Expanded – Erin Penn's Second Base

Flash: Hyperfocus

February 23, 2025February 24, 2025 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Photo From USkins.com – Skin Decal Wrap for Yeti Tumbler Rambler 30 oz Baja 0014 Neon Green

The light rap of knuckles on the door was swiftly followed by “Hey, you okay?”

Blinking back into this side of reality from the weird notes some crazy person had scribbled in some old Dragon magazines, I looked over at Mica. “Yeah, sure.”

“Just wondering. I hadn’t heard anything from you since the honeymoon.” They leaned against the doorframe. “You not upset about me moving out or anything?”

“Why on earth would I be upset about you moving out?” I chuckled. “Lord help us both if Dave and I had to live under the same roof more than two days running.”

They rolled their eyes, clearly remembering a few times, their then-fiancé crashed at our place on long holiday weekends. Dave and I are friends, better friends at a distance. Just because he married my best friends does not invoke best-friend-adjacent privileges. “So, then why? No text, no call. You give a non-bi person the worries.”

A smile creased my face. “Sorry, I got a new hyperfocus.”

I don’t know what they read into the smile and words, but they frowned; their eyebrows did the little fencing with each other. “Have you been eating?”

“Um…”

“Today, have you eaten today?”

“No?” I apologized. “I think. What day is today?”

“Thursday, I got back Tuesday.”

“Um, then definitely no.” I waved at the three empty glasses on the table next to the pile of magazines I have been pouring over. “But I am hydrated at least.”

“Thank mercy for small blessings.” They shook their head. “Let’s get some scrambled eggs into you and you can tell me all about it.”

“Be right there.”

“Now, genius.”

“I promise, you go ahead.” After waiting to make sure they walked away, I gathered the magazines up. Tapping them into a neat pile, I placed them into special briefcase I bought just for the forty-year-old publications and snapped it close. I checked once to make sure the lock held. I then tucked it under my desk and muttered a few short words under my breath.

The case faded from sight.

Between my study and the kitchen, my brain exploded into a thousand different directions on what to tell Mica.

“You are so lucky you are rich, Janis.” Mica said as they pulled out butter, eggs, and bread from my refrigerator. “How much work have you missed this week?”

“Oh, I got fired about three weeks ago.” Shrugging, I hopped onto one of stool lining the green marble island. “Missed too much work helping getting the wedding together.”

“What?” They spun my direction, spatula at the ready, threatening me like it was a sword … or a wand. “You didn’t tell me?”

“What? Like I wanted to stock shelves each day after I finished the bookkeeping because Bossing-Boss-Boss was like, ‘you are salary, you are working forty hours’? Fuck that. I’m not a quitter, but I wasn’t going to fight stupidity.”

After breaking the eggs into a bowl, Mica passed the bowl to me with a fork to mix it up just the way I like it while they got the butter sizzling in my cast iron frying pan. “Alright, then what next?”

“Oh, I haven’t decided.” I pushed the bowl to them. “Do I want to travel a little?” The speculation lining that question surprised me. … Do I want to travel?

“You hate travel.”

“Yeah, but I lost a roommate to the love of their life,” I ran the words through my head trying to figure out what I was thinking, “maybe I should go looking for mine?” That wasn’t it, but it wasn’t not-it. Love could be a sidequest.

“Really Janis?” Mica looked impressed. Then frowned, the eyebrows bowing and engaging like two Olympic fencers, “What aren’t you telling me? What the fuck is your hyperfocus?”

“Magic.”

I can’t believe I blurted it out like that.

“Like the Gathering? I go away for a week and Daniel gets you into that crack?” They scraped the eggs onto my favorite green plate and started browning the toast in the pan. The long-suffering sigh carried fifteen years of witnessing me collecting hobbies. “How many packs have you bought?”

“None.”

They stopped the eyebrow war long enough to raise one of the perfectly plucked blades high in disbelief.

“No really,” I assured them. “I’m talking about real magic, not cards.”

“What, like witchcraft? Wiccan or something like that?”

Toast buttered from the pan, three eggs with pepper, no salt, slid back to me while they put the bowl and utensils in the dishwasher and the butter and leftover eggs back into the fridge. “No, and not satanism or hoodoo or anything like that, although I have been doing some side research into those to figure out how this works.” I dug in and ate my first forkful.

And forgot to talk until the plate was cleared.

“How long since you last ate?” The sarcasm dripped like juice from a squeezed lemon.

“Shut up.”

They chuckled and took the plate back to add to the dishwasher.

They didn’t offer anything else. I hate getting a heavy belly when I am focused, which usually means I dropped five to ten pounds during a hyperfocus initial onset. At least I had learned to stay hydrated. Two hospital visits to for IVs to force fluids after collapsing had made me put some serious preventive measures in place.

Speaking of which …

“I need to refill my drinks.” I got off the stool and pulled out theirs for them to sit on. “Let me grab my glasses and set up for tonight’s session.”

“You’re not planning on sleeping tonight?”

Pausing in the doorway in the hall leading to my half of the house, I closed my eyes to test how heavy they were. With food in my belly, they had lead weights attached to them. But I got them open. “Alright, I will be setting up the drinks for tomorrow. Satisfied Mixtrix busybody?”

“Very.” They waved their hands in a ‘shoo’ fashion. “Off you go.”

The briefcase remained hidden by its cloaking. I moved it to a different location behind a bookcase, then gathered my glasses from the table and the four sealed, empty bottles on the floor and the hot chocolate mug beside my reading chair. Eight was a bit much to juggle, but cantrips would work long enough from the study to the kitchen.

May as well show off. Then the real explanations can begin. “Upsa daisy.” With four vessels in hand, the rest figured out what I wanted and hovered like a constellation of moons around the lightly glowing green center mass of glassware.

I inhaled deeply and returned to the kitchen.

(words 1114; first published 2/23/2024)

Ye Olde Dragon Magazines Series

Flash: The Back Room Part 3

February 9, 2025February 13, 2025 Erin Penn Leave a comment

ID 18618401 © Justin Black | Dreamstime.com

When the landlord closed the door behind him, hiding the Back Room from the mayhem of the harvest festival overflow happening in the front, Nigel jumped out of his seat and took a few steps over the Ashall woolen knotted carpet likely brought across the ocean on a Zeriff ship. “No, we should—”

“No?” Matthews firmly interrupted, pulling the younger man up short, like he was a squire again. “My lands, Sir.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Nigel froze his movement, perhaps for the first time since his horse arrived three hours ago, dropping his eyes to his boots in a short nod. “My apologies.”

“Apologies are only worth their weight in adjustment of behavior.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Nigel widened his stance, properly bowing his head and clasping his hands behind his back. Many a time he had heard those words, and he knew Matthews would accept only one response. “How may I amend my discourtesy?”

Waiting, the young man felt the stare on his head, like a sword across the neck, even though his old knight never rose from his chair. Behind him, he heard silks and cottons rustle. Heat rose up his neck, the blush fortunately hidden under his carvat and the high neck of this riding jacket. To be corrected in front of a peasant! Worse, to DESERVE to be corrected.

“Help the Mistress remove her boots.” Matthews ordered. “I know I taught you how to properly care for the boots and blisters of a hard march. Dismissed.”

Nigel flinched at the emotional emptiness of the last word. He hated that desolation of emotions while in the field at age ten, he hated it now, fourteen years later. And he hated himself for mastering the same tone shortly after he was knighted at seventeen when he needed the tent cleared and the men of his unit to be about their business. He had hoped his fighting years were behind him after he served the required ten years Jackel demanded, but with the recall to family lands, he knew family requirements would again burden his shoulders.

He spun neatly to see the woman had raised her skirts to her knees, the clay from the hems flaking off either side onto the towels laid out by the keep’s sons. The clay caked the boots over the foot laces and up to the third of four buckles on the calves. Streaks of mud disappeared into the fabric hiding her thighs. The Crew of Crew, Zeriff’shaZeriff, whatever her real name was, attempted with shaking fingers to unbuckle the top right buckle.

Her head tilted slightly up to glare at him. Daring him to come closer, the poison in her eyes hidden behind the veil. “Your Grace,” her travel roughened voice whispered from her precarious position, “I couldn’t … wouldn’t presume.”

“Please Mistress,” Matthews smooth voice gave no hint of shouting orders at troops for thirty years, before Jackel had let his uncle retire shortly after Nigel’s officer ceremony. “I assure you, my ex-ward is well-versed in bandaging wounded feet. If you are to get to Blackstone, you have another two days travel, four maybe even five if you rejoin your caravan, depending on how many gifts your country has sent for the royal wedding.”

Nigel watched her shoulders sag within the Kylar bodice; it lacked the shoulder padding found in the Mysentte fashion. He vastly preferred the Kylar fashion for the mobility allowed both men and women, and for the thinner tops in the warmer climate. Some fabric worn by the matriarchs was thin to the point of being translucent under the netted supporting bodice.

“Very well,” she said. For the first time, she turned her head completely to Nigel. “Thank you. Lesh modula ever.”

“Ma’ke.” Nigel responded as he sunk to his knees upon the towels. He moved the bowl of water aside, to better access the boots. Up close, as he worked the soaked and stretched buckles loose, he noticed how the boniness of her knees, the lack of imprint or dye painting on the boots, and the mud coating the underlayers of her skirts.

Had she hike the outer layers over her head, or removed them entirely until she had reached the outskirts of Climb’s Start.

When the fourth buckle gave way, he pulled the top apart, widening it, revealing a ring of blisters around the top of her calf where the wet leather had rested. Assessment of the layers of mud covering the laces on the bottom had him reaching for the top towel of the pile left by the keep’s family. After wetting it in the bowl, he started wiping the clay away.

Nigel felt remorse for judging the woman so harshly. No harrigan would have walked herself to blisters and her gloves to shreds to prevent her horse from getting a split hoof after it threw a shoe as she guided it through a foreign country. Lesson number a hundred and fifty on the subject of never make assumptions. Someday he will learn it.

He heard the innkeep come in with their food, the woman thanked the keep for the heated spiced wine and the small basket of broken bread and cheese as he placed it on the settee beside her. She nibbled small bits from the basket by burrowing a hand under her veil and getting the food to her mouth. She left the mulled wine on the table Matthews had been keeping his books. Over his head, once the food had arrived, the Zeriff asked Matthews what Blackstone was like and if he knew any of the wedding plans.

Did Matthews know about the wedding plans? Nigel snorted as the polite discussion continued. She sidestepped Matthews’ first questions about the largesse within the bride gifts her country was sending to the royal wedding. Surprise for the crown and safety for the travel were her excuses. Blackstone, being the winter castle for the kingdom had fewer visitors than Redstone, but still had few political secrets to hide, ended up being the least fraught topic they settled on. Searching questions about the gardens, mountain roads to there, and how the split of the castle worked for both guests and hosts for the genders, kept the conversation light, yet meaningful.

After clearing enough of the mud to untie the boot lacing across the top of the inset on both the boots and getting the left boot unbuckled, he slipped the left one off first since that was the one he had in hand, to find a not quite emaciated leg, much much thinner than legs of the court ladies Nigel had the pleasure being close enough to view. Rashes, ulcers, and blisters furthered marred his favorite body part to have wrapped around his waist. Arm hugs came a close second. A rolled down, scrunched sock, silk, not thick wool, dyed in a mix of dark and bright red liquid clung around her toes. The boot sloshed.

He poured the noxious mix of leather-spoiled water, sweat, blister fluid, and blood into the bucket, then worked the second boot off. Zeriff’shaZeriff panted quietly above him to hold back a moan.

Looking up, Nigel finally caught a clear view of her eyes. Bloodshot from pain, the brown held a golden undertone. Too much yellow to be anything but magic, but a woman powerful enough to travel on her own would be expected to hold some. Not a full green, as was the case of most of the females chosen for the Roadsky Queens, nor the gold of the most powerful witches, but enough undertones to lead a caravan of merchants delivering a bridal gift to a royal wedding from a pirate kingdom.

No man had yellow in his eyes, nor green. Nigel’s were pure blue, like his brothers and his father.

He wanted to paint those eyes and lost himself in the gradations of color, somehow enhanced rather than spoiled by the tired bloodshot color of what was normally white. His fingers twitched on leather, wanting a palette and brush instead.

“Add about half the tea leaves and marigold flowers, and a quarter of the salt to the water.”

“What, huh?”

The woman’s tired voice repeated instructions to prepare the water to cleanse wounds.

“Right.” Nigel said, setting aside the boot he had been holding.

(words 1,385; first published 2/13/2025)

The Back Room series

Flash: The Back Room Part 2

February 2, 2025February 13, 2025 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Muddy Boots from the Interwebs

The woman folded her leather-gloved hands atop the silk pooled there from her veil and sat rigidly upon the settee Matthews vacated for her. She said not a word, though her eyes, the color uncertain in the shadows of the veil, studied them both. The Duke of Seaport walked to the second most comfortable seat in the room, close to the cracked window and the evening breeze, and sat, placing his pouch of books on the small table beside him.

Nigel waited as long as he could with his churning thoughts. She hadn’t given him any acknowledgement in the introduction. Did she actually think she outranked him? The innkeeper had given him a noble title, abet his lowest, but still it was a noble title and had introduced her as Mistress.

Her clothes. He quickly placed them as an amalgamation of the Zeriff, Kylan, and a half-dozen other minor countries which allowed their women to travel and operate as merchants, unlike Everdance, Middlelands, Disrave, and his own country of Roadsky where the only time the valuable females left their family estates was for marriage. The lack of clear nationality in the clothing matched the generic name of Zeriff’shaZeriff, Crew of the Crew. People of Zeriff identified themselves by their boats among themselves. “And what is your boat?” he blurted out.

She tilted her head, the veil fabric flowing over the Kylan-style bodice which complimented the two-tone skirts presently the rage in Mysentee. The choice of blue as the primary color was pure Zeriff though. On ships, they would wear every color they could trade or steal on the high seas, but ashore, they were blue in memory of the water surrounding their island chain.

“Where are your servants?” Nigel asked searching for a topic. “Shouldn’t they be back by now after taking your stuff to your room?”

“What my associate is asking is how much room do we need to make for your traveling companions?”

“I have no companions, your Grace.” Her voice creaked, guttering low, roughened by unknown sources.

Nigel jumped in, shocked. “None?”

Her head turned his way barely before her eyes dropped to her gloves, and she started pulling them off tips by tugging on the fingertips of her left glove with her right hand, ignoring him.

He was not used to being ignored. “None?” He repeated, taking a step her direction. “None?”

“Nigel, do not harass my guest, and find a seat for the gods’ sake.”

Continuing to tug at the sweat-tightened leather, the woman watched as he stomped across the room to high-back chair with the horsehair cushion. Of the five seats in the room, it lacked any semblance of comfort, but the dearth of arm rests allowed Nigel the ability to move freely. With the left glove plucked off, she worked on wiggling the other worn glove off. Nigel noticed the task was challenging because rips crisscrossing the palm; the gloves were effectively ruined. Once both were off, she tucked them into some of the bodice lacing. The Kylan tucked everything into the network of laces giving support to the bodices.

During Nigel’s time in Kylan, he had seen purses, letters, statues, charms, daggers, and a myriad of other items worked into the tops of the men and women. Gemstones were exceptionally popular, often threaded through the laces. This woman lacked any accoutrements as far as he could tell, other than the gloves, a rather poor merchant in his opinion.

“May I ask how you came to be traveling alone, Mistress?” The duke angled his body toward the invader of their privacy and leaned forward.

“Of course, your Grace.” If she had an accent, the roughness of her voice hid it. “My horse threw a shoe just outside of Crossroads,” she paused, moving her body carefully toward focusing on Matthews, “so I sent my party ahead, telling them I would catch up shortly. Little did I know the harvest meant the forge was cold and everyone was in the fields.”

Nigel was aghast. “You walked all the way here from the Crossroads?” Crossroads was an hour pushing on horseback, an hour and a half fast march.

“It’s not like I could ride Cotton,” she snapped, at last addressing him directly. The men watched as the veil pulled in toward her mouth, before she continued at a lower volume, her shoulders twisted, blocking Nigel out of the conversation. “You understand, your Grace, the road is paved the whole way, I would never abuse my animal thusly.”

“Admirable.” The Duke pulled at his calvary boots, indicating his understanding of how horses should be treated. “But I am surprised no one was here to greet you.”

“We are on a firm deadline, what with the marriage next week. The caravan leader rightly continued to push the carts ladened with the bridal gift as far as they could before stopping for the night. I should easily catch up with them as they climb the gap.”

“That is the truth,” Nigel said, trying to insert himself back into her notice, “carts are slow going up the mountain.”

“We also are traveling that way on the morrow. We could stay with you until meet with them,” the older man offered.

She laid her hand upon her chest. “Oh no, your Grace. I could not accept. The innkeep assured me that the forge here was just banked for the night and the blacksmith will take care of the reshoeing first thing in the morning,” she paused, “or whenever he recovered from tonight’s hangover enough to handle the banging. I could not ask you to wait.”

“No, no. I insist—”

Knocking on the Back Room door, quickly followed by a bevy of boys entering, their heights in staircase steps, looking remarkably like the Innkeeper except for the smallest, whose blond curls peaked over the towels he carried. The oldest bowed first to Nigel, then the Duke, and finally the female merchant. “Mistress, your bath water.”

“That was fast,” her voice laced with approval.

“We always have water heating for dishes.” The youth turned to his younger brothers. “Mag, close the window, Billy and Cruz lay out the towels so the water won’t splash.” He took the two pails of water from the younger boys had been carrying. “Mik, the bath.” The second smallest carefully placed a broad pottery bowl down and pushed it toward the Zeriff’s skirts, who lifted them at the knees, raising the muddy hems to reveal calvary boots similar to the ones both of the men wore, though much worse for wear than their shiny leather.

One of the pails filled the foot bath. “We will leave the pail if you need more water, and one to empty the water in when done. Here are the salts and herbs you asked for, and extra towels and bandages.”

“Bandages?” Nigel muttered, frowning. “Fuck.” He breathed. She had walked five miles in calvary boots, meant for riding, not walking.

As the boys began to leave, the Innkeeper returned. “Your Excellencies, your meals are coming out of the fire now. Is there anything else you need, mistress? Food, wine? I had the saddlebags taken upstairs.”

“No, no food, although some mulled wine would do me good. And I do apologize, Mr. Keeper, but now that I have had a chance to sit, I realize there is no way I will make it up those stairs tonight. Could you bring them down here? I can just sleep in the Back Room.”

“Mistress!” the man protested.

“I’ve slept in far worse conditions, I assure you.”

“Of course.” The innkeeper froze a moment, before turning to Matthews, “With your Grace’s permission, of course.”

“When we are done tonight and retire to our rooms, Mistress Zeriff’shaZeriff is welcome to use the Back for her rest.”

(words 1,300; first published 2/9/2025)

The Back Room series

Flash: Harm’s Highway

October 13, 2024October 13, 2024 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Photo by Daniele D’Andreti on Unsplash

Douglas Yu edged over to the ward’s entry desk as maternity took the active labor handoff from the emergency room team the technician had run from ambulance to the second floor. Marigold Miles, the receptionist administrator, asked in sympathy as the sweaty medical professional leaned against the desk. “Diameter?”

“Arrived at ten and baby’s a breech. Jeff had his arm all the way up her hoo-hah trying to rotate the kid when they arrived.”

Marigold shuddered. “Responders are a different animal.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” After a couple more minutes of catching his breath, grateful he didn’t have to add another birth notches on his ER belt, Douglas looked over at Marigold monitoring her station’s equipment. “Speaking of different animals, do you know what happened with that Jane Smith trying to Surrender her kid while still pregnant?”

“Oh, did she come in on your watch?”

“Checked her in myself.”

Marigold smiled, always loving to share gossip. Maternity had the best morsels. “We got everyone involved from admin to lawyers. You know how they hated the revenue loss of IVF; well, since ‘nothing is illegal the first time’ as Jimmy in legal says, this was the perfect test case. The Doc-on-duty consulted with Psych to sign off on the woman being a danger to herself and her baby if she remained pregnant, so we induced while getting social services on the horn. Baby boy Smith got his blue blanket while mommy signed over all her rights and named his dad. I think it was the first time ever we had a birth certificate with “unknown” under the mom.”

“Jesus.”

“Right, so social got police, since the boyfriend had locked her out of the mutual apartment in the rain at night, endangering the baby, and they went over to her place to get her stuff out, including her purse and they found where he had cut her ID into bits. With her phone, she called her friend and they skedaddled. The police then went to his place of business to let him know about the baby, and that is when we get the next part of the story.” Marigold wiggled her eyebrows.

“It gets better?”

“It gets better.” The admin glanced at her monitors, then leaned on the lower desk to get closer. “He came here, since social needed him to take the baby. After all he is the only name on the birth certificate. First he claims it wasn’t his, but, damn, that kid had his face. It had nearly twenty-four hours to get over being smooshed out the canal. We offered to do a DNA, so he says he didn’t want the kid, just the girl. He says he wouldn’t have poked holes in the condoms if he known he was going to get stuck with a screaming baby by himself.”

“He what?”

“Yeah, forced pregnancy. Basically like being raped for nine months. Your attacker is always with you. Fucking mental. Anyway, he signed away his rights then ran out of here saying he was going to get the bitch for leaving him. Social says he figured out which friend was helping out Jane and banged on her door until 9-1-1 got him out of the building. They had kept in touch to let her know if he claimed the kid or not. Seems like Jane didn’t want daddy to have the kid, but saw no way around it. Said it wouldn’t be fair for her to have the kid when every time she looked it in the face for the rest of her life and think how much she hated its father and what happened to her. She was scared for Baby Smith, but she could only save herself.”

“Did she get out?”

“Last news was restraining order and a friend network to get her out-of-state.”

“And the kid.”

“Momma Jane had taken care of herself, no drugs. She was a good kid, just in a bad situation. I think if she felt even some control over her life and her body, she could have kept Baby Boy, but…”

“Yeah.”

“Well, white newborns, all signed over to the state get snatched up easy. Social says he is with a foster-adoption couple and his two dads adore him.”

“All’s well, that end’s well?”

“Hon, you just showed your male privilege, but that is okay. Jane had to jump states, has no job history she dare access, no home, one suitcase, and is cut off from half her friends or more. She just gave birth and has no medical insurance, and a part of her will always remember she had to give up her baby because of a toxic man. Baby boy will grow up wondering why his momma didn’t love him, and that poison man is out there, lying his ass off, and likely will pull this shit on another woman.”

Yu sighed. “You’re right. Well, at least things have a chance of getting better.”

“We got a long way to go for that to happen. Legal is pissed that no one flagged situation so they can duke it out in court and maybe start nibbling at getting our IVF money maker back.” Marigold rotated back to her screens. “Don’t forget to vote next Tuesday.”

“You too.”

“Already sent it in, I got back-to-back shifts scheduled.”

“See you next birth.”

“You too.”

(words 892; first published 10/13/2024)

Safe Surrender Duology

Flash: Exit Strategy

September 1, 2024September 1, 2024 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Photo by ConvertKit on Unsplash

I couldn’t take it anymore and left my private space to grab Xanadu’s alarm and turned it off. They may be my favorite American, but sometimes I could ring their neck. I have to bang the curtain surrounding her woodworking space to find the overlapping cloth entrance. The white kitchen timer was set on a stool near the passthrough.

“What, oh, was that ringing?” they asked, looking up from the ten-to-one ratio rat-inspired column they were carving for the Manyard building, red paint clinging above their left eyebrow. They had finished the last of the two-foot columns for the inside atrium Tuesday and painted them with the red lacquer substitute last night. Dabbing the splinters and sawdust away with a brownish washcloth, they revealed the hand-held foot-sized zodiac-inspired art had been roughed out since I left for work. Six of the eight outside columns were at the detail stage; only the rat and pig needed the initial rough-outs. They had chosen to do those last since they were the two center outside columns and would have the most traffic.

“For an hour.”

Xanadu laughed, “Surely not.”

“It’s seven-twenty.”

“Dinner!” They set down the toy column carefully, then jumped up and ran toward the kitchen.

I grabbed their shoulder as they ran past. “I’ll order pizza. No need for another meal with sawdust in it.”

“What? Are you sure?” Their eyes drifted back to the wood carving.

I squeezed their shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure. And, no, you are not going back to that until you take an hour break – your orders.”

They closed their eyes and nodded. “I forgot to eat lunch.”

“Then you are done for the day.”

“But—”

I held up a finger. “Your orders.”

“My work gets crappy without breaks.” They pouted, crossing their arms over their leather apron. “Fine, I’ll shower while you order. No pineapple.” They stomped off to our mutual bathroom.

***

Xanadu took the last pineapple slice, leaving the bacon and cheese pizza of the two-for-one deal untouched. Rolling their dark eyes as they bite in, “I forget how great warm pineapple tastes.”

I picked up the untouched pizza and put it in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. One meal down and ready for when I take over kitchen duties tomorrow. Grabbing a washcloth, I wiped down the counter and the island for crumbs and sawdust settling out from the air. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you want to go to the November Lantern Festival again this year?”

“It happens the first week of November and it is September already. There is no way we could get a travel visa ready.”

“About that.” I moved over to our pile of mail and dig down a couple of days, dropping the political flyers and store advertisements into our recycling bucket at the end of the kitchenette island before I find the government envelope. “My family really would like to see me so they expedited things for us.” I wave the fat envelope.

“But the plane tickets will be crazy expensive this close.”

“Paid for.”

Their eyes narrowed, black eyeliner turning their eyes into slits. “What’s going on?”

“My parents would like me to be outside of America during the election,” I said tapping the envelope against my other hand.

“Why?”

Stopping the nervous tic, I gave them a look, tilting my head. We both grew up political brats.

“He isn’t going to win. There is no way he is going to win again.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Sure he managed to stay out of prison so far, but there are still several court cases to go.”

I waited.

They sighed, “But even if he loses…”

“He’s promised chaos, refusing to accept the outcome if it goes against him.”

“That’s not just it, it can’t just be it.” They hopped off the stool and walked over to me and took the envelope out of my hands. “What else has your family heard?”

“Nothing they can share with me, but I am going home to keep them happy.” I shrugged. I may be a fighter of justice, but I wasn’t untouchable. “He promised to round up all the Chinese and illegal immigrants and put them in camps.”

“You are Korean, not Chinese. And on a permanent visa thanks to your family.”

“Like his followers can tell the difference between me and the Chinese.”

Xanadu ran rough fingers around the edges of the envelopes, switching to Korean to say, “The travel visa will only be good for a couple of weeks. What will we do then?”

“It’s a three-year work visa with exit and entry privileges. Father and older brother slid us in under the Manyard trade contract, since you are working for them.”

Frowning, they worked a finger into the envelope and opened it. “And how did they justify you?”

“Native son.”

They switched to American. “Right. Duh.” They unfolded the paperwork, being careful not to drop the visas while examining them. “It will take me away for the second round of project baseline work. But…” They handed the paperwork to me. “If he wins, then the only second round I will be dealing with is getting hauled off to those camps for some reeducation. I’m in.”

“Korea isn’t much better for accepting queerness.”

“Are they threatening camps? Do they have full-blown plans like Project 2025?”

“Not unless North Korea comes across the border.”

“Then we are all screwed. Everywhere.” They tossed the envelope and paperwork onto the island and stepped into my space to hold themselves against me. “How did it get so wrong?”

I hug them to my body. “I don’t know, my dragon, I don’t know.”

(946 words, first published 9/1/2024)

Capturing the Tiger and Dragon Series