out this form. The coach typically takes meetings on Wednesday morning during the football season.” Chantey filled out the form and handed it back to her. Then Amanda handed her a sign in sheet. Chantey noticed that the old sign in sheets were still on there. She needed a second. Thinking quickly, she coughed and acted like she was choked up, and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?” “Sure dear.” Amanda hopped up to fetch some water. Chantey franticly searched through the pages until she found a date that match one from the last report dated, October 2 nd . She snapped a picture with her phone right before Amanda came back with a bottle of water. Chantey took the water, gave her the form, and thanked her immensely. There were five names that signed in that day, but only one belonging to a female, Heather Tyson. Chantey went to the massive student center in the middle of the campus. There were kids everywhere. Some in the lounge area studying, other in the recreation center playing pool or bowling. Chantey made her way through the crowds and into the bookstore. There she saw her roommate, Caroline. Caroline was in the stacks putting up a fresh shipment of books. Caroline looked like she was still waiting for puberty to end with a face full of acne, and glasses thicker than coke bottles. “Caroline, what’s up?” Chantey said strutting in with a big smile and leaning against the bookshelves. “I need your help with something.” “I don’t know, Tey,” Caroline said with a shrug. “I don’t want to get into any type of trouble. I know how you are.” Chantey wrapped her arm around Caroline’s shoulder and said, “Now would I let anything happen to my girl? I just need a little info. Help me out, and I’ll get you into the party that the Delta’s are throwing Saturday.” Caroline smiled, showing braces that look like railroad tracks. “What you need girl?” “I just need you to pull up the ID to a Heather Tyson. I want to talk to her about a story I’m doing. That’s all.” Caroline went into the office and pulled up the info on Heather. Chantey studied the photo of the short hair brunette with green eyes for a minute. I know this girl , she thought to herself, but she couldn’t remember from where. Chantey scribbled down the dorm number and went to her place. She was knocking on her door thirty minutes later. “Hello,” Heather said wearing a large sweatshirt with a textbook under her arms. She looked at Chantey like she knew her. “Hi, my name is Chantey. I’m with the school paper. You have a minute?” “School paper,” Heather mumbled, “That’s where I remember you. From Journalism 101.” “Yeah, that’s it. I thought I recognized you too. You mind if I come in for minute.” Heather opened the door all the way and invited her in. She sat on one twin bed while Chantey sat on the other, “So what’s up?” Chantey was silent for a minute, as she was choosing her words carefully, “I ah...I was doing a story on coach Franklin. And I came across a report that you filed with his office.” Heather’s eyes were as wide as silver dollars. “Oh my god! How did you find out?” “It’s a long story. But I know that you went to him and he buried it,” Chantey said leaning forward and grabbing her hand, “You’re not the only one.” Heather withdrew. Her eyes began to water. She stood up and paced back and forth, “You should leave.” Chantey stood up and blocked her path. “I know how difficult this is for you. But you can’t let whoever did this to you get away with it. This happened to two other women. And unless we expose him, it’ll keep happening. Please tell me your story. Maybe I can help you,” Chantey said softly with compassion in her voice. Heather closed her eyes and breathed heavily for a few minutes. She mumbled to herself. Chantey placed a hand on her shoulders, trying to comfort her. Heather grabbed a piece of tissue and dabbed her red eyes. She sat back down on the bed. Collecting herself, her voice cracked as she said, “He invited me back to his place to work on a paper. He was very nice and mannerable. He fixed me a drink. I took a couple of sips and felt woozy. Next thing I know, I wake up hours later on his couch with my shoes off, and panties pulled halfway down. And I couldn’t remember anything. I went to coach Franklin and told him what happened. And he said I probably had too much to drink and forgot what I did. But there’s no way I would’ve forgot drinking that much or sleeping with that guy. Anyway, he said it would be my word against his. And he was from a prominent family. So he convinced me to drop it.” “That’s awful. Who did this to you?” Chantey asked on the edge of the bed. “Justin Copeland.” Chantey nearly feel on her face. She was stunned. Then she remembered that Justin played football last year as a senior. Incredible. And he just tried to lure her to his place. Chantey stayed the evening with Heather. And they both cried and hugged and talked some more until curfew. Later that evening, Chantey sat at her desk, typing away. She had written a magnificent story. But there was no way this story would never get printed with the coach and now Justin in the way. He needed to be exposed. Then it her. She had a plan. Chantey showed up at Justin’s office two days later. She had some tight shorts that hugged every curve she had. And she had on a low-cut blouse that barely contained her cleavage. She took a seat in front of him. Chantey was so hot that when she crossed her legs, she could’ve started a fire. She handed him her paper. “You were right. That report was bullshit. I’m back focus. Trying to get this finished. What do you think?” Justin damn near went cross-eyed from looking at her thighs and her paper at the same time, “It looks good. But you still need to clean it up a little. My offer still stands. I’m free in the evening if you want to come by. We can knock this out tonight.” Chantey smiled and cut her eyes at him. “You know what, I’m going to take you up on your offer.” “Cool. Here, let me write down my address. And you can come by tonight around seven,” he suggested. * Justin was excited when saw that Chantey showed up at seven on the dot wearing the same outfit. Justin eagerly invited her in. He showed her around, then she followed him into his kitchen area. “Make yourself home,” Justin said as he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Chantey lips curled into a smile. “Can you do me a favor?” “Anything.” Chantey was rubbing her hands together. “I left my purse at my place. And my hands feel real dry. Could I trouble you for some lotion?” “Sure,” Justin went into his bedroom and grabbed a bottle of lotion from his dresser. He looked at his teeth to make sure nothing was in them, then he grabbed some tic-tacs and popped a few in his mouth. Excited, he skipped into the kitchen and handed Chantey the lotion. Then he offered, “I was going to have some wine. You care for some?” “Yeah. By the way. Do you mind if I use your restroom?” “Of course, It’s the second door on the left.” Chantey went to the bathroom and Justin pulled out a bottle of wine. He poured them both a glass. Peeping around the corner to see if she was coming, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a pill, rufilin. He dropped it into her drink, and it quickly disintegrated. Just as he finished, she came strolling back to the kitchen. He handed her the spiked drink while taking a sip of his own. Going into the living room, Justin turned on his record player and put on some smooth jazz. He went back in the kitchen. “This wine tastes good. What kind is it?” Chantey asked licking her lips. “Pinot noir,” Justin answered with a devilish grin. Chantey started blinking feverishly. She stood up and staggered, “I feel a little woozy.” Justin grabbed her arms and steered her toward the couch. “Why don’t you take a seat in here.” A few minutes later Chantey was out. Justin was rubbing his hands together as he stood over her. He ran into the bedroom and got a bottle of KY jelly. He slipped off his pants and applied the lubricant. Then he twisted her body around and began to unbutton her shorts. Just as he was about to pull them down, there was a knock at the door. Yanking his pants up, he stumbled over to the door and cracked it open. “Yes.” The campus police busted through the door and pushed him against the wall, “Justin Copeland, you are under arrest for attempted rape!” Confused, Justin yelled out, “What are you talking about!” “We talking about this you sick bastard!” Chantey said hopping to her feet and handing the police the spiked drink. Then she pointed to her phone that was propped up by the cookie jar recording everything. Justin bowed his head and shouted, “Fuck!” The End


(This is a fun, if a bit dark, alternate history short story written up off the back of a game of 'Hearts of Iron 4', in which I played as Ireland and really leaned in to how silly it got. I tried things and made an awful mess. It's not intended to be serious, or to reflect the real personalities of people named in the story. It isn't remotely realistic or historically accurate. About a 5 to 10 minute read!) How did we get here? James Larkin could only ponder this as he watched the last of the Irish air corp's enormous strategic jet bombers lumber into the air, heavy with their deadly cargo. If you had told him as a boy that something that heavy could fly, he would have laughed at you. They were setting off for what was once Iceland, now the northern extent of the fascist 'Resurrectionist Ireland'. Before, it had been part of Larkin's Irish People's Union. Better times, Larkin thought bitterly. He absent mindedly brushed a finger across the patch covering his ruined eye. In a few weeks, America's eastern seaboard would awaken to German carriers and fighter planes; the Italian navy would bombard the coast, and Axis troops would land their forces - probably sending what remained of the Irish army in with the Hungarians and Romanians as cannon fodder to establish a beach head. The lads would be cut down on the Jersey shore, in the name of Der Fuhrer. How did we get here? 1936. Tensions rise in Europe, as Germany re-militarises the Rhineland. In Ireland, the annoyance this causes the British leads to mirth, but serious people are concerned. James Larkin and Eoin O'Duffy represent opposing sides in the debate over what we should do - join in the Communist revolution (the Soviets, not being fond of the British, would be sure to protect us, and to fend off the fascists); or throw our lot in with the Reich, following the seemingly growing list of countries going that direction. Of course, there was also De Valera, and his tired brand of conformity and pandering to his Catholic idols. An Irish people yearning for identity, and seeking strong leaders to help liberate her northern province, appealed to the Communist and Fascist factions for promises of freedom for their northern cousins. In the end, in spite of the German Reich's successes in demanding territory across Europe (or perhaps because of it), the Communists won out. O'Duffy would be a thorn in Larkin's side for years to come, the threat of a Nazi sponsored fascist coup always lurking around the corner. The revolution was really a peaceful referendum for Ireland, but De Valera would never been seen again. James Larkin began planning to retake the north from Britain. The years that followed saw rapid development. As the Communist state machinery was erected, from Soviet youth schools to political commissars and ideology training centres, Ireland also rose to the challenge set for it by Stalin's USSR: "grow strong". The introduction of widespread conscription, limiting of export trade, and reduction in luxury goods being manufactured, was coupled with massive increases in military infrastructure. Research was directed towards producing infantry and artillery weapons; submarines and destroyers were designed, and dockyards built; fighters and bombers crept off small production lines, but accumulated nonetheless. Russian research and material support helped, but Ireland's scientists found themselves extremely well funded and given free reign to work on anything that would help us to fight. Scientists fleeing the Nazi party would find refuge in Ireland also, aiding our efforts. In time, the Irish armed forces stood around 300,000 strong - enough to make a contribution. Landing at Molotovsk in 1938, they marched through Russia to volunteer with Communist China in the struggle against Japan and her puppet Chinese statelets. They acquitted themselves well, but ultimately had to retreat and return to Ireland due to the harsh conditions and short supply in the eastern theater. And then, on the eve of the USSR's acceptance of Ireland's membership of ComIntern in 1939, war broke out between the Allied and Axis powers. Poland fell, then Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg...and France. As the Germans turned their sights on Denmark, an increasingly desperate Britain could not tolerate a strong Communist threat to her west. In a move nobody saw coming, they sent a diplomat named MacDonald with an offer. Join the war on their side, he said, and they would return Northern Ireland to our control. Larkin was stunned. It was his mandate for taking power, and it would simply land in his lap. There were only two problems. First, ComIntern would not take rejection lightly (joining the British in the war against the Reich would surely count Ireland out, as Germany had signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact with Russia). And the bigger problem: for the past 3 years, Larkin's people had been smuggling weapons in to the British Raj and Turkey, fuelling communist insurrectionist movements in India, and hoping to trouble British north African concerns from Turkey. To join the British war now might be suicide; a Britain without the manpower and resources of the Raj and Africa would be in real trouble. After much debate, Larkin elected to accept Britain's offer - then immediately betray them and complete the joining of ComIntern. The Irish felt no sorrow for this betrayal against the old enemy. Once their troops were removed and ours occupied their forts and coastal batteries, Britain would not dare try to retake a strong, unified Ireland; especially while at the same time trying to wrest control of Africa from the Axis. Much less would they try anything once India rose up in defiance. And as an added bonus to getting what Ireland wanted, "Unkle Joe", as Larkin had come to think of Stalin, would surely be pleased to see more Communist countries born from the ashes of the bourgeoisie. Having had so much success in coming to power and building Ireland up, having delivered the north to his people, Larkin supposed that his luck was about used up. This was confirmed in several ways. The insurrection in India was wildly successful, very swiftly removing Lord Linlithgow and his garrisons from power. However, the new India then decided that their best course to continue fighting the British would be to declare for the Axis. In joining Germany's Reich, they effectively closed themselves off from helping ComIntern - indeed, they would end up fighting against it. Turkey, taking their cue from the Indians, did the same. Ireland did join ComIntern in the end, though their apparent mismanagement of the outcomes in India and Turkey did not help. Who could have predicted that the Indian hatred for Britain was stronger than their love of the worker, or that the inheritors of the Ottoman Empire would be so easily swayed? In spite of her weakened state and desperate position, Britain declared war on Ireland in 1941 and began bombing. The effort was small, but enough to do damage and cause many casualties. People questioned Larkin's judgement, but spirits were kept high - and we fought back. Ireland's scientists had made much of the materials provided by Mother Russia, and by 1942 could build and fire simple rockets. From each of the four provinces, their vengeance weapons rained down on the UK, as many as four per day hitting somewhat random locations. Ireland was effectively cut off from Soviet supplies by the British navy, meaning the arms production which had now grown the army to over 400,000 halted in its tracks. Fuel reserves were low, so Ireland's fighters, bombers, submarines and destroyers had to greatly reduce their operation. Motorised troops became foot infantry again as trucks were mothballed. In late 1942, the Axis breached the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, and went to war with ComIntern. Ireland, (together with the USSR, Mongolia, and some place called Tannu Tuva) was now at war with all of the Axis and Allied powers simultaneously. As the Soviets fought Germany on the east front, and the Allies tried to gain a foothold in Africa, Ireland could only sit back and watch. In one piece of good news, shortly after going to war with nearly everyone (but especially the British), a small Irish force had managed to go off shore before the British blockade descended, landing on Iceland. Iceland had declared for the Axis, and as such it was a valid ComIntern target, and lightly defended. Iceland was taken with minimal casualties, and supplies could be moved home by air. Ireland would survive the British blockade, albeit with severely reduced growth. For the next several years, the war raged in Europe. The Americans had joined in 1941, throwing their forces time and again against an impenetrable coastal defence in France and Italy. Without strong UK support, and with the war in Africa all but lost, things looked grim for the Allies by the mid-40's. Casualties stood at over 8 million, though this was dwarfed by Soviet losses. The Reich lost people too, but enormous industrial output and manpower from captured territories fuelled their divisions. African resources were increasingly reaching them instead of the Allies, as the UK and France were squeezed out of Africa. Japan entered the war and worked its way south through the Philippines and Dutch East Indies, eventually taking isolated Australia and New Zealand. In Europe, the front lines moved little, and losses mounted. It was a war of attrition, lives the currency which would buy victory. 12 years in to the war, in 1950, all that remained of the Allies was Canada, the USA, and the UK. Distracted by their western front with Japan, and having bounced off French and Belgian shores for perhaps the 10th time, the USA was powerless to assist when German forces, using Italian naval power, stormed the beaches of Britain. Paratroopers captured towns and villages, while tanks rolled through the cities, a blanket of fighter and bomber cover atop their positions. The UK had endured through so much, but capitulation was inevitable. Ireland had fended off small British and American attempts at landing and capturing our island, but serious questions had to be asked about determined Axis landings from British shores. In the end, the German forces returned to Europe, leaving an occupying force in the UK and concentrating on fighting Russia. Ireland, freed of the UK naval pinion, was now entrapped by Italian boats. At least the bombing stopped. Irish rocketry had matured and come in to its own, and the rocket bombardment was redirected to western Germany. Jet engines were discovered by 1951, and Irish designers created a strategic bomber with enough range to bomb German factories and infrastructure. When the Italian navy relented, moving off to fight elsewhere, the majority of the Irish army set off to join the eastern front in the fight against the Axis, landing once more at Molotovsk. They found the front line much further east than they would have hoped - a huge German salient extended to Yaroslavl. Worse, they discovered that several years of stagnation in terms of arms production left them with obsolete equipment, particularly the artillery which simply could not compete. Their anti-tank was not up to par either. German panzer divisions pushed them back time and again, and the massive air power of the German Luftwaffe meant they could not hold a position for long. The Irish fought bravely, throwing themselves in wave after wave at German positions; even the Russians thought they were crazy. They briefly retook and held Moscow before a vicious counter assault threw them out of the city. Eventually, the tattered rags of the army returned home, hoping to rebuild and fight once more. At this time, another of Larkin's secret plots came to fruition. Irish scientists, with Russian research and some stolen nuclear material, had been working on nuclear bombs. Nobody knew that the fancy new power plant in Castlebar was spinning off a deadly side product, something which could smite a city like the god of the old testament himself. In early 1952, two bombs were prepared: Fear Saille and Buachaill Beag. They were loaded on to a pair of bombers, and the high command saluted them as they took off on their path to glory. Frankfurt and Hamburg were the targets. The devastation was immeasurable. Rather than weaken the German resolve, it led them to make an even harder push to their east. Larkin's generals reported on Christmas day 1952 (a day that had been renamed "Irish freedom from oppression day") that a Soviet collapse was expected imminently. On the 26th, it was officially confirmed. A communication was received from what was probably the last standing outpost of the Russian military. Their message simply stated "All is lost. The revolution has failed. Europe and the world are Adolf's playground. I can only say that I will go out with a grenade in my mouth, and a Nazi throat in each hand. Good luck comrades." In Dublin, Larkin convened his generals and began to plan for the defence of our shoreline. The room grew unusually quiet, and Larkin sensed spaces opening up around him. Eoin O'Duffy held the pistol. There was a bang, a flash of light, and then darkness. The bullet had destroyed his left eye and maimed his face, but Larkin survived. In the end, the Irish people's gratitude saved him from execution - making him a martyr might have ignited a deadly civil war. O'Duffy's moment had finally come. Resurrectionist Ireland rolled its flags out everywhere, and a people now worried for their survival embraced, on the surface at least, fascist ideology. It struck Larkin how easily the extreme leftist tools of state could be turned to the use of the extreme right. On release from hospital in June 1953, Larkin was given a token post in the military, and never found himself in want of company - fascist thugs became his shadow, everywhere he went. In the end, the Germans were welcomed ashore when they arrived some months after the coup. Much to O'Duffy's annoyance, the officer in charge of their forces declined to meet him, instead asking to have Larkin brought to his ship immediately. Boarding, Larkin felt sure he would not walk off again. The man who had ordered two nuclear detonations in German cities could surely find no forgiveness in the jaws of the wolf. Ushered in to an unexpectedly plush cabin aboard a German warship, Larkin met SS Oberst Gruppenfuhrer Sepp Dietrich. "Herr Larkin. Komm her. Sitzen." Dietrich came close, handing a glass of whiskey to Larkin, and stared intently at him, taking in every detail of his face - showing no awkwardness at pausing to closely examine a wrinkle here, a laughter line there, the protruding scars under the eye patch. Finally, he spoke again. "So good...to finally meet the brave, powerful man responsible for Hamburg. And Frankfurt of course. But for me...mostly Hamburg. Mein schwester...my sister was there, and her children." Larkin swallowed. What might these sick SS have devised, what ways could he be made to suffer? Whispers and stories told of secret camps behind their lines where unspeakable things were done...what if they were true? Dietrich chuckled menacingly. "No need for concern, Herr Larkin. No, it is I who should be sorry. Mein Fuhrer has guided me, and made this clear. He taught me that I should be sorry...that we were not strong enough to stop you." He slammed his drink on the table, causing Larkin to nearly drop his own. "The might of your little nation is unquestionable. And now it will serve us. You will work with O'Duffy to disarm the divisions that were most loyal to you. We will send what remains of Irish forces to fight elsewhere. You will use your subtle expertise to ignite a coup in Canada, and another in Mexico - fascist coups, this time, Herr Larkin. And above all, you will send your verdammt bombs down the throats of the Americans. Finish your drink and get off my ship." Larkin swallowed his whiskey. It was excellent. It is 1953. Irish jet bombers are gathering in Iceland, preparing for their first sortie over the eastern seaboard of the US. They wait only for the signal that the skies have been cleared by the Luftwaffe. James Larkin, with his remaining eye, watches the last bomber dissolve from a dot in to nothingness as it fades from view. In a few days, the USA will be engulfed in flames, and the world's best hope for freedom from the Reich's grip will blink out and slip away. "I brought us here", thinks James Larkin.


Standing on the turret of his tank, the “Shining Lance”, Sir Jerrod looked out across the dusty sun blasted plain. It was midsummer, and the land had not seen rain in nearly a month. Normally green fields were brown, the soil baked and cracked, the soft gusts of hot wind kicking up dust devils across the gently sloping valley. Looking along the line of waiting tanks, each decorated with unique heradly that had faded over the long campaign, Sir Jerrod saw the signal flags go up from the Lord-Commanders vehicle. “It’s time to advance, mount up!” “At your command Sir. Ready?” “Ready!” “Ok, spool her up!” Gunner Fio took hold of the crank handle at the rear of the tank and started to turn it. Driver Rik, hearing the sound from the driver's seat, began to feather the throttle, the engine coughing then roaring into life, dark smoke puffing out of the rear exhausts. Fio hopped up the back of the tank and went through the rear turret hatch to settle himself in the gunner's seat. Sir Jerrod got into the commander's position in the turret, standing for the time being exposed out the top of the hatch. He pulled on his earpiece, then his Sallet over the top. “This is Lead, test test test, you all receive?” “This is Driver, all received.” “Gunner, all received Sir.” “Ok, standby.” Sir Jerrod glanced with faded blue eyes across at the Command vehicle. This time he heard the command as well as saw the signal flag; “All units, this is Main, standby advance half speed; advance, advance.” “Driver, half forward towards the crest.” “Received.” The Shining Lance gently began to move forwards, it’s worn tracks digging into the hard dirt and kicking up dust as the tank slowly accelerated. Sir Jerrod looked out across the line, 33 tanks in total and 120 hand-gonners, all advancing in line. With all this dust, it would be hard to disguise their approach. The land before them gradually sloped down towards a shallow valley where a small drovers' path sided by low wooden fences ran across their route.Past the path the slope began to slope up again. At the end of the valley to their left, where the slope began to rise, was a small wood that ran up over the crest of the hill and beyond. From scouting the previous night, they knew that the Silano forces were arrayed on the plateau at the top of the slope, where they had set up a staging camp. Not the strong defensive position one would normally choose for such a thing, it was believed that they had chosen it for convenience, to speed their way inland towards the Eastern hinterlands where the frontlines were. Lord Commander Phelief had led his force on an exhausting flanking maneuver for the last three nights, a daring move aiming to get into the underbelly of the Silano forces and gut them, finishing this conflict before it really started. If successful, they would cut the main Silano force off from their reinforcements, but it was a risk; three days of travel had nearly emptied their tanks, the extra cans of fuel they had taken with them all empty. If this attack was not successful and they could not capture the enemy's fuel reserve, they would not have the fuel left over to return. Sir Jerrod knew that all strategy depended on the balance of risk and reward, but this particular situation made him nervous. But he could also feel this desperation fuel him, fuel all of them. They were like wolves, hungry, stalking their prey. “Loud wolves”, Sir Jerrod said quietly to himself, with a smirk. Tanks are not good for sneaking up on much. The Lord Commanders voice came on over the radio; “1st Company, veer left into the woods, 2nd and 3rd companies continue straight, then stop short of the ridgeline. Do not be seen”. “Driver, veer left”, Sir Jerrod instructed, “we’re heading into the trees”. “Received, Sir”. As the woods spilled out onto the plateau, they would be trying to use them to mask the movements of the 1st Company long enough for them to get into a flanking position. Based on the location of the camp, having 1st company in the treeline and 2nd and 3rd companies on the ridge, the enemy camp would be caught in the crossfire provided by the “L” shaped deployment. At least that was the plan. Most units didn’t like operating in wooded areas, but the tanks of the Dolmet Royal Army were better suited than most for such a task, designed for use in the narrow mountain passes and small meadows and villages of their homeland, the three man Galator model tanks had shorter gun barrels with good elevation and depression, making it easier to swing them around in confined environments, but it did come at the cost of power and range. As they drew into the woods, Sir Jarrod reached for the pintle mounted machine gun, and pulled back the charging lever. “Gunner, load HE rounds, don't stop visual scans”. “Loading HE.” Sir Jarrod felt the clunk and snap of the round being fed into the breach of the main gun. He wanted their first shot into the camp to cause as much confusion and panic as possible. If they could, they’d target an ammunition dump. Just not the fuel. The trees drew in around them, reflecting the sound of their engine back at them. It sounded deafening. He wondered what types of trees they were, they had lots of small teardrop shaped leaves on the branches that appeared a very light shade of grey. They all shook together in the slightest breeze, as if the tree was shivering. The Shining Lance was set to be on the very end of the line, the extreme left. It was custom that more experienced crew go to the far flanks, as they held a greater responsibility for not allowing the line to be flanked. One by one, as the 1st Company and it’s supporting infantry advanced through the woods, a tank would peel off right towards the treeline where it would lie in wait, a small squad of infantry going with each tank. This continued until the Shining Lance was the last tank to turn. Sir Jerrod noted just before their turn that they were about to go into a small open meadow in the woods. As they did, the brilliant sunlight of the open sky dazzled him, so bright compared to the dark closeness of the woods. It so dazzled him that for a second, he did not first see the Silano soldiers all around him, staring slack jawed at the tank that had apparently materialised in front of them. Then he did see them. “Shit”. One of the soldiers screamed “Alarm!” and picked up his weapon. Sir Jerrod swung the machine gun in their direction and loosed off a quick burst that cut the soldier down, the sharp snap of gunfire cutting through the relative silence of before like a knife. Suddenly there were some men sprinting away in all directions, others picking up their weapons and firing at the tank, rounds ricocheting off it’s steel flanks, Sir Jerrod furiously returning fire with the MG. “Gunner, fire at will!” The main gun spoke, the tank vibrating violently as the propellant charge detonated within the breach, propelling the 50mm shell out of the barrel at just over 800 meters a second. The shell hit the ground near a knot of men firing at them from across the meadow, detonating and throwing several of them back, the force of the shell and shrapnel tearing their flesh and fragmenting bones. That seemed to end the last attempt at resistance, the last of the soldiers disappearing into the trees. The whole action had lasted less than 20 seconds. “Driver, hard right and full speed towards the treeline, they know we’re here! Gunner, load AP. Main, this is 1/11, we have enemy contact in the trees, infantry only, repeat we have been engaged.” As they drove quickly out of the meadow and towards the treeline, he noticed buckets full of small berries left abandoned on the grass. A foraging party. Just their luck. The Shining Lance drew to the edge of the forest overlooking the plateau to find chaos. A camp of tents, trenches, foxholes and parked vehicles sat approximately 300 meters in front of them.Fires and black billowing smoke rose from various parts of the camp, and men ran back and forth, trying to set up defensive positions in the sparse earthworks they had set up. The first few enemy armoured vehicles had started up, chunky rounded things with hull mounted main guns, called Rondels. The tanks of 1st company and supporting infantry were already firing at the camp, and the Shining Lance joined in. A Rondel had targeted them, but fired it’s round a touch high, the shell screaming above them, ripping and tearing through the branches of the trees before disappearing to detonate far behind them. Sir Jerrod had hunkered back down into the turret, closing the hatch behind him. “Gunner, target at 105 degrees, approx 300 meters, aim for the gun port.” “Target in sight.” “Fire!” The tank rocked as the shell arced out. Gunner Fio’s aim had been true, and the AP round with it’s hardened tip had penetrated the enemy gunner’s viewport, detonating inside the vehicle with a hail of shrapnel to kill the crew. “Adjust right 15 degrees, second target at approx 320 meters, angled armour.” “Target acquired” “Fire!” The second shell fell low and hit the tracks of the other tank, breaking it. As the Rondel turned to acquire the Shining Lance as it’s target, the tracks slipped off and the vehicles exposed drive wheel and running wheels began to dig into the earth, stopping it from rotating. After a second, the crew began spilling out of their immobilized tank, just before another shell slammed into it’s other side, this one penetrating the armour and fuel tank, causing it to catch fire. Sir Jarrod could see that despite the initial damage they had caused, more of the Rondels were being crewed and turning their attention towards the treeline. A shell struck the Galator tank nearest to the Shining Lance which must have hit the ammunition, for the entire tank exploded instantly. The infantry who had been firing from near it were cut to ribbons by scything pieces of metal coming from the destroyed tank. “Gods.” Sir Jerrod could see the Rondel that had fired that shell turning to take them next. “Gunner, on him!” “Standby” “Driver, ready to advance.” “Ready!” “Sir I have him! “Fire!” The shell struck the Rondel near the gun mantlet, wedging for a millisecond in the joint before detonating, bending the barrel. Fio whooped at such a lucky shot. At that moment, 2nd and 3rd companies emerged from the ridgeline and opened fire, tearing into the exposed flank of the Rondel tanks facing the treeline. “Driver full ahead, now!” \- I wrote this all in one go at 4 in the morning after I had 1 too many coffee's.


This Santa is a bit different. He brings two bags full, slung over his shoulder, and rather than using the chimney, bursts through our back door, unexpected. He leaves another knob-sized dent in the drywall and pries the trim from the doorframe as he forces his oversized load through the undersized threshold. And this Santa doesn’t arrive with a cheerful greeting, but a somber, “Hey,” followed quickly with a slightly less somber, “What’s for dinner?” The pan-fried chicken portioned for three now needs to accommodate five, since this Santa, even at 153 pounds, boasts a Clausian-sized appetite. Santa drops his load in the laundry room and proceeds to pester his mother with a series of questions about how the machines work, which detergent to use, the history of the dryer sheet and its rise to prominence, until she finally relieves him of his post. “Hey,” I say, which I assume will garner some acknowledgment after he’s completed the pressing matter on his phone--but I’m proved presumptuous. I watch Santa shift his attention and begin scanning the room. He skulks, snoops, rummages--cupboards, closets, dark corners--nowhere’s safe. He sprints up the stairs, impressive for a jolly old soul, then down to the basement, before taking a second pass at the main floor. But what makes this Santa truly unique is his propensity to leave a house with less, and never more, than when he arrives. Year after year phone chargers top his list, but he’s not picky--pens, paper, cereal, snacks, small furniture, socks, pillows, bedding, speakers, batteries, and, of course, garbage bags. Garbage bags are especially coveted for their versatility as laundry bags, grocery bags, shopping bags, laundry baskets, dresser draws, suitcases, and least of all, garbage bags. To be fair, there is a decent chance we’ll be getting some of the stuff he swipes back, wrapped haphazardly, when the holidays actually do roll around. Once we settle in for the meal, I ask, “How are classes?” Santa is a man of few words. Scratch that. Santa is a man of few sounds, and I think I hear something that resembles, good . His answer originates as a subtle vibration in his chest that somehow bypasses his vocal cords and just happens to ride the passing current of conditioned air to my left ear before fading into the ether. “How’s Mrs. Claus?” I ask. The inside joke doesn’t register, but the question reminds him it’s been too long, eight seconds, since he’s checked his phone. My daughter has better luck. She asks Santa if he had Mrs. Silsmeyer when he went to Bradford West. It’s enough to distract him from his screen to begin searching the middle distance for a definitive answer. He returns with something that sounds like, maybe , before resuming his default position. My daughter accepts his answer and uses it as a springboard to rail against the chemistry professor for the next twenty minutes. I am her only captive audience since my wife has left her meal to cool while tending to Santa’s formidable mound of mentionables and unmentionables. This will be the third time I’ve heard of Mrs. Silsmeyer’s starring role as the Wicked Witch of West. Santa dismisses the story with the occasional huff and grunt, which is plenty to keep my daughter encouraged until I remind her that two bites are not enough to stay alive. It’s no secret that Santa is a busy man and a popular guy, especially right after dinner. He’s engrossed in an urgent call, so much so, that my daughter and I need to repeatedly reposition him so we can clear his plate, his fork, his knife. his spoon, his glass, his napkin, and then wipe his place setting, his chair, and the floor beneath. When I begin washing the pots and pans by hand, Santa seems annoyed by the noise from the running faucet and intermittent disposal, and how it’s added to the rumble from the laundry room. The ruckus is forcing him to strain to hear his girlfriend. Graciously, he relocates to the den and closes the doors behind him. Santa reemerges just in time to find the kitchen spic and span, which I’m guessing is a rare sight from whence he’s come. I imagine he must find it all rather mysterious and magical. With his laundry still not done, there’s time for Santa to make a pile by the back door of the goods marked for export. It’s a light load this time--one garbage bag with items we’ll only discover gone long after he has. There’s really no telling what’s in the opaque black receptacle, only that it bears no rhyme or reason. We’d be just as likely to find expensive electronics as a pair of dress shoes, or a box of Q Tips as a box of Bisquick--so random and varied, and in that way, reminiscent of the real McCoy. Meanwhile, I’m busy tending to garbage bags of my own, that actually have, get this, garbage in them. I side-step Santa and his loot and shift sideways to tip-toe the hefty sacks through the doorway so as not to further damage the house on my way to the trash cans. When I get to the driveway, I see that his sleigh is blocking my path. It’s backed in close, anticipating a large haul. I call back for Santa to move it, but it’s my wife, with key in hand, who assumes the duties. When I return from my chores, I find Santa, tired and weary as you’d imagine, parked on the couch, in front of the TV. And like the day I found out the truth about Santa, I balloon with shock and anger. I’ve had it with the laziness, the messiness, the disregard. This once loving, jolly, smiley, pudgy bundle who regaled us with songs and dance, overflowed with infectious joy and enthusiasm and provided such hope and promise of great things to come, year after year, is now reduced to something unbearable. I tamp my instinctual temper. I understand my pivotal role in this development and recognize my duty to set things straight--again. Sprawled upon the couch, clicker in one hand, his phone in the other, oblivious to the storm that’s brewing, Santa scrolls and scrolls while I summon the nerve and my argument. I rehearse the lines in my head: things have to change, this behavior is unacceptable, you are better than this. I fill my lungs and part my lips. Then Santa turns to me. And speaks. Audibly. “You wanna watch the game?” He motions to the TV where he’s cued up the pre-game show to tonight’s match between the Sixers and the Nuggets, a possible preview of the NBA Finals and a matchup of the two teams my son and I happened to see the last time we caught a live game together. He says, “It’s the Nuggets. Remember when we saw them a few years ago? That was fun. We should do that again.” Then my daughter curls up next to him on the couch and he puts his phone aside to wrap his arm around her. Then his mother hands him a bowl of caramel corn and he thanks her and shares it with his sister. And then the dog lumbers over and plops himself down and my son begins stroking his fur with his foot. And I stand there, lips still parted, suspended in space and time, and figure that maybe I could find a way to believe in Santa again.


The cabin was surrounded by a vast woodland, beautiful and bright green in the summertime, filled with childhood memories of happiness and joy. It was winter now, and with grandma's death, the grandchildren gathered one more time at their childhood temple. The emerald green turned white, grey, and dead. Their trudging in the thick snow echoed in the still forest, robbed of vibrating leaves and animals. Everything was silent on the icy, misty morning they arrived at old grandma's house. Three cars gathered at the open area on the front, and three sets of cold feet trailed up to the entrance. They met, they hugged and looked around, sighing in the chilly air. "I don't think we've ever been here in winter..." The middle sister smiled, longing in her brown eyes. "It feels so weird without grandma." The older brother responded, and both siblings nodded slowly. There was an odd feeling in them. The ominous presence of the frosted forest looming over them. They pushed the sensation aside, though, telling themselves that everything felt different because they were different. They were adults now, their parents weren't there, their young loves are long forgotten, and grandma was dead. Unlocking the door, the house received them with a putrid scent, pulsing into their nostrils. "Oh... What's that smell?" The girl brought a gloved hand to her face. "A dead animal, maybe?" The youngest commented, shrugging as he stepped in first, but as soon as he was inside, another wave of thick, warm air wafted over him. "Uhg, what's that stench?" It didn't smell like roadkill. It was... Something he couldn't recognize. Looking back, the front door was closed, his brother and sister nowhere to be found. "Guys?" He chuckled nervously, thinking the other two decided to prank him. "C'mon guys, come in." The young man attempted to walk back to the door, but he couldn't move. He glanced around the empty cabin, his eyes shifting from a window to the next one. It was pitch black outside, and it was almost as if the darkness crawled inside, taking over the place. The man whimpered, his muscles tense, cold sweat running down his back. "Max..? Sadie?" A fear that he'd never experienced before climbed from his paralyzed legs to his chest. Tendrils of desperate panic clutching at his heart while warm tears carved his cheeks. He heard the wooden floor creaking under a heavy weight that drew closer behind him. "Guys?!" He cried out. "Please, open the fucking door!" The youngest brother wasn't sure if his shouting would be heard from outside. He wasn't sure if he was awake. Maybe he hadn't even woken up yet and was still at home, in bed next to his boyfriend. He hoped so, crying in his spot as a shadow grew behind and around him. The creaking sound becoming louder, and then it wasn't just that. He heard gurgling, a low, wet rumble that extended to his ears, making him shiver. Feeling engulfed in darkness and hot and sickly wetness, he couldn't stop screaming for help. And, in the blink of an eye, Max and Sadie opened the door. Bright light filled every corner of the house, and he was left alone, safe now with the others. "Finally!" Max exclaimed. "The wind closed it, and it got stuck. Can you believe that?" The older sibling asked him, examining the door and its frame before pushing it closed. "Are you okay, Brian?" The sister asked him, noticing his pale face and red eyes. "Yeah..." He could move again. "I'm alright. Just... Missing grandma, I guess...


# Chastity By Chandler Morrison  It was on their wedding night that the girl first saw the boy turned into a man, and it was a very ugly thing, indeed. She sits by the open window, a warm breeze tugging lightly at her hair, beckoning her out beyond the gently-rustling curtains and into the still of the night. If the fall were farther, maybe she’d listen. Instead, she wipes at her eyes, lights a cigarette, and looks at the man who lies asleep in the bed. Yes, the *man*, for that’s what he is, though he hadn’t always been that way. Not to her. No, up until this night, he had been a boy. *Her* boy. He’d been the boy on the playground, pushing her off the swings and yanking her braids, only to follow such acts of juvenile cruelty with a surreptitiously-passed note ending in “Check YES or YES”. Two boxes, one possible answer. That’s all he’d ever given her, and that’s all she’d ever needed. He’d been the boy who waited, because she told him she wanted to wait. He’d been the boy who never protested, never pleaded. Never tried to snake his hand where it didn’t belong. He’d been that rare kind of boy who was too bashful to even let his eyes drop anywhere south of the hollow of her neck, even when she was wearing a swimsuit or a snugly-fitted top. “Wait...not even *once*?” one of the bridesmaids had exclaimed that morning as she was helping the girl primp her hair. “You two have been together since, like, *forever*, and you’ve *never*...?” The girl’s responding smile had been one of both gleeful pride and diffident innocence. She looked at the bridesmaid’s reflection in the big vanity mirror, curled eyelashes batting bashfully, and said, “Not even once.” Hip cocked, holding the hair curler out to one side like a magic wand, the bridesmaid said, “But you guys, like, did other stuff, right?” The girl shrugged. “I mean, yeah, we French kiss all the time. And once I let him put his hand on my chest...over my shirt, of course...but that was just because I’d drank half of Alyssa’s beer at Jessica Tomlin’s party in tenth grade. Everyone had gone outside, and it was just me and him in the basement, and we started kissing and obviously it got a little out of hand.” She giggled at the unintentionally turned phrase. “But we stopped after a few minutes and went outside with the others.” “Oh my god, honey,” the bridesmaid said, her eyes wide, “How can you marry a guy you’ve never slept with? I mean, fuck, you don’t even know if he has a nice dick.” The girl blushed, and shrugged again. “I don’t know the difference between a nice dick and a bad one, so whatever he has will be just fine.” The bridesmaid rolled her eyes theatrically and said, “*Darling*, you’ll *know*.” She set the hair curler down, indicated a distance with two raised index fingers, and said, “If he’s not at least *this* long...” She paused appraisingly, then decreased the distance by an inch or so, amending, “Okay, *this* long, just to be safe...if he’s not at least *this* long, you’re going to have *serious* problems. Of course, girth is really important, too, and...” The girl put her hands over her ears and said, “*Lalalalalalala*, stop, I’m putting on my earmuffs.” Now, the girl looks over at her sleeping husband, thinks about the space between the bridesmaid’s fingers, and sighs. She holds the cigarette up to her face, glances once more over at the man in the bed, and feels fresh tears burn her eyes. How different it had been, just one day previous. How different *he* had been. He’d been her *boy*. In her mind, she sees that roguishly handsome prince, hair blowing in the wind, bouncing between the broad shoulders of a galloping white stallion. But that boy is not in that bed tonight. That boy is nowhere to be found. Now, it’s just the *man*. The great, oafish man, sprawled across the tousled sheets, the pallor of his flesh reminding the girl of long-curdled milk. Dense tufts of curled, wiry hairs erupt from the oddest and most unseemly places on his body. His toenails are jagged and untrimmed, and the heels of his feet are scaly and cracked with dead skin. The glossy sheen of oily perspiration in which his body is encased carries with it a pungent odor of overused athletic gear. A grumbling, sputtering snore-like noise emits periodically from deep within his nasal passages. “Do you even know how, like, um...how everything *works*?” the bridesmaid had asked, regarding the girl’s mirror-reflected face with troubled concern. “Do I need to give you the, uh...the *talk*?” It was the girl’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, *stop*, I know enough. I’m not worried. It’s going to be special and beautiful and perfect. This is how it’s *supposed* to be. It’s how Jesus intended.” “Please, spare me the Jesus freak shit. Let’s get real, here. There are things you need to know. You can’t just go bounding blindly into your bridal bed and expect everything to go as you imagine it will.” “I *won’t* be blind,” the girl said, “for the Lord is my shepherd.” Swiping at her eyes once more with the back of her hand, the girl looks out at the starless night sky, and she does not see God. She had indeed bounded blindly into her bridal bed, and things had not gone as she’d imagined they would. She did not feel shepherded. It had been inelegant, clumsy, and disjointed. Their clammy, naked limbs had tangled together like knotted seaweed. Her breath came out in nervous gasps, his in loud, heaving grunts. They fumbled about, twisting and groping awkwardly as they attempted to align themselves in the most logistically sound position for the task at hand. Each time he went to clutch some part of her, his grip was too tight, too cold. It was like being prodded and probed with kitchen tongs. And then, all at once...*the metamorphosis*. As soon as he entered her, he changed. Lying on her back, struggling for breath and squeezing her eyes closed in a vain attempt to shut out the revulsion twisting within her stomach, she felt her husband morph into a man. Gone was the sweet boy of her dreams. He’d been replaced by this maladroit mass of tectonically shifting flesh that ground atop her and pushed the air from her lungs. His face, prickly with stubble, was buried in the side of her neck, his breath bursting out in hot plumes like smoke from a steam engine. She could hear gurgling digestive noises bubbling within his stomach. She imagined all of his internal fluids, all that blood and bile, mucus and pus and diluted, befouled water...all of it jostling around inside of him as he fucked her. In that moment, the girl considered the possibility that she’d made a mistake. In *this* moment, watching him sleep while contemplatively dragging from the cigarette with awkward, unpracticed motions, she thinks to herself, *No. No, I’ve* definitely *made a mistake.* She looks back out the window, peering down to the ground just two stories beneath her, and finds herself wishing they’d taken the hotel concierge up on his offer to upgrade them to the bridal suite on the fifteenth floor. “That’s okay,” she’d said in declination, smiling up at her new husband. “We don’t need anything fancy.” He turns over in his sleep, snorts, and then lets out a protracted expulsion of gas. The girl cringes. She feels nauseated, and she can’t tell if the cigarette is making it better or worse. “You *know* I’d never touch one of those,” she’d told the bridesmaid when she’d held the pack out to her after she’d finished with her hair. Rolling her eyes, the bridesmaid thrust the pack into her hand. “Trust me,” she’d said. “There’s nothing like cigarettes after sex.” The girl doesn’t think this is what the bridesmaid had in mind. Trying to ignore the pain throbbing between her temples, she takes another dejected drag and holds the smoke in her lungs until her eyes burn and tear up again. When she exhales, she finds herself wondering, with increasing despondence, what else she may have been wrong about. She’s been married for a matter of mere hours and has only just lost her virginity less than thirty minutes ago, and already life is revealing itself to be a disappointment of seismic proportions. She wants to be angry...that, she feels, would be the appropriate response...but she’s unable to find anything at which she can direct said anger. Her parents, for not preparing her for what was in store? The boy, for not living up to her expectations? Walt Disney and Nicholas Sparks, for *creating* those expectations? Or herself, for allowing that omnipresent torrent of mystical hopes and dreams to sweep her off her feet and drop her down into that wretched, sweat soaked marriage bed? She suspects all of them had something to do with it, but the lattermost one guiltily hangs its head the lowest when standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the others in the lineup. Deciding it isn’t helping, she flicks the cigarette out the window. Her eyes trail after the yellow ember as it makes its descent before crashing onto the asphalt in a muted explosion of sparks. Then, her eyes flick over to the phone on the nightstand. It rests languidly in its cradle like a sleeping dog. Biting her lip, she thinks about her future. She doesn’t have to think for very long. Advancing on tip-toe, she creeps over to sit down on the edge of the bed, and then she lifts the phone and dials the front desk. “Yes, um, hello,” she whispers into the receiver, looking over her shoulder to make sure the man hasn’t been startled out of his slumber. “Yes, my...um, my...my husband and I...” She pauses, her mouth dry. She licks her lips, eyeing the open window. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I would like to have that bridal suite, after all.


"I know it sounds stupid," The man said. The bar wasn't busy, but he still had to raise his voice a little to compete with the clamor of small talk, 90's alternative, and Monday night football that filled the place. He took a shot of something clear and winced, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his crisp, blue linen shirt. "But I just don't feel the spark anymore." "The spark? Bullshit dude, life's not the fuckin' Notebook. How long you guys been together?" The bartender asked. "Ten years." She clicked her blood-red ballpoint a few times before sticking it in her shirt pocket, right below a nametag that read “Rebecca”, then grabbed an expensive-looking bottle of vodka from the shelf. She gestured toward it with her free hand. The man nodded his head in affirmation. “Ten years? Dude what do you think, it’s gonna be honeymoon shit forever? Do you love her?” "Yeah I love her, of course I love her. It's just that things aren't the same now, you know? We don't even talk anymore. At least when we used to argue, I felt something." He tapped on the rim of his beer glass anxiously while she poured him another shot. "I'm sorry, I know you're in here all the time. What was your name again?" "Tim." "Tim," She said teasingly, "Are you telling me you wish you and your girlfriend argued more?" "No, of course I don't want to argue more, but she gives me nothing. We never do anything. It's a hassle just getting her out of bed these days." Cheers erupted from the corner of the dim room, a small group of college students celebrating a touchdown. One of them stumbled to the bar and set his empty glass on the counter. He waved his hand to signal that he was ready for another. “One sec, hon.” Rebecca went to serve another cheap, watery pour from the complicated looking ten-tap beer tower at the other end of the bar. It’s getting late, Tim thought, looking at his watch. He wondered if his wife would be waiting for him to get home. She probably hasn’t noticed I’m not. "Maybe she's depressed. When I get depressed I don't feel like doing shit." Becky's voice cut into his thoughts as she reappeared in front of him. "I'm sure you shower, at least," Tim said, sardonically, "She doesn't even take care of herself anymore." "Did something happen? Someone die or something? Like, you said things used to be good, right?" "I wouldn't know if something did happen. She doesn't tell me anything anymore. But yeah, they were great. Really great. I’d do anything to get that version of her back, you know?" Becky’s gentle, rosy face took on an expression of grave seriousness. “Then what are you waiting for, man? Go get her.” Her expression broke and she launched into hysterics. “I’m sorry, dude, you set yourself up for it. I always wanted to say some dramatic shit like that," She said, dabbing away the tears that had been formed by her laughter and making an effort to gather her composure. “Seriously though man, you want my advice? Just talk to her. If things aren’t gonna work out then they’re not gonna work out, but you say you want it back, so just try,” This time, the look of seriousness was more genuine. “You say you work a lot, right? Maybe what you need to do is take a little time off and just be with her. Spend some time together." Tim looked at his drinks contemplatively. "See if you can find that ‘spark’.” Becky added, mockingly. "You're right, honestly. I haven't been the greatest partner either." "Not trying to bust your balls or anything, but think about it. You are literally sitting in a dive bar complaining that your marriage isn't fun anymore while your wife is at home by herself. Go fix it, dude." "Yeah when you put it like that, I do kinda sound like an asshole, huh?" He chased the vodka with the rest of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. "How much do I owe you?" He asked, putting on his black jacket. "Just gimme ten." He laid a twenty on the bar. "Thanks for being real with me." "Anytime bud. Good luck." Tim crossed his fingers in the air behind him as he pushed open the frosted glass door and walked out into the orange-pink glow of the setting sun. The soles of his oxfords clicked against the cracked sidewalk on his way to the old grey Buick, where he fumbled with the keys for a moment. He drove carefully and methodically, sober enough to know that he'd had too much to be behind the wheel of anything. The lights were off when he opened the door to the townhouse that he shared with his wife. He flipped the switch, bathing the room in bright white, and called out. "Honey?" There was no response. He took off his shoes and left them by the door, and hung up his coat. Flies whizzed past him as he made his way down the hall, loosening his tie. He swatted at one unfortunate insect who made the mistake of landing on him, splattering it's tiny body against his shoulder. Inside the bedroom, his wife lay facing away from the door, her stringy, matted hair beginning to fall out. "Hey sweetheart. Sorry I'm late," He said, gently. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in the clothes basket. She didn't move as he crawled into bed next to her. Her blue, grey, and yellow skin was falling off in places, and maggots wriggled in the open wounds. "I've been thinking," Tim whispered into her decaying ear, "I love you, and I know things haven't been so great lately, but maybe that's my fault. How about I take next week off and we can spend some time together?" "I'd like that." He whispered back.


It's not fair. The way my heart beats so loud that I can hear the pounding in my ears. It's not fair. That crooked smile and curly hair. It's not fair. The way my whole body trembles when you say my name. It's not fair. It's not fair because you are not mine and I am not yours. But you kiss me like I am. Teeth and tongue and low moans. My guilty pleasure is you. You kiss me like you'll never see me again. It's the best feeling in the world until I'm driving back home to the one who is mine. I feel guilty and I promise myself that was the last time. You are my addiction. I tell myself that I got my one last hit that I needed so now I can finally quit. But I cannot quit you. Hands and arms and fingers. You touch me and everything within me ignites. Our souls collide and sparks fly. I need your touch more than I need air to breathe. You are everything that I want, but everything I can’t have. Secret kisses and hidden touches. Wanting each other, but we cannot show it. We promise each other it's the last time, but when we have the chance; we jump. We jump into the deep end. Drowning in passion and wanting. I try to swim back up to the surface, but I can't. I'm stranded in the sea of you and I can't find the strength to get back to shore. Guilt and confusion. We lie to the ones we love. They would break if they knew about us. I never knew that you could love two people at once. I love him and you love her, but we share I love you's too. The kind of I love you's that make everything within you collapse. The life-altering, all-consuming, devastating kind of I love you's. You whisper it in my ear when they aren't around. But I want you to shout it from rooftops. And I want to hold your hand at the mall. And I want to go grocery shopping with you. And I want to argue with you over what's for dinner. I want all of the little things and big things with you. I want to be good with you. Bad with you. All of the things with you. With him. I feel crazy. Insane. I hate you for making me feel this way, but I love you for making me feel this way. It’s not fair. The way my heart aches for you. It’s not fair. Those big blue eyes and light brown hair. It’s not fair. The way my cheeks flush a deep red when we exchange glances. It’s not fair. It’s not fair because you are not mine and I am not yours. I burn for you. Like I've never burned for him. I feel safe with him. I feel comfortable and warm like Christmas morning; wearing fuzzy socks and sitting around the tree opening presents with family. It’s different with you. You somehow make me feel cold and warm and hot and frozen all at once. You make me feel like one of those trick candles. The ones my parents stuck in my birthday cake when I was nine years old. I made my wish and blew and blew the bright orange flame, but it never went out. The flame just slightly swooshed to the side with each blow, but always came right back. I remember getting so frustrated because the flame wouldn’t go away. I welcome the persevering flame now. I welcome the persistent burning. It makes me feel alive. I know I am not a good person for loving you. And loving him. I know I can’t have you both. But I do. I have him most of the time. I have you sometimes. When you aren’t with her. When I’m not with him. It reminds me of when I was little and it was my dad’s weekend to have me. I remember sitting in my light pink car seat while my mom listened to Sugarland on repeat. She would pull into the grocery store parking lot and my dad would already be there to collect me. My dad and I would have the best two days and we’d meet at the grocery store again so my mom could take me back. I had my mom most of the time and my dad sometimes. I had more fun with my dad, but I felt safer with my mom. Maybe I can blame their divorce and the constant back and forth for the reason why I’m so messed up. Maybe I can blame you for making me feel things I’ve never felt before. Maybe I can blame him for not making me feel those things. Maybe I can just blame life entirely and how unfair it is that it brought you into my world. I was fine before you. I was happy and content. I was okay with my comfortable and warm Christmas mornings. You came and turned my entire world upside down. You sent everything within me crashing and burning. I love it. I hate it. It’s unfair. It’s unfair. I can blame just about everything. But the truth is that it’s my fault. I can’t help how I feel, but I could have stopped myself. I didn’t have to learn your touch. How it feels for my entire body to be electrified; lit up like a sky full of the brightest stars, just from the feel of you. I didn’t have to learn your kiss. How it feels for my knees to buckle and my heart rate to skyrocket just from the simple touch of your lips on mine. I didn’t have to learn the language of your body. How it feels to know exactly what excites you the most. But I did. I’ve learned everything and somehow it’s still not enough. It's not fair to him or to her. So I tell myself every day that I’m going to stop. But I know that I won’t. I can’t. The flames will continue to engulf me. And I’ll continue burning. Burning for you.


Who would have thought that a 1000 years old vampire, by the name of Vengietta Bloodmoon, could be so... charming. The dinner was fun and we are talking for 4 hours already. My sword and dagger are somewhere in the dining hall, my armor I took off next to this astoundingly comfy sofa. And we are so close to each other I can feel the warmth of her skin. I never knew vampires would have warm skin. I always thought - being undead and all - they would be ice-cold, just like zombies. She told me, laughingly, as if to let me in on an intimate joke: "Yes, that is a common misconception. We may be undead, but we drink so much blood, and that blood still circulates through our bodies, it does make sense for us to be at least somewhat warm, doesn't it?" I still feel awkward for asking, even though that was over an hour ago. Oh, and her reasoning for this invitation is the cutest and saddest thing I've ever heard: "It's just been so long since I had a normal conversation with someone from the living world. I miss learning about the outside. The technological advancements, the changes in social constructs, new cultural phenomenons, everything. But because of the stupid curse of a past pope, I have no chance to escape this old castle." "You want to know about the outside? Anything specific?" "Oh, just in general. The last time someone talked to me normally, the world was about go up in flames due to a war with... Nazis, I believe they were called?" "Oh, wow, that was *over 70 years ago*. You really had noone to talk to for this long?" "Well, I can talk to animals in their language, but they don't understand half of what is going on between humans." For over 3 hours I just told her about the world - about what happened in the last 80 or so years. The curiosity and fascination in her eyes and her body-language was so adorable. Now, we are talking about music and art. I told her about Progressive Rock. To someone that never heard about Rock in general, I had a hard time explaining it. The best I could come up with was "Traditional music with hard and dirty sounds, and heavy rhythms" - god, that is one horrible explanation. "I will bring something the next time I visit." "You want to visit *again*?" her red eyes shine so bright I can see the dark green spots in them. "Yeah, of course! We have so much fun talking with each other, why wouldn't I come again?" "Oh, thank you so much." it looks like she was about to cry, but there are no tears. "This is so nice to hear from someone alive. It means a lot, even just the thought." "It's not just a thought. People are hard to come by that are actually engaging to talk to." With that, she throws herself into my arms and we are now just sitting there, in a deep embrace. I have the impression, love doesn't discriminate between the living and the undead. ***Is There A Future?*** Over the last year, I've been spending a lot of time with Vengietta in her castle. I really do like her. She knows my parents, I know her world. Her real parents died when she was still a small child, killed by her progenitor, and she killed that vampire herself the first chance she got. Her friends were wary of me - being a monster hunter and all - but they came around, just like my parents did with her. They like her I think. Her very intellectual and... royal attitude is very much what my parents would want me to be as well. And *her* friends are... fascinating, to say the least. They are very 'physical' with me, always challenging me to friendly duels. I think I have yet to have a meeting with any of them that doesn't at least turn into a short brawl with some monster. And Mindflayers are hilarious. The ability to make everyone drunk or high without any long-term side effects is amazing. Vengietta seems so happy all the time. Despite being over 1000 years old, she never lost her appreciation for the beauty in life. Despite having suffered so much, being cursed to stay in this castle forever, she never lost her trust in humanity. Instead she developed a strong faith in the possibility that humans and monsters can co-exist some day. And, having gotten to know her and her friends, I now share that believe. And her appreciation for any form of art is beyond anything I have ever seen. She finds beauty in everything. In the literary descriptions by Süßkind or Lovecraft just as in movies like 50/50 or - completely different - Event Horizon, or music of any kind. And the way she dances! To say 'ethereal' doesn't even match the smallest aspects of her dance. The ability to shapeshift into crows, bats, snakes, a cat or a hound ads so many options to her movement, it is amazing to watch. Very difficult for a human to keep up though. I think I have to correct myself. I don't 'really do like' her. I love her. But... it is difficult, sometimes. There is of course the aging process. As long as she feeds on animals, she won't die or age, but I will. And I am not sure if I want to become a vampire myself. It would of course bring a lot of advantages with it, the most important one that I can spend a long life with her. But not every vampire can control their hunger with only cattle and wild animals. If I am not strong enough to control it, I will become a problem for humans. I wouldn't want that, not at all. I don't want to endanger innocent people - or innocent monsters for that matter. But the worst is... I pity her. I want for her to be able to see the world herself, not just through tellings of others. I could never tell her that I pity her, that seems... cruel. But it doesn't change the fact that I feel that way. The current pope is more open-minded and maybe he would be willing to lift the curse, so Vengietta can be free... I think I should try that. I will talk with Vengietta about it.


I plopped to my mattress, I’ve used Reading as a daily way to wind down for bed for years, I scanned a tower of books for tonight’s possible match. Mother creeped in and shut the door behind, trying not to wake the others. “How are you doing buddy” she whispered with a half smile, I could tell she was ready for bed and had already fitted her beige pajamas, not much of a surprise, work was hard for my mother and after returning home today the family were all aware of her exhaustion. “I’m alright, just thinking about reading something before bed”. I reached over toward my side table to snatch a few of my favorite solid color hardbacks. All but a few of my books had seen tough wear from my older brothers, previous owners, who had bequeathed the lot to me. I didn't mind the tattered covers, and would often imagine they were the writing of an ancient wizard’s spell book or maybe the account of a veteran Knight who had done his part in a great tale. She found her way across the room to take a seat at the lip of my bed. Her thick walnut hair flowed gently as she folded it behind one ear while inspecting a few of the novels I had laying across the maroon bedspread “Those are some good ones, how about this one James?” She lifted a smaller novel with a pirate on the cover. She saw the look on my face, and placed it back on the blanket I joined in the search but frowned, none felt worthy of being picked. “I’ve read them all so many times” I looked to my digital clock standing on my dresser across the room, I once had an analog clock there I loved dearly but with my current room configuration the digital my dad bought me last Christmas simply worked better, 9:45 getting awfully late “I think I’ll just get to bed,” I said yanking the edge of my blanket to my shoulders. My mom glanced back to me from reading the inside cover of Robin Hood and scooped the cluster of books from the twin bed. placing the books in a flush stack nicer than before “Alright then I think I’ll do the same”. I watched her leave, she turned and smiled, hitting the light as the door shut. It was dark, It was quiet, Just how I liked it. soft breezes spun around the tree branches beside my window keeping the fall leaves in a rustling shake. Nights like those help me compose myself. I thought about some of my books, they each had been read dozens of times, but what if tomorrow I Changed them, possibly added my own parts, that seemed intriguing at the time and I made a mental note for memory. I closed my eyes. WhRRR I sat up, the sound was not any ordinary noises of the nightly household or even anything I’d heard from our surrounding forest. WhRRR There it was again, It had a sudden metallic hum shaking the house ever so slightly, a rowdy rapid thump similar to the purr of the helicopter, father and I had seen a helicopter earlier in summer when attending the summer fair, although the Fair’s helicopter took a great build of strength to roar as loud as it had. Strangely this sound would fade as soon as it had come. “DaaaaD!” The shout echoed through the house, it was my brother Roger”s voice crying out for my parents, the commotion probably took him by surprise, maybe scared him, I wouldn't doubt it. I was shaken. “Dad, Daad” I shook off my sheets, the family was most likely awake after Roger’s shouts, might as well figure out what was going on. After a quick look the driveway seemed ordinary from my window, I tiptoed to my parents room each step creaking the walnut floorboards. It seemed peculiar to me they hadn’t gotten up to go check on Roger, he would shout in the night from time to time during the occasional storm, my parents would always check up on him although he often cried wolf. “Mom!” It was getting annoying quickly, I poked my head into the master bedroom, there was a small sliver of light along the edges of the blinds that kept the room from total darkness “Dad, mom hey” I whispered, staying in the doorway. An outline of the bed frame was visible with a squint. “Roger’s yelling for you” there was a moment of silence, I extended the door fully open. Had they really slept through that? WhRRR A shake came and I clutched the door knob and frame for stability. My chest felt a tightness of anger, it was bedtime and my parents intentionally not dealing with this had struck me the wrong way. “C'mon guys, go figure out what that is” I yanked the covers off my parents bed pulling them back. I was sick of fixing problems even though I was the youngest. The bed sat unmoving Silver sheets reflecting back at me and a couple of pillows lay sedentary, my parents weren't there. Strange, my mother told me she was off to bed just a half an hour prior. WhRRR The shaking came again, disorienting in the dark and this time having no door frame to catch I found my way into a stumble, stepping on my pajama bottoms and spinning as I tumbled toward the hardwood flooring. Throwing out my arms to take the brute force of the blow. My arms didn't connect, I had to open my eyes after an instant to find obscurity had encompassed me, enveloped in a soft darkness for which I was weightless within.


Breakfast felt like a trap. I stared at the stacks of golden pancakes, little bowls of butter, the apple pie syrup, and the little cut-up fruit salads. John, wearing a 'kiss the cook' apron bustled around, pausing to draw a drippy smiley face with an ungodly amount of syrup on Harry's pancakes. Harry looked up at John tiredly, then gingerly prodded one soggy pancake with a fork. Next to him, Elysse giggled slightly, sounding surprised. Devon and I shared a look: partly confused, part suspicious. What the hell was going on? Elysse scrutinized a pineapple slice, also somehow cut into a smiley face. "Uh, thank you." She bit into it, under John's hopeful gaze, falling into the trap. "I'm glad you like it," John said, smiling way too much. "Eat up, everyone, Fiona's gonna think I haven't ever fed any of you." What did you do? Devon mouthed over at me, like me, also not eating anything. Nothing! What did you do? I mouthed back, doubly worried now that neither of us knew what was going on. John was acting weird, and in my world, very few things were constant. Sun rose in the east, I could trust nobody, Devon was annoying, and then there was John. Not to say John didn't make breakfast, but this all felt forced, overdone. Usually, he asked for our help, but today, nothing. He'd been on the phone this morning, Elysse had told me. But he'd spoken in German, so she hadn't understood a word. I was beginning to feel really, really worried. I reached out to Harry, asking him what was going on. But the exhausted telepath was studiously cutting his pancakes, looking like he was about to fall asleep at the table. Fiona seemed to be picking up on all the weirdness too. "This all looks amazing," The clairvoyant said, awkwardly accepting some fruit from Elysse. "You guys eat like this all the time?" She dove right in, unused to having so much food available. "No," I answered, staring at John. I had no idea what the hell his agenda was, but clearly, he was preemptively bribing us for something. John smiled at that, "Simin, you haven't touched anything. You want some eggs?" Devon kicked me under the table, a warning to not say anything. "Did you make sunny side up with a side of explanation, by any chance?" I asked, earning another kick from Devon. John smiled mysteriously and placed an omelet onto my plate. "You want any ketchup or anything?" Elysse looked worried now too. John usually just answered us straight up. "John, what's going on? Did something happen?" I asked, refusing to be swayed. I'm not some child that needs to be cajoled with breakfast before bad news! John and I had a minor staring contest, and then he stopped pretending. "I need to get Fiona out of the city. The longer she's here, the sooner a witch will find the four of you." "So we're getting her out of here today?" Devon asked, sounding relieved, taking a bite out of his pancakes to appease John. John poured himself a cup of tea. I tensed up, knowing without Harry's telepathy that the bad news was coming. "Not exactly, there's a good coven in Seattle, and I'm taking her there. The four of you will remain here and hold down the fort." "What?" I snapped, my powers raising the temperature of the room. "John, let us help, we aren't kids. You-" "She's right, John, the witches found us four times in the last two weeks. It's not safe," Elysse added, looking worried. "We can help, or I can make a portal-" Devon started talking over Elysse, which annoyed me more than Elysse interrupting me. "Taking normal transport just means you're going to get caught! Fiona's aura signature-" "I understand your concerns, but none of you are coming," John said firmly. "I expect all of you to take good care of each other, and I trust-" "Why can't we help?" Devon persisted, and I nodded, feeling annoyed that he chose to spring this on us at the last moment. "You will be helping by keeping yourselves safe," John told us, his voice softening. "I understand that you're worried-" "Great, then let us help," Devon argued, and I was relieved that all of us were on the same page about this. "Devon, Fiona has a huge aura signature. The six of us combined will draw too much attention." John said placatingly, his accent increasingly coming out. For some reason, I glared at Fiona, who was calmly finishing off her pancakes. Elysse tried a more rational tack, keeping her voice professional and steady. "Okay, but John, her aura signature will be there no matter what, so it makes no difference if-" "Harry, tell me you don't agree with this." I turned to Harry, who was mechanically slicing his stack of drowned pancakes into pieces before eating them layer by layer. Harry looked right at me: John's right, maybe if it's just him, and then my shielding powers somewhere else, Fiona can still sneak out. If we're all together, there is no way she doesn't get caught. "Why does she matter so much?" I asked, interrupting whatever normal, rational argument Devon and Elysse were attempting. John turned his eyes on me, narrowing them. "Simin, all of us matter. You've always known that." I struggled to defend the crazy position I had taken but refused to back down. "No, she's so much of a threat to us, Harry hasn't slept for two days, why-why are you risking-" John raised an eyebrow. " Enough. Because I said so." He stared at me disapprovingly. "I thought all of you trusted me, but apparently not." "That's not what she meant." Elysse defended me, "We're just trying to-" John held up a hand, cutting her off. "I have a plan. I'm not sharing it because it isn't complete yet. If it's going to work, we need to keep Fiona safe. I don't want to leave you, but there's no one that can-" "I'll do it. I'll get her to the coven," I argued, and Devon immediately chimed in. "We can do it together-" "No," John said, tone final. "Both of you need to keep Harry, and each other safe. I trust you with that, the most important job today. Harry isn't going to be able to maintain the barrier for much longer. Any attempt of Elysse's to portal us out of the city will get you caught, I want all of you, to keep each other safe. If you cannot contact me, work together. Do not panic. " John slowly said the last part. He made eye contact with each of us. "Simin, can I trust you guys to take care of each other?" Part of me wanted to mutiny, insist further that we could keep Fiona safe. But I sighed, annoyed, and sat down. I hadn't even realized that I was standing up. "Yes." John smiled, taking a seat too. "Okay, so let's all enjoy this amazing breakfast that Youtube and I made together. We're all going to have a long-" "Harry's asleep," Fiona said suddenly, her voice tight. It was true, the telepath had literally fallen asleep on the table, glasses askew. "Auzgezeichnet," John sighed, and I smirked at him despite everything, finally taking a bite out of my now-cold eggs. "Okay, the barrier's down. We have around-" John checked his watch, " Two hours before we're compromised." He took a bite of his smiley pineapples, raising an eyebrow at me. "You like the eggs?" It was hard to ignore the argument. "Missing some of the explanation, and a little light on salt, but they're good." I smiled when Devon rolled his eyes and muttered something. "Shut up, Devon." "You shut up, I'm not the one who was ready to throw Fiona under-" "Kids, please," Fiona pressed her fingers to her head. "You're all adorable, but this is hard enough without coffee, please don't do this again." John laughed, setting aside his apron. "Okay, Fiona, we have to leave now, let's get going. Elysse, make sure these two don't do anything stupid," Elysse narrowed her eyes at us, scoffing. "You sure I can't do something easier? Like portal the earth to another galaxy?" Devon flicked a blackberry at her. "Like you're any better, that ankle didn't break itself, remember?" "See you later," I said to John, trying not to look nervous. Why did we have to separate? John smiled, putting on his coat. "I will see you all soon, be good." He took off Harry's glasses and folded them onto the table. "Auf Wiedersehen, children. I'm relying on you." As Fiona was getting up I opened my mouth to apologize, but the clairvoyant smiled kindly and waved a hand. She tapped her head and said, "I have a feeling we're going to have a lot of fun together, don't worry." I nodded at that, feeling beyond embarrassed. We waved and waited until the door shut to turn on each other. "Okay," Devon said, "So we need to-" "Oh shut up, you're not the boss!" I interrupted, taking another bite of the eggs. I heated up the plate with my hand, then stopped, looking around worriedly. "I'm the oldest." Devon pointed out and continued his nonsense. "So I think-" "By two months!" Elysse laughed, throwing a grape at his head. "Anyways, John left me in charge." "No he didn't, he just said to make sure nobody does anything dumb." Devon challenged, grinning. "Simin's gonna make sure you fail at your job." "What are you talking about?" I lowered my voice forcefully, keeping in mind that a certain telepath was asleep for the first time in two days. "If anyone's tanking the collective IQ of this group, it's you, Devon." Devon looked scornful. "I don't think you know what IQ stands-" Knocking. All of us froze, looking at each other. "Hello? Is anyone in there?" A cheery voice asked. "We have a special delivery of apples!" "Back door!" I whispered, pulling Elysse while Devon lifted up Harry. Elysse grabbed his glasses off the table. Draping Harry over his shoulder, Devon slammed the dining table, chairs, and all the drawing-room furniture against the front door. "How are we already screwing up what John said?" Devon hissed, "Jeez, it was you Simin! Heating up your goddamn-" I quietly threw open the window, hurrying Elysse through it. "Let's not throw stones right now!" I whispered back, jumping when I heard our front door bang open. "Oh shit, run!"