Not for the Faint of Heart

by Lex Croucher

At the time it had seemed important; the fox had become tame enough to take scraps of meat and twists of hide directly from her hand, and putting a hat on him was the next logical step.

Clem snorted. “He’s not handsome, Rosie, he’s kidnapping you.” “When you’ve been around for as long as I have, Clemence, you’ll begin to understand that these things are not mutually exclusive.”

Luckily, Clem was ridiculous. She prided herself on her commitment to the absurd.

“Yes,” Clem said. “I’m holding your hand. I’m making my move. I understand that you have trouble expressing your feelings and that my violent kidnapping was just your way of telling me you like-like me.”

“Hard luck,” Clemence said to Josey, all sympathy. “Best fighter I’ve ever seen, and they have you on piss duty.” Josey smirked. Mariel was less amused.

Clemence’s insistence on being cheerful to the point of madness was already extremely wearing.

You have essentially shimmied your hips at death and told it to come hither.”

Nobody had ever pinned Clem to a tree before. New experiences were good for the soul.

Things would happen to you, both great and very terrible. You might as well make the most of them, when you could.

Clem wondered if they were perhaps in love, or if it was just that bread tended to bring out those sorts of emotions in people.

She sort of wanted to pick a fight with the captain, but maybe just so Mariel would lay hands on her in reply.

You have to know that you might be the only person who ever truly sees everything you do, how hard you work, what you believe in—and just do it anyway.”

“Good,” said Robin, patting her on the shoulder. “That’s all we can do. Fuck the fascists, and introspect.”