Abigail Barnette's Blog, page 24

The Top Ten Most Bonkers Moments From This Weird Ass Damon Suede Interview

Not long ago, I declared 2020 The Year Of Minding My Own Business.

But it ain’t 2020 yet.

If you haven’t been following the coup taking place behind the scenes at Romance Writers of America, you’re probably going to want a primer. As always, Smart Bitches, Trashy Books has a great explanation of what went down, and Clair Ryan broke it down Barney-style for those of us who couldn’t keep up. So many people who are more familiar with the RWA than I (a non-member) am have written eloquently about the problems in the organization that are systemic and extend far, far past any one individual. I have no real contribution to make and didn’t plan on blogging about any of this. My voice is not so unique and insightful that I could somehow stampede into the organization’s business after leaving it in 2005 (and briefly rejoining a couple of years ago for one year before I bounced again) and say anything other people haven’t already said better and with more authority. I’m 100% on Courtney Milan’s side in this and staunchly against the trash fire RWA has been for a long, long time, and that’s really all I have to say about the overall kerfuffle.

But Damon Suede. Boy howdy.

In addition to sending his husband into a social media battle on his behalf, Suede has been revealed to be a name-dropping opportunist and outright liar (which you can read about in Ryan’s post). Suede has always been a gifted self-promoter. A constant fixture at the biggest conventions, charismatically holding events and speaking on tough-to-get panels, he somehow managed to book speaking gigs and keynotes throughout the ’10s despite publishing his first book in 2011 and not releasing any new romance fiction since 2017. After writing only five novels in a genre that routinely sees authors putting out that many books a year, Suede decided to write books about writing and charge a rumored $3,000 per day to give workshops to whatever certified MacArthur Fellows would pay that ridiculous amount of money to him. Then, with the unwavering confidence of a mediocre-at-best white man, he decided that with less than ten years as a romance novelist, he was ready to lead the genre as president of the Romance Writers of America. Which he ran for unopposed. Because he manipulated the other candidate into dropping out.

Since straight cis white ladies love nothing more than the idea of having a Gay Friend, Suede managed to rise to elite circles in Romancelandia, like a genre fiction Anna Delvey. Anyone who criticized him or had negative experiences with him were hushed up with accusations of homophobia (even if they weren’t straight, themselves) or by the mere power wielded by people in high places. One friend remarked to me that she’d “always had a bad feeling” about Suede but was too afraid to voice it to anyone because “he hung out with all the big names.” Now that his desperate power grab to turn Romance Writers of American into RWKKK has been exposed, people have started airing their grievances in public, including passing around this interview from September, which…shouldn’t have reflected well on him at the time but for damn sure doesn’t now.

Damon Suede is not the sole cause of the Make Romance Racist Again initiative. He’s just trying to direct the current assault. The genre and organization have been rife with white supremacist ideals for a long time. In no way should the Suede narrative drown out the much, much more important issue surrounding how and why Milan was removed from RWA or the numerous stories from RWA members of color who have been victimized and discriminated against (check out the links on Ryan’s blog). While I have no vote in RWA, no experience or helpful insight in repairing an organization that has been damaged by Game of Thrones-level maneuvering, and nothing that could even remotely resemble any kind of even hypothetical solution that a smarter person hasn’t already come up with, I am super bitchy, hold big grudges on behalf of my friends, and have long been waiting for this dude to step one damn toe out of line. In the midst of all this heartbreak and chaos, my contribution is mockery. For we must laugh, even in the darkest of times.

Theydies and Gentlethems, I give you…

The Top Ten Most Bonkers Moments From This Weird-Ass Damon Suede Interview

He claims to have read 1200 words a minute in childhood. 1200 words a minute is 72,000 words an hour, which means that as a child, Damon Suede would have been capable of reading Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables in a little under twelve hours. The target reading speed for a third-grader in the United States is 107 words per minute. The average for adults hovers around 200 without any speed-reading training.
He believes acting is a “blue collar” job. There are many reasons child actors drop out of the game in their teen years. I guess we have to add “too posh for it” to that list now?
The interviewer is super psyched about kids committing suicide at college. At around the 1:47 mark, Suede begins explaining why he didn’t go to Cornell, a.k.a. “Suicide U,” to begin his career as a theme park designer (seriously). For some reason, perhaps it was just an inability to follow Suede’s frenetic conversational pace, the interviewer gives a long, slow, “Niiiiiiice,” upon learning that the university has a high suicide rate.
Suede’s jewelry-obsessed Disney-lawyer family apparently inspired him to destroy the RWA. “For me, I wanted to take everything apart and then put it back together and make it tick. And so, it’s that Aristotelian biology thing.” A man can reveal a lot about himself when he opines on his desire to destroy everything made by others and resurrect it under his own power. Honestly, maybe we all should have seen this coming, at least since September. Special recognition goes to comparing himself to a legendary Greek thinker while also inadvertently implying that Aristotle was some kind of Dr. Frankenstein. Perhaps most chilling is the smile he gives when the interviewer asks if Suede is still smashing things apart. Suede’s reply? “Everything I do.”
Suede comes at writing from the unique perspective of being aware that readers exist. Due to his extensive background in theater and movies and television and comics and watchmaking and living at Disney World like a special, special boy, Suede thinks about how readers are going to read what he writes. Unlike the rest of us, who don’t have such a learned and interesting background (or seemingly endless disturbing metaphors about splitting readers open) and who are uniformly shocked at the revelation that other people can see the words we put down in the books we write. While most of us are concentrating on writing stories just the right length to level our coffee table in paperback form, Suede has figured out that the true secret to great writing is putting the words in the right places to make a reader enjoy what they’re reading. I’m so glad a man has finally explained this and apparently gets paid $3,000 a pop to explain it in person.
Despite the fact that he’s only published five books and never made a bestseller list, he has the type of fans only a rockstar could love. Suede claims that his readers are so unhinged in their worship of him that he’s been chased Beatles-style through hotels, ripped out of taxi cabs, had fans camped outside of his home, and thirty-nine people have tattooed his name or book covers on their bodies. In other words, Suede is in that exclusive sphere of author worship usually reserved for authors like Stephen King, Anne Rice, or Cassandra Clare.

With five books.

And no bestsellers.
His readership is a lot cooler than the old fuddy-duddies who follow much, much bigger names in the genre. Name dropping Eloisa James, Suede says she complained that her fan base is made up of “gentle, seventy-year-old women who cry over their walkers,” while his readers are “young, browner, cooler,” and have piercings and tattoos. Now, I don’t know Eloisa James but I know that she writes historical romance and that “gentle, seventy-year-old women” basically sign her paycheck. If his claims are true, that would make James a real dick to talk about her readers in such disparaging, misogynistic stereotypes. If his claims aren’t true, he’s a real dick to talk about her readers in such disparaging, misogynistic stereotypes and attribute them to her in a damning soundbite. But hey, at least he managed to work in that people of color read his books, right?
Gay romance is anti-patriarchal despite being all about men? Somehow? Girl-on-girl books, though, not so much. Suede asserts that women are the primary readers of M/M romance because the stories involve relationships where “everyone has power.” Not only do power imbalances in gay relationships exist, but that imbalance also exists in tons of M/M fiction aimed at a predominately straight female audience who want to read a hetero relationship they identify with, but without any women in it. Still, Suede considers f/f books a tough sell due to the lack of male vulnerability in the narrative and not, like, straight lady homophobia and internalized misogyny. Considering the fact that publishers used to reject f/f books with phrases like, “no pink parts,” I’m inclined to say that misogyny, not feminism, drives much of the m/m romance market. But what do I know? I’m just a queer person with a coochie.
The first reference made to a female author’s work comes seven minutes into this ten-minute video about a genre pioneered and dominated by women. And the reference is to Jane Austen.
Suede’s vision for Romance Writers of America is…wait for it…diversity. After the interviewer asks Suede what his vision is for RWA, Suede rattles off a lot of statistics about the genre, followed by, “Somebody asked me what my vision is for RWA […].” Like, dude…the guy sitting across from you, desperately trying to get a word in, is the one who asked you that question. But the rest of Suede’s answer is somehow even more shamelessly lacking in self-awareness. “I believe everyone deserves a place at the table. Everybody,” he insists, turning to the camera to clap his hands and issue the directive, “We need to step. it. up.” Of course, he’s very careful to insert the caveat that while everyone deserves opportunities, that doesn’t mean everyone gets to be successful and every author is responsible for their own success. And we’ve seen proof of that philosophy in the past week. Apparently, Suede is fine with his “browner” fans tattooing his name on their bodies and hell, they can even have a seat at the table if they want to try their hands at writing, but god forbid they criticize an RWA member for overt racism. God forbid they take up too much elbow room at that table, or speak too loudly. And by the way, if you don’t succeed, it’s probably not due to any systemic issue in publishing. You’re just not self-promoting as hard as Jacqueline Susann.

Watching this video, I can only shake my head. This man has been telling everyone all along exactly who he is. Why did so many people ignore it? Why did so many big names signal boost him and bring him into their cliques? How did someone this obnoxious win so many hearts? And how much OTC allergy medication can an adult male take before he turns into Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch? This interview was from September. Has it worn off yet? When it does, will Suede regain the power to feel shame? Or was he born without that gene? So many mysteries. Sadly, they probably won’t be solved before the clock strikes midnight on January 1st, so I’ll be left to wonder while minding my own damn business in 2020.

Bitchy New Year, everybody!

Allow me to address your bullshit, Lucia Franco defenders.

CW: CSA, Rape, Grooming, Reproductive Coercion

If you’ve never heard of Lucia Franco, she is the author of the indefensibly popular Off Balance series. The story, regarded by one Twitter user as “a phenomenal work of FICTION,” is a five-book series about the sexual relationship between a fifteen-year-old gymnast and her thirty-year-old coach who is grooming her for the Olympics. Oh, and obviously, to commit statutory rape with her.

Rejecting this premise, especially in the wake of the Michigan State assault cover-up, should have been obvious. A fifteen-year-old girl can’t consent to a thirty-year-old man, let alone a thirty-year-old man who has sole control over her success in her chosen field. Add to that the fact that this thirty-year-old man has a live-in girlfriend and refuses to engage in safe sex practices (relying on his partners to repeatedly take morning-after pills)…nobody would see this as romantic, right?

The first book, Balance, is, in fact, categorized as romance and has been embraced as a swoon-worthy love story by many readers on GoodReads (names redacted to avoid accusations of an attack or pile-on):

“This story was HOT. I mean, call the fire department and have them on standby hot. I’m in the middle of a heat wave and this was just added kindling to the inferno, hot.”

“Raw and intense, yet sensitive and touching. It will keep you hooked till the very end. Forbidden Romance at its finest.”

“Nothing could have prepared me to be hooked that much by Adrianna and Kova’s taboo relationship. Lucia Franco achieved to shape a story bursting with sinful attraction, but also containing a level of raw emotion that left me overcame by all the feels!”

“To all the fans of fifty shades of grey, kova is the new christian grey. Oh my heart!”

Please note that last one.

This book has 2,095 ratings on GoodReads. Over half of those are five stars.

Balance came out in 2016. So, why is all hell breaking loose just now? I have no idea. In October, the romance media site Frolic recommended it to readers (the recommendation has since been removed and the article edited; at the time of writing this, they had not included any explanation for its removal or acknowledged that the article was edited). This week, bloggers were discussing it openly on social media. The latest book in the series just came out, so maybe that got this whole thing kicked off? All I know is, the Lucia Franco defenders have crawled out of the woodwork to defend her right to classify this “beautiful, complicated love story” as a romance right alongside books featuring heroines who are not being groomed for abuse by their gymnastics coach. As usual, accusations of “bullying,” “trolling,” “persecuting” and “a witchhunt” have flown and the usual defenses have come out. I would like to address them all in one place. Because they are willfully obtuse.

“Free speech! You can’t censor someone just because you don’t like what they write!”

You’re right. Authors and readers on social media can’t censor anyone unless they have access to governmental power that would allow them to do so. I agree that Lucia Franco has every right to pen whatever kind of story she would like. I do not agree that criticizing the book is somehow quashing her free speech or censoring her. Allegations that authors worked together to get her book removed from Amazon out of “censorship” are laughable; Amazon isn’t the government and the book violated KDP TOS, which states:

“You must ensure that all Book content is in compliance with our Program Policies for content at the time you submit it to us. If you discover that content you have submitted does not comply, you must immediately withdraw the content by un-publishing it or by re-publishing content that complies through the Program procedures for Book withdrawal or re-publishing. We are entitled to remove or modify the metadata and product description you provide for your Books for any reason, including if we determine that it does not comply with our content requirements.”

One of those content requirements vaguely specifies that they reserve the right to remove objectionable content or remove books that provide a disappointing reader experience. If readers complained about the book, Amazon can review and pull it (according to some bloggers, it’s possible this is not the first time the book has been removed). Them’s the breaks, kids.

“Don’t like? Don’t read!”

This is not Fanfiction.net, Sunshine Susan.

“You probably haven’t even read it!”

You don’t have to read a whole book to know if you enjoy the themes it contains. That’s what the blurb is for. If I pick up a book about military intelligence, I’m going to put it back down. I’m not going to read the whole thing to decide if I was interested in the subject. And if I picked up a book that sounds like it could be just awful, I don’t have to read it before deciding whether or not I want to read it. That’s what critical reviews are for. No one is required to read a book romanticizing pedophilia before they’re qualified to say that romanticizing pedophilia is wrong.

“Wait, you’re reading it? Why read it if you know you’re not going to like it?”

Because you told us that we have to, Sunshine Susan. In order to criticize the book, we have to read it. Those are the rules you set down. Now, you don’t want us to read it? What are you afraid we’re going to find? Evidence? Because people are finding evidence.

“You don’t understand the genre!”

Many of the people criticizing the book are avid consumers of Dark/Taboo Romance but found that actual child rape was a step too far. Some of the critics are authors in the genre who don’t want their work associated with child rape. Go figure.

“Authors work hard! How would you feel if someone got one of your books pulled?”

I know as well as anybody how much work goes into creating a story and making it happen on the page. It’s grueling. After almost two decades, I almost don’t even enjoy it anymore. And I do feel for authors who’ve seen their books yanked off of Amazon by mistake for weird, vague reasons. But this isn’t vague. This isn’t an author who’s had their book about consensual age play between two or more grown adults removed because the guy’s name is Beast and it got flagged as zoophilia. This is a story about a thirty-year-old man having intercourse with a fifteen-year-old and how romantic and passionate their affair is. I can’t imagine how it would feel to have a book like that pulled from Amazon. Because I would never write that.

“It’s just fiction!”

Time and again, “It’s just fiction!” has been used to justify the nurturing of reprehensible attitudes. “It’s just fiction!” people cried about the novel that, purely by coincidence, published right before a huge spike in sex-toy related injuries. Sure, individuals are responsible for their own choices but that extends to authors, as well. If your choice as an author is to dangerously misrepresent a subject or craft a story that feeds into damaging cultural biases, readers can choose to speak about that.

“That stuff happens in real life! This is an important issue!”

Is it fiction or not? The defense, “It’s just fiction,” doesn’t wash if in the next breath we’re being told to value the realism inherent in the work. And yes, child sexual abuse is an important issue. Writing about important issues requires delicacy. If the authorial intent here is to raise awareness of sex abuse perpetrated by coaches in junior sports, perhaps she shouldn’t have chosen to frame it as a beautiful love story. The relationship between the coach and the gymnast is portrayed as sexy, desirable, and forbidden. It’s written specifically to titillate the reader when they’re consuming this story about a grown man having sex with a child. If you’re defending it as an “issue book” or positioning it as some kind of statement piece then you’ve just cast Franco in the role of a person advocating for pedophilia, not against. That’s probably not as helpful as you think it is.

“I dated older men and–”

Nope.

“The author is a really nice person and–”

Nope. She could make Tom Hanks look like Ted Bundy and her book would still be about a kid getting raped and manipulated by a predatory authority figure.

“Women should lift each other up, not tear each other down!”

This is not a petty, Real Housewives-style backstabbing spat here. This is a social media discussion about a book that was made freely available for public consumption in which child sexual abuse is dressed up like a consensual sexual relationship. No one is “tearing down” Franco. They’re responding rationally to the normalization and romanticization of pedophilia. Yes, she’s a woman. She’s also furthering attitudes that harm women and girls. It is impossible to “lift her up” without turning away from actual victims and potential victims. If people are less concerned with helping an author achieve success than eradicating cultural attitudes that create more sexual assault victims…boo hoo, I guess?

“Frigid bitches, assorted misogyny in the name of supporting women.”

Obviously, the disgusting crones attacking this book are doing so because they don’t enjoy sex, or don’t get any sex because their lives are joyless. Our spider-infested genitals haven’t known a moist touch that isn’t just mildew from neglect and disuse. When we open our legs, it sounds like a door creaking in a haunted house. And of course, it’s undeniably feminist to insinuate this by calling us prudes and making references to straight-laced Victorian literature and Jane Austen. Oh, how boring are we, the unhappy, sexless few who don’t find child molesters the sexiest, most Alpha panty melters of all time. And this isn’t a misogynist position to take; everyone knows that saying a woman’s value is based solely in her sexuality is okay, so long as you’re defending child rape. So, too, is using, as one defender did, the quote, “God save us from women,” from an Outlander book. Yes, it’s women and their womanishness that is causing this problem. If only women could just be cooler with rape and abuse and stop being so ugh, gross and girly. Also, they should stop being jealous because jealousy is clearly the only motivation a woman ever has when criticizing another woman, as we have no critical thinking skills.

I’m sure there are many other ridiculous, eye-roll worthy takes out there but I’ve been away from blogging lately and my tolerance to abject bullshit is astonishingly low. In closing: you can write or read whatever you want but you can’t escape criticism or analysis of your work.

Oh, and since this needs to be pointed out: FUCKING KIDS IS WRONG AND THAT’S WHY THEY HAVE LAWS ABOUT IT.

A Decade In Pointless Review

Even though the ’10s were a great decade for me in a lot of respects, this current trend of taking stock of what you accomplished and sharing it with social media in a positive and uplifting way is bumming me the shit out. Could I write about how I gave up at a career-low only to bounce back and have a huge self-publishing hit and a blog series blah blah blah? Sure, but in the midst of a mental health crisis, it just feels…disingenuous. It reduces my life over the past ten years to just the good things and to be frank, sometimes the good things don’t outshine the bad. So, here are the important stats to take away, I guess. A lot of them are animal-related. I just like animals.

 

Cars paid off: 1

Student loans paid off: 2

Bones broken: 2

Doctor Who Doctors who sent me birthday wishes: 1

Times I went to Georgia: 3

Doctor Who Doctors I met super briefly via Skype: 1

Literary feuds: 5

Black bears petted: 1

Years I was allowed to drive: 6

Vacations that involved natural disasters: 1

Times I saw Billy Joel in concert: 3

Real Christmas trees: 0

Good Presidents: 1

Lawsuits: 1

Fandom awards for fanfic written specifically about Anthony Head as Uther Pendragon in Merlin: 7

Homes foreclosed on: 1

Name changes: 1

Great Horned Owls I spotted in the wild: 3

Funerals I ruined: 0

Funerals someone else ruined: 1

 

Surprised our kids with a trip to Disney World: 1

Times I saw a Bald Eagle running on the ground: 1

How stupid it looked, on a scale of 1-10: 10

How disillusioned I was, on a scale of 1-10: 8

Community theater productions: 8

Broadway World Regional Awards nominated ensembles performed in: 1

Seizures: so many.

Dogs that died: 2

Rats that died: 5

Hamster that died: 1

Corporations formed: 1

Father/daughter relationships tentatively repaired: 1

Visits to a mystical vortex: 3

Deer I shot at: 5

Deer I shot: 0

Deer that almost killed me: 1

Toxic friendships ended: 4

TV show finales that made me furious: 1

Phones dropped in toilets: 3*

Crafts I learned to do: 6

Times I attended mass: 17**

Times I worried about demon possession: constantly

Therapists: 3

Low brass instruments salvaged from someone else’s trash: 1***

 

Now, it’s November. There’s no reason to assume I won’t see another owl or drop my phone in the toilet within the next few weeks. If anything does happen that’s on this list, I’ll come back and update the total. But some of these would be downright weird as repeats.

Let everybody know some of your important stats for the decade. They don’t have to be inspirational or teach some positive lessons or anything. That shit is getting boring as hell. Let us know how many times you went to the dentist or watched Frozen. Tell us how many miles you put on your car or how many of your relatives died. Just throw out the highlight reel for the decade. And avoid Instagram until January.

 

*some phones were dropped in toilets multiple times

**best estimate

***it was a baritone

 

 

Well, that was a pothead move if I’ve ever made one.

I don’t know if this has ever come up before since I keep my public persona so guarded, but I smoke a lot of weed.

A lot of weed.

Officially, so far as the State of Michigan is concerned, I’m using it to treat chronic pain due to Fibromyalgia. But it works for two other conditions I have, as well. When it’s available, I use high CBD, low THC strain called Charlotte’s Web to treat my Epilepsy. I use high THC strains to dull my pain but they also help treat my anxiety and OCD symptoms.

Obviously, the perfect time to stop using it is right before I start therapy, right?

Because I’m a ridiculous pothead, I had the thought, “you know, I’ve been smoking weed all day every day for like twelve years now. Maybe if I take a break for a month, it’ll reboot my system or something and I won’t have to smoke as much.” And I just…stopped. I stopped using a drug that I relied on to treat my anxiety while beginning therapy for PTSD.

My husband and my friend Bronwyn Green urged me to just go ahead and start smoking again, with Mr. Jen pointing out that it wouldn’t be okay to stop taking my Xanax or Zoloft “just to see what happens.” I often struggle with the urge to stop taking medications when I’m at a low point. This was no different. My brain had tricked me once again, sorting cannabis into the “not really a medicine” D.A.R.E. bullshit bin in my mind.

Nice try, brain. You stupid dick.

So, I started smoking again and hey, would you look at that? My panic attacks have lessened from three-to-five per day to whole days without one. Seriously, I have now gone two days without a panic attack. I had previously told someone that this was the most boring mental breakdown I’ve ever had because I wasn’t interested in anything. I couldn’t do anything or focus. Usually, I craft or paint or draw when I’m in a bad place. This time, I had no drive at all.

Today, I actually felt like working. I couldn’t do much, but I did some. Last night, I did some crafting. I even can watch a whole episode of The Crown at a time without wondering where the hell I am and what happened in it at the end.

I guess I’m just writing this as an update at this point. But kind of to celebrate that I was able to actually do something. I know I’m not better yet and I know there are going to be more lows. It’s still pretty cool to be able to recognize a high.

No pun intended.

Trigger

Content warning for talking about PTSD and suicidal ideation.

I’m standing on the lawn, looking out at the lake. It’s the second time in under a month that an ambulance has been called to my Baba’s house. In the end, she’ll be all right. I don’t know that, now.

“Call me and check on me throughout the day,” she asked, worried about breathlessness and chest pain.

“Call the ambulance,” I said and drove over.

I’m standing on the lawn, looking out at the lake I’ve known since the day I was born. I could get in there.

It’s an impulse, not a plan.

It’s twenty-degrees. My feet are freezing in my boots. I can’t go into the house, where the EMTs are evaluating her. I wouldn’t be there; standing by the bookcase, opening and closing every Matryoshka doll, I was running up the driveway three years ago. Seeing the face of the firefighter who had stayed behind with Baba as Papa raced off, pulseless, to the emergency room. I’m no help there, trembling and staring and methodically taking things apart and putting them back together.

I could get in and lay down and never have to feel this way again.

I would never have to remember the face of the nurse at the triage window who’d told me they wouldn’t need my grandfather’s clothes or medications. I would never have to reenact it in my mind, try futilely to change the events that had occurred over three years ago. I would never have to construct a fantasy of shoving those bags at the triage nurse, screaming at her that they would need them, as though I could make it retroactively true.

Baba can walk to the ambulance. Papa couldn’t; his arm had flopped off the gurney as they loaded him in.

I can never go inside that house again, I tell myself. But I do. While the first responders navigate the snowy driveway and my husband trudges to the dumpster with trash that hadn’t made it out that morning, I go upstairs. I confront the bathroom I’ve avoided since the night I cleaned blood off the back of the toilet. They said he had a pulse when they arrived. As far as I’m concerned, he died there, on the floor, bleeding from the head, waiting for the ambulance.

I stare at that spot, fists clenched. “You did this to me.” I blame him out loud for my messed up brain. For how hard everything is now. I blame him for dying and leaving me responsible for answering these calls that pour salt into unhealed wounds. I don’t feel any better.

The ambulance drives away. I go out outside, where the car is already running.

“Are you ready to go?” my husband asks.

The same drive is ahead of me. The same hospital, the same emergency room. Baba is going to be okay, but I don’t know that yet. I look at the water.

I could get in.

State Of The Trout: “IDK what the fuck is going on” edition

Hey there, party people. If you’ve been here a while, you know that I struggle with my mental health. Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down, sometimes I’m non-functioning. Right now, I’m in the non-functioning stage. Since I’m open about stuff like this I thought I would keep you all abreast of what’s going on. If you’re not in a good place mentally, probably you should stop reading here. You don’t need my bullshit on top of yours.

About three weeks ago, I had another major breakdown. My husband (who is awesome) was talking me through things. We’ve both had pretty harrowing experiences with the death of loved ones in the past three years. Mine was being at the ER with my grandfather as he died. For my husband, it was finding his mother dead in her apartment.

“It’s just like with your mom, right?” I asked him through hyperventilating, panicked tears. “You see her that way every single day. You remember finding her every single day and you like, relive it constantly.”

And he said, “No, Jen. I don’t.”

And then he said, “That shouldn’t be happening to you.”

For the past three years, any time I haven’t been bombarding my brain with something, anything to do, I’ve been in that emergency room. Taking a shower is hell because there’s nothing in there to distract me. I step under the water and I’m walking up to the desk with pills and clothes clutched in my hand, only to have the nurse say, “We don’t need those right now.” And in my head, I change things. I shove the bags at them. I scream at them that they have to take them, that they do need them. Or maybe the scene begins standing outside the trauma room, watching them perform CPR on my clearly dead grandfather. He’d fallen when he’d had his heart attack or stroke or whatever it was that took him out and he’d hit the back of the toilet, badly injuring his head. The scene was gory and chaotic and I see all of it in mind several times a day, even when I’m not actively reliving the scene. My mind has to be constantly in motion or else I’ll get trapped in that night. But I also can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. I check social media. I play a game on my phone. I write a few lines of a blog post. I write a few lines of a book. I text someone. I eat something. Rinse, repeat. If I try to focus for too long, the distraction fails me. I take several naps every day.

This has been going on for three years and I thought it was just a normal part of grief.

As a result, I’ve really isolated myself. I avoid my friends and extended family. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I get constant anxiety attacks. On a family vacation to Great Wolf Lodge, my kids took part in a CPR demonstration. Watching them do chest compressions on Rescecutation Annie while Tom & Jerry (one of my grandfather’s favorite things to watch) played on a TV in the background sent me right back to that emergency room. I wasn’t at a waterpark with my kids or my husband. I was trapped in that memory, all alone. I rationalize withdrawing from people and events with, “If I don’t stay close to people, it won’t add any more of this grief when they die.”

And that’s weirdly true. I didn’t feel grief for the five loved ones who’ve passed away since. I didn’t go to their funerals, except for one. When my best friend’s mom died, I did manage to go to the funeral. I sat on my bed, dressed and ready to go, repeatedly slapping myself in the face and calling myself a selfish bitch for not wanting the leave the room. That self-harm gave me the motivation to get to the church.

Self-harm is a huge component of my sickness. The night my grandfather died, I broke my big toe kicking a crash cart. Since then, I’ve intentionally and repeatedly scalded myself, pulled out chunks of hair, clawed my face and arms bloody, slapped myself, and bashed my head into the wall hard enough to cause a concussion.

Through all of this, I’ve consistently told myself that I am weak, I am selfish, I’m just being dramatic, I don’t deserve to think I’m actually sick, and most importantly, everyone is tired of me talking about it. I’ve become boring, people hate me, and everyone thinks I should suck it up. So, I’ve gone on, sitting in the shower and reliving a traumatic experience, telling myself I’m being childish because other people have it worse or have had worse things happen to them, locking myself away to slap my own face and call myself a bitch because I can’t get work done or stay on top of the housekeeping or because I lost my temper and yelled at my kids. I tell myself I’m awful and that everyone would be better off without me. Some days, my bright side thought is, “One day, I’ll be dead.”

That shouldn’t be anybody’s glass-half-full scenario.

A few days before the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, my grandmother fell. When I arrived, she was sitting on the floor in the bathroom, more embarrassed than hurt but unable to get up. The ambulance came. She was fine, just bruised and twisted up a little. She didn’t even go to the hospital. I drove home screaming. Just screaming. It didn’t make me feel better but I couldn’t stop. I just drove and screamed, drove and screamed. I pulled into my driveway and stayed in the car, repeating over and over, “It didn’t happen again. It’s not happening again.” But it was happening again. The drive to their house, the time of year, the ambulance, the fall in the bathroom, and suddenly I was back in that hospital room and I couldn’t get myself out.

My husband said that’s not normal. He made me call the doctor. When they asked me why I needed an appointment, I broke down. “There’s something wrong with me mentally and I don’t know how to get help. Help me.” Thankfully, they had an appointment that day. I went home with a prescription for Zoloft and a referral to a therapist. Seeing the therapist made me feel better and worse. I went into the office full of anxiety, sure I was going to be sent away after being scolded for wasting everyone’s time. Because I’m not as bad off as other people, because worse things have happened to other people, because my problem is that I’m lazy and stupid and I just want attention. Obviously, that didn’t happen but I was pretty sure that it should have. She gave me the number for a suicide helpline and all I could think was that I should never tie up their phone with my problems because other people deserved to live more than I ever would.

Through it all, emails have gone unanswered. My work has suffered. The book I wanted to release this month? It’s not even halfway done. I’d planned out a whole schedule for this blog for 2019. I haven’t gotten a quarter of it finished. Every now and then I’ll hit on some kind of “organization system” that seems to work but then it all falls apart because it’s a skyscraper built on a foundation of popsicle sticks. My memory is shot. If you asked me whether an event happened last year or the year before, I couldn’t tell you. I forgot that one of my uncles is dead. Earlier this week, I was shocked to realize that a friend of mine got divorced from her husband. It wasn’t that she hadn’t told me or I didn’t know. I just…forgot. Sometimes, I’m in a daze where I don’t know what’s going on at all. My grandmother mentioned my mom today and I couldn’t remember ever having met her.

Yet on the outside, I can fake being remarkably capable. I’ve been volunteering at local theaters. A friend who sang in the pit with me on a production said, “You were the one I was listening to so I could remember where we were.” I’ve been props master for several shows and pulled off feats of frantic mid-performance hot gluing. I’ve had big roles that required dancing, singing, and memorizing lines. I can pull all of that stuff off. I can stick to a running program (when my foot isn’t broken) and hit my goals. I can hang out with friends and laugh and talk and seem like me. But I stopped being me a long time ago. I have no idea who I am anymore.

I’m probably going to make more posts like these. Long, rambling, poor-me pity-parties that will result in weirdos sending me emails telling me to kill myself or leaving comments here talking about how much they hate that I’m dramatic and attention-seeking. It’s okay. I already think that stuff myself, all the time. And I do way better at it than any random internet person ever could. Because deep down, I know that this is ridiculous. Nobody wants to hear this bullshit. And I do write it in such a melodramatic way. But right now, I have all of this…whatever. I don’t know where to put it, so it’s coming out here.

But I promise it won’t be all my self-focused bullshit, all the time. As I said, I can be pretty good at faking being capable. But this is what’s going on behind the curtain. I just felt like being honest.

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Two

Need to catch up?

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp?
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp prologue
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp chapter one

Though she retained her composure until she left Johnson’s office, Fiona’s legs wobbled like, well, a newborn foal’s the moment the doors closed behind her. She groaned inwardly at the comparison and took a moment to catch her breath.

Had she done it? Had she really fooled him into believing she was there for the good of his company? His cause?

 But you do believe in his cause, she reminded herself. She hadn’t spoken a word of a lie to him, but sharing a common goal wasn’t justification for her subterfuge. It was just another layer of cover. No matter how much good she might contribute to the preservation of the planet, she was still a liar.

And he was…he was…

Maybe if her new boss would have appeared in his true form, he wouldn’t have been so unnervingly attractive.

She’d seen centaurs before. On the street, TV, even fashion shows. The fact that Mr. Johnson had met her on two legs had almost been more disconcerting than the sight of a human torso on a horse’s body.

Um, yikes. Her brain screeched. Describing a centaur that way was beyond offensive. It sounded like something her father would have said. Besides, it hadn’t been just her boss’s body that had affected her so, though the spell on him had been exceedingly kind. Even in his true form, the strong features of his profile would have been enough to catch her eye. He didn’t look any CEO she’d ever met before. His dark brows seemed perpetually pulled down in concern. His short, dark hair had a slight wave to it that had made her fingers ache to run through it. And she did not often ache for a man on sight.

Not a man, she reminded herself as she wandered the claustrophobic labyrinth of hallways. At least, not a human man. And that involved a lot of complicated thoughts she didn’t need to explore at work, about her brother’s mortal enemy.

What if I went back in and told Mr. Johnson the truth? She didn’t have any particular loyalty to her brother. He wanted to keep on destroying the planet and exploiting the astrals to clean up his industrial messes. It was more appealing to be on the right side. Johnson’s side.

Word would get back to Blayde. It would always get back to him. And Larkin would face the consequences.

The rumors that had dogged their friendship for years had never bothered Fiona, in part because they’d been somewhat true. Though she’d never gone public, she and Larkin had dated, for a time, but pixies didn’t understand the meaning of going slow. Their incompatible sexual boundaries hadn’t gotten in the way of maintaining a close platonic relationship.

Then came the addiction. The scandals. The passing out in the gutter outside a sex club. If their relationship had been romantic for much longer, their friendship would not have survived. Blayde accused Fiona of attempting to cultivate a goody-goody image, but the truth was that after a lifetime in a family that craved the political spotlight, she didn’t want the tabloid spotlight, as well. It was more difficult to avoid. She supposed helping Larkin helped her, too.

Maybe that’s the only reason you’re doing it.

No. Larkin had already been warned that her label no longer felt their investment in her work was safe. Why mount a world-wide tour for someone who would miss half the dates while she hopped in and out of rehab? And the old adage about all publicity being good publicity wasn’t true; fans and tastemakers had tired of Larkin’s misadventures.

“Ms. Star?”

How long had she been standing there, one hand on the wall to regain her stability? The faun who’d introduced himself as Mr. Hobb during her HR appointment approached warily, his serious face taking on an extra layer of concern.

“I’m so sorry,” she began, wondering if her tone struck him as suspicious. “I think I stumbled over something.”

“These halls are so winding and similar, I’ve gotten dizzy in them a time or two.” He put his hands behind his back and rocked a bit on his cloven hooves. “May I help you find your way?”

“Thank you. Mr. Johnson told me to go back to HR for an I.D.—” Oh no. Some newer cameras removed glamours in their images. Trasket owned the patent; all their surveillance equipment utilized the technology. What were the chances that a major company like the Chiron Corporation would have similar devices?

Of course, astrals didn’t have the prejudice and fear of magic that her brother did. They probably didn’t care about glamours.

“Right this way,” Mr. Hobb said and gestured down the hall behind him. “So, Mr. Johnson put you on bioluminescence.”

Was the faun impressed? “Yes…is that a good thing? I hope?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Any opportunity is what you make of it.”

“That’s very profound.” It was also a phrase she’d heard often from her father, both at home to shame his children and in his public statements about poverty.

Mr. Hobb knew. He couldn’t have used the phrase accidentally.

“It’s not mine,” he admitted. “I must have heard it somewhere.”

She gave him her most guileless smile. Though her brother might accuse her of being too good, Fiona was still a Trasket. Lying was in her DNA. “Well, I’ll be sure to remember it.”

Though she had just come from the human resources department, she couldn’t have found her way back without Mr. Hobb’s help. She breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the door. “This is my stop.”

The faun blinked at her.

“It’s a human expression. About public transportation.” Not that she had ever used public transportation even once in her entire life.

“Ah. Astral humor is…less micro-observational. Humans joke about oddities in daily, unquestioned occurrences, whereas fauns, for example, find humor in the age of the cosmos and the unchained, malicious whimsy of fate.” He paused. “We also find flatulence quite amusing.”

Fiona pointed to the door. “I’m going to go inside.”

Mr. Hobb bowed at the waist. “It was a pleasure to be of assistance.”

The human resources department was an octagonal room with doors on all sides. Not at all confusing. Fiona picked the one labeled “New Hire.” Inside, she filled out form after form on their nearly-obsolete tablet. A middle-aged human woman took Fiona’s company photo—without any glamour-related snafus—and issued her a company handbook data chip and an identification card with a silvery holosigil.

“This is compatible with all warded doors of a level four or less,” the woman explained cheerfully. “Bioluminescence is on the seventh floor, wing b. Now, that’s a liminal floor, so you’ll have to present your I.D. to the security system.”

“I’m sorry, what’s a liminal floor?” Fiona asked.

“It’s in a liminal space. It exists half on this plane and half in the astral.”

If Blayde knew of such a thing, Fiona would have heard about it. What her brother wouldn’t give to know a place between the worlds existed.

“And don’t forget your sprite.” The woman lifted her plump little hand and a ball of blue light rose from it. “The building is a little confusing. Just tell your sprite where you want to go and it will get you there.”

“Oh. Thank you. It is confusing,” she agreed, eyeing the sprite warily.

The HR woman’s rosy cheeks fell a little as her smile turned from professionally friendly to truly empathetic. “It’s overwhelming to be a human suddenly thrust into their world. I understand. I was there in Central Park for the first veil tearing, and it was almost mind-altering. But for the most part, we’re still so sheltered from each other…” She drifted off sadly. “By tomorrow, everything will seem a little less strange. And the next day, even less. And then it becomes the new reality.”

Fiona didn’t know how to respond. She followed the eager ball of light hovering near the door.

“Welcome to your new reality,” the woman called after her.

The unnerved feeling those words inspired haunted Fiona all the way to the elevators. The sprite bounced along happily, like an airborne, featureless puppy. Although, when she thought of it that way, it sounded a bit horrifying.

The elevator stopped and the screen above the buttons illuminated. A quick scan of her I.D. zipped the car upward. Just as her ears popped, the chime announced her arrival and the doors opened onto a world Fiona could never have imagined.

She stepped from the marble floor of the elevator and onto a pebbled path bordered by lush, green moss. Swirls of gleaming steel rose overhead in impossibly intricate arcs, dividing an iridescent bubble of ceiling into a pattern of prismatic domes. The path split into three and led off into a forest of unearthly willow trees with swaying, emerald-colored leaves.

“You must be Flicka.”

Fiona startled at the voice. A silver-tinted woman walked toward her across the moss, clad in what appeared to be a fur dress. Her long white hair cascaded down her back in soft tendrils. She offered her hand for a shake; a black claw topped each finger. “Sorry. I forget that mortals can be overwhelmed on their first trip to our floor. We’re a little unconventional here. “Ealusaid. Director of bioluminescence.”

“Ealusaid,” Fiona repeated, shaking the gray woman’s hand. “Is that your first name, your title…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ask an offensive question—”

Ealusaid held up one hand to stop her. “Selkies only have one name. And we’re very informal here.”

“That will take some getting used to.” Fiona laughed despite her nerves. “I’ve never worked for a company that’s so…relaxed.”

“It’s why we’re so successful. Happy workers are productive workers. Your human capitalism is designed to be its own worst enemy.”

Fiona could only blink in response.

Ealusaid beamed. “Let me show you to your office.”

It took Fiona a moment to get her feet working. The shock that such a place existed momentarily froze her to the spot. For one perfect instant, she forgot why she was there. That she would have to betray all this beauty.

The sprite followed Ealusaid down the path and into the forest of familiar, yet totally alien, vegetation.

“What kind of trees are these?” Fiona asked as they passed beneath a branch glistening with dew like diamonds.

“They’re willows,” Ealusaid explained. “Liminal spaces do strange things to creatures who spend a lot of time in them. These trees would look exactly the same on the mortal plane as they would on the astral but existing between the two changes them.”

That sparked an alarm in Fiona’s mind. “What do you mean, it does strange things to creatures who spend a lot of time here? I’m going to spend whole workdays here.”

“Yes, and in a week or two, you’ll notice the effects,” Ealusaid stated as though it weren’t the most horrific thing Fiona had ever contemplated.

“Right, but what kind of effects?” she asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice.

“Nothing major. We’ve noticed slight telepathy, ability to communicate with the elements. The tiniest horns. Really, nothing to be alarmed about.” The selkie stopped in front of one tree. “Here we are. Your office.”

“It’s a…tree.” Fiona could almost hear her brother’s sneering tone. “Well, isn’t that quirky?”

“More of a pod, really.” Ealusaid motioned to the tree and the leaves drew back, revealing a snug space outfitted with a desk, chair, and computer, exactly as one would see in any office.

It was just that the walls were vibrant, gently throbbing vines.

“You can log in with your badge,” Ealusaid explained, gesturing to the computer. “The first thing you’ll want to do is check your interoffice messenger app. Every morning, you’ll find daily assignments and schedules there. Unfortunately, you’re going to spend most of your day working through new hire questionnaires and videos about policy and procedure. But we do have a daily lunch meeting at around one, so feel free to join us in the conference pod.”

Sure. I’ll just…join you in the conference pod. That was a completely normal thing to say.

“Great. I’ll just…sit down and get to it,” Fiona said, with a little bounce on the balls of her feet to transform some of her nervous energy into feigned enthusiasm. The thought of being alone inside a tree unnerved her, but Ealusaid left her there, all the same, the vines zipping closed behind her.

“Okay.” Fiona breathed, bracing her hands on her workstation. At least, something about the place was normal. If she’d had to balance on a toadstool and type on a hollowed-out log or something, she would have officially backed out.

“Backed out of what?”

The voice startled her and she scooted backward, nearly colliding with the wall of vines.

“Be careful!”

“What the fuck?” The voice had clearly come from inside her head, reverb like water ripples surrounding every syllable.

“You’re hiding something,” the voice whispered, sibilant and sinister. “What could it be… Trasket?”

She sat up straight.

“That’s an important word. Certainly got your attention.”

“W-who’s there?” she rasped.

The vines rustled, as if in a little dance.

“No.” She shook her head. “Not possible.”

“It’s possible. And I can do it to other creatures here. Even the other trees.” The tree seemed almost gleeful. “Should I keep that a secret? Trasket? I mustn’t think it too loud—”

Was she being blackmailed by a tree?

“Yes.”

A telepathic tree.

“Also, yes.”

What the hell could it possibly want? It was a tree!

“Candy.”

A tree that wanted candy.

“You’re blackmailing me…for candy.”

“Chocolate, preferably. If I’m busy enjoying my candy, I might just forget the word ‘Trasket’ altogether.”

Very slowly, Fiona put her head down on her desk.

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp, Chapter One

Need to catch up?

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp?
The Business  Centuar’s Virgin Temp prologue

Despite the thirty-five years they’d had to adjust, humans still couldn’t seem to get used to the presence of astral beings in their cities and lives. Marcaeus, son of Demedon, chosen of Chiron, frowned at his glamoured reflection in the mirror and practiced his posture. That had taken the most time to learn when he’d decided to stop appearing in his centaur form in the human world. On two human legs, he ceased to be a curiosity. With a bland name from the mortal dominion, he didn’t have to suffer through embarrassed mortals trying to remember the proper form of address. But standing the way the humans did? That took considerable work.

He donned his jacket—a color they called “navy blue” but which looked more like the night sky than the crystal blue sea—and straightened his matching kilt. Bare bodies were strangely taboo among mortals; he conceded to covering his tan skin and keeping his dark hair short, but encasing his glamoured legs in itchy human fabric was a step too far. He tapped the screen of his watch. Ten-thirty. Impossibly early. The humans still placed too much value on time, probably because they had so little of it themselves. Slipping a hand into his collar, he rubbed his thumb over the selenite amulet hidden beneath his shirt. The surface of the mirror wavered and he stepped into the lobby of Chiron Corp.

The young, pale human male who ran the reception desk rose and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson.”

The portal closed behind Marcaeus, resuming its appearance as a mural of Elysia. “Good morning, Kevin.”

“Mr. Hobb asked me to inform him when you arrived.” Kevin’s dark brows rose mischievously.

“It’s unfortunate you were in the restroom when I arrived.” Hobb was a valuable asset to the company, but oddly high-strung for a faun. “If he mentions it, I’ll tell him I snuck past you.”

Kevin sat down again with a relieved nod, and Marcaeus strode to the large white double doors to the inner office.

And directly into Hobb.

The Faun blinked his silver eyes in an expression some might take as a look of surprise but was simply his default expression of anxious bewilderment. His thin brown face seemed even longer than usual. “We must speak.”

“This sounds dire,” Marcaeus attempted to joke.

Hobb was not moved to humor. “Come with me.”

Marcaeus followed him through the opulent corridors, past the individual workers’ offices. When Chiron Corp had first moved into the building, it had been a terrible open-plan that hadn’t been conducive to anyone’s comfort. The winding halls with their gilt-trimmed, framed white wall paneling and golden candelabras were, according to the human staff, desperately out of touch with a modern office environment. The decor had been Chiron’s choice, but how would he have possibly known that three-hundred years was considered a very long time? He’d simply liked the look of it.

The click of Hobb’s hooves on the marble floor slowed as they reached his office. He pushed the wall panel to spring the hidden door and stood aside to allow Marcaeus to enter. Unlike Marcaeus’s office, there were no low cushions to lounge upon; it was furnished for a creature with two legs. Despite the high quality of his human glamour, Marcaeus hated sitting in human form. He paced calmly around the floor instead.

“We were right. Trasket’s planted a mole.” Hobbs moved behind his desk and whipped the cover off a large obsidian scrying mirror. With a wave of his hand, the surface shimmered and conjured the image of a striking young human woman. Her hair hung sleek and straight down to her waist and shimmered a spectral orange shot through with glittering gold. Her large eyes were too vibrantly green to be real.

“This is our new intern,” Hobb went on. “Flicka Starr.”

Marcaeus didn’t understand why Hobb sounded so skeptical over a name.

“It’s not a normal human name,” the faun explained with barely restrained condescension. “Not that I expected you to know that, John Gayheart Johnson.”

Marcaeus sighed through gritted teeth. “I picked the name because it made the most sense. John. Son of John and merry of heart.”

“That part is a lie. And why you make so many concessions to the mortals, I’ll never know.” Hobb gestured to the mirror and the image changed. The woman’s delicate face shape and the size of her large, innocent eyes remained the same but her dark hair and light blue eyes made her alabaster face startlingly recognizable. “Fiona Trasket. Progeny of Trasket the Elder.”

“She can’t be.” Marcaeus braced his hands on the desk and leaned over the mirror. “They’re anti-astral. She couldn’t use a glamour.”

“And what are the mortals if not hypocritical?” Hobb asked, erasing the image with a swipe of his hand.

Marcaeus quirked his lips in amusement. “When did you become so cynical?”

Hobb’s shoulders slumped. “I am a creature whose only purpose in the astral is spreading joy and pleasure, thrust into a world where both of those things have been perverted into a force so destructive it threatens all mortal life. I’ve been cynical since the moment I stepped into this realm.”

Straightening to walk the length of the room, Marcaeus considered the situation. The pictures were inarguably the same woman but the ruse was clumsy. Surely Trasket wasn’t that jealous or desperate. Could it be part of some larger trick? How would being caught in corporate espionage be used to his advantage?

“Have we run this past the trickster department?” Marcaeus asked, turning back to the desk. The image of the woman was gone.

“The tricksters are baffled. They all agree that this is too obvious, but they can’t figure out what the end game is.” Hobb paused. “She’s waiting in HR. Should I have security escort her out?”

Marcaeus shook his head. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just us. And the trickster department.”

The tricksters were bound to secrecy by voluntary enchantment as a term of employment. They couldn’t share information if they wanted to. Marcaeus rubbed his hand over his chin. “Don’t tell anyone else. And have HR send her to my office.”

Hobb gave him a surprised blink and said nothing.

What could the Traskets be playing at? Marcaeus wondered on the walk to his office. Surely, the human didn’t think he could so easily fool ancient beings? Sending such an obvious mole was as absurd as if he’d donned a disguise and tried to infiltrate Chiron Corp. himself. A spying intern? Trasket wasn’t so foolish.

Marcaeus went to his standing desk and woke the computer. The low vibration the machine created assaulted his senses for a moment, before the obsidian pyramids gridding the work station intercepted the excess energy.

A soft knock on the door drew his attention. “Come in.”

The moment she stepped into his office, the intrigue became clear.

It was impossible that a bloodline so foul as the Traskets’ could have produced such a wonder. Marcaeus did not often find humans attractive, and he would have worried he was under an enchantment if he’d had such a powerful response to anyone else. This woman would have tempted a eudaemon to ethically questionable acts with a crook of a finger. The mirror had shown him that her face was beautiful. It had not revealed the curves of her lush breasts. The breadth of her hips. The roundness of her thighs in her fitted skirt. Her lips parted at the sight of him, and her aura flared with instant desire as wild and warm as the fire of her glamoured hair.

They’d sent her to appeal to him, to inflame his lust and rob him of his wits.

It may have worked on a mortal, but centaurs were far too clever for that.

“Mr. Johnson?” she asked, her voice trembling. Did she know that she had been caught in her lie already?

He gestured to the comfortable leather chair near his desk. “Ms. Starr. Please, have a seat.”

Her eyes meekly downcast, she followed his direction and sat, every movement halting and awkward.

“You don’t have an assistant.” It wasn’t a question.

He shrugged it off. “I don’t see the need for one. You were perfectly capable of opening the door by yourself. I’m perfectly capable of pouring my own coffee.”

She looked up, eyebrows drawn together in pleasant surprise. “You drink coffee?”

“No.” He suppressed a chuckle. Humans usually reacted strangely to the presence of an astral but hers was a refreshing sort of strangeness. He wouldn’t have expected such from someone from a family as bigoted as the Traskets.

Her gaze flicked to his legs. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression—”

“That I would have more appendages?” He turned in a slow circle so she could inspect him fully. “I find my true appearance unnerves humans. Glamour is such an underrated magic, is it not?”

She cleared her throat. “I was going to say that I was under the impression that CFOs didn’t handle things like hiring interns.”

“They don’t. Usually. But your resume caught the attention of my colleague, Mr. Hobb. He believes there’s a project that might benefit from a fresh young mind.” What are you doing? He should send her away, but her presence intrigued him. If she’d been instructed to seduce him, she was doing a poor job of it. She was alluring, but certainly not under her own power. She possessed none of the mannerisms mortals affected in their mating rituals. No bold self-assurance. Not a trace of practiced remarks or flattering laughter. Instead, she behaved like…

Well, she behaved like a mortal on a job interview.

This threw Marcaeus back to his original dilemma. Was Blayde Trasket truly foolish enough to believe he could send so obvious a mole into Chiron Corp? How desperate were things over there that he would stoop to such a silly plan?

Does it matter? A devious part of Marcaeus’s mind awoke. Not that it had been dormant for long. Perhaps it was cruel of him, but he couldn’t help imagining how Trasket would react to his human sister getting caught up in a passionate affair not just with an astral, but with one of his business partners, as well. It would be making the woman before him a pawn, but she’d allowed herself to become one by participating in whatever game the Trasket brood seemed to be playing. Her presence was the opening gambit, so she was clearly willing to play.

She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs; he’d piqued her interest by dangling the “new project.” He turned to the windows to hide his self-congratulatory smirk before he continued. “I assume you’re familiar with bioluminescence?”

“Of course. I assume that’s what’s used in this building?”

He nodded and turned back to her in time to see her gesture to the softly glowing overhead lights. “Yes, it is. Do you have bioluminspheres in your home?”

“Yes,” she replied. Obviously, it was a lie, given how publically the Traskets had rejected sustainable energy sources. “My apartment building converted last year.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Not everyone has embraced the new technology,” he said, studying her expression for a reaction. Not a ripple of fear showed in her. At least, she’d studied schooling her reactions well. “But we’re working to improve the cost and stability of bioluminescent products. Eventually, we’ll be able to dismantle the four remaining nuclear power plants.”

“I can’t believe they’ve made it this far,” she remarked, then looked immediately chastened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“On the contrary, I enjoy conversations with my employees.” Especially ones that kept him on his toes, as he suspected she would. The mystery surrounding her was too intriguing to let it go. “You’ve never worked for an astral company, have you?”

“I’ve never worked for any company,” she said, then quickly added, “the gap in my resume is due to…personal reasons. I did have some job offers directly after college but my mother was quite ill. And then, my father.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” That was what humans said, wasn’t it?

She blinked. “How did you know they died?”

“Your aura. I see their loss like a hole in you.” And that hole was there, a wound at her midsection, where she would have been connected to her mother in the womb. Her pain wasn’t a lie, but it was absent for her bigot father.

Interesting.

“I’m not concerned about your employment history,” he reassured her. “My concern is that the culture of a mortal workplace and the culture of an astral-run workplace is very different. You may have some trouble adjusting.”

“With respect, Mr. Johnson, I can adjust to anything. Especially when something important to me is at stake.”

“This job is that important to you?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral. This was too delicious; he couldn’t spoil the game by letting her know he’d stepped onto the field of play.

“The planet is important to me,” she stated firmly. “I grew up in a family that didn’t appreciate the hard work and sacrifices astral beings made to tear the veil and come to our aid. A family that rejected your gift. Humans have a second chance to save the Earth. I won’t be stubborn enough to refuse it.”

Marcaeus searched her aura for any sign of deception and saw none.

Was she truly there by her own choice?

He made the decision from curiosity alone. “Yes. I think you are the perfect fit for this project. I’ll let Mr. Hobb know. In the meantime, return to HR. They’ll get you an employee ID and give you more information about payroll and parking.”

She stood and put out her hand. It trembled. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate this opportunity.”

When he took her hand, her unease, fear, and deception wound up his arm like a vine. So, she was hiding something. He would have to clear his energy as soon as possible, or her jumpiness would plague him all day. Yet, another feeling grew as she released him. Remorse. Nothing about the lie felt just to her.

What on earth was “Flicka Starr” hiding? And for whom?

She left the room, bright white relief fizzing around the edges of her aura. Marcaeus pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called Hobb. The faun predictably answered on the first ring. “I’m putting her on the bioluminsphere project.”

“So…she isn’t a spy?” Were Hobb in the room, his default bland expression would not have changed but for a few rapid blinks.

“She very well could be.” Marcaeus admitted. “But I’m not sure what the endgame is. This project is so boring and public, however, she’s unlikely to gain anything.”

“Then why keep her on at all?”

“Because we can learn her motives, or at least, Trasket’s motives. Remember what the humans say about keeping their enemies close,” he reminded Hobb.

And after his encounter with Fiona Trasket, Marcaeus couldn’t deny that he would like to keep her a bit closer than the idiom intended.

August Patron Appreciation!

Hey there everyone! It’s Patreon patron appreciation day! Just under the wire, which I’m pretty proud of, all things considered. Thank you to everyone out there who helps me make a living wage! Enjoy my sassy kid and, briefly, a goofy puppy, as I say thank you to my $5 and up Patrons. But you’re all stars!

State Of The Trout Foot

My foot is still broken! And may I just say, I had no idea that something as simple as a broken bone could possibly sideline me the way it did. After all, I spent a whole week in a plaster splint/cast thing, right? I should be healed by now.

Well, no, Jenny, why don’t you be realistic for once?

The good news is, I don’t have to have surgery. I’m wearing an air cast and slowly getting back to work. The air cast, by the way, is the most amazing medical technological breakthrough ever. With it on, I can walk around without pain. I can take it off to shower and sleep. I cannot, however, walk around with it off; I thought I’d roll those dice and grudgingly concede that perhaps the doctor knows more about bones than I do. I’ll stick to his instructions and continue periodically elevating it and not walking around like I could have possibly healed a whole broken bone in under two weeks.

There are a few other troubles I’m having, as well. Working for over a year to train for a race only to break your foot two days before that race is shockingly bad for your mental health. Also shockingly bad for your mental health? And I’m not being sarcastic at all this time? Injuring yourself doing something you have to do often in your own house. I have taken two showers since getting the plaster splint off. Both ended in me hyperventilating and crying when it came time to get out because suddenly, it seems so terribly dangerous. As a result, I’ve been bathing with those giant baby wipes they market to adults as “disposable washcloths” and avoiding going out. When I have to drive my daughter to rehearsal, I stay in the car, using my foot as an excuse. Really, I just don’t want them to see that I’m greasy as hell. I’m hoping I get over this somewhat quickly because even though I’m one of those weird people who don’t really smell, I’m always afraid that I smell and that makes my anxiety even worse and basically I’m just a broken nightmare of a person. But you knew that, because you’re here, reading this.

Now, onto the show. Anyone want to see some gross pictures? Awesome. I’m putting them behind the cut, though, because not all of you want to see my gnarly foot. And I’m gonna put a puppy picture first, so that comes up on the social media thumbnail instead:

She was sleeping in the laundry basket and it tipped over, but she kept on sleeping.

My hope for this week on the blog is to get the first chapter of The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp up on Friday, but again, we’re still playing it fast and loose with the injury and its aftermath. So, stay tuned, if you want to see something gross, click the cut link.

I should also warn you that the bulk of the grossness comes from my toenails. I have REALLY awful, ugly feet and I never show them under normal circumstances.

So, here’s a good look at some of the swelling and bruising a little over a week post-injury:

Here’s the bruising as it progresses. Gotta get worse before it gets better, right?:

But it’s the disparity in size that really tickles me (pardon the foot pun).

So, there it is. My foot injury that doesn’t look like it should be bad enough to have any impact on me at all. But it weirdly does. 2019 is not cracking up to be my year, everybody.