Donnelle's World

My 40th is coming up. I love gin, but thanks to you lovely people I already have lots of it!


Here are some other ideas:


Nurture my body
- a decent chef knife
- Gordon Harris plunger coffee (the green one)
- packaged easy curry sauces (not too spicy!)
- Pakn'Save vouchers of any value
- come over and help with bulk food prep
- foil roasting dishes / freezer bags etc for bulk meal prep
- lime cordial and soda water for my lovely gins
- decent disposable razors
- voucher for a massage
- money for a haircut
- come rock-hunting with me
- new towels, firm pillows, socks (like these, in size 10+)


Nurture my mind
- come over and do gardening with me
- do rock-painting with me
- movie vouchers / take me to a movie
- come play board games with me
- take me to do an escape room with you
- take me to Les Mis with you




Nurture my soul
- Any Posca paint pens - especially black or white in this thickness or any colour in this thickness, but absolutely any are awesome!
- Resene test pots in candy or jewel colours / white / black
- Floetrol for paint pouring
- small plastic mandala templates and dotting tools (like this)
- decent paint brushes in any size < 1cm
- clear spray sealer for painted rocks

Oh my goodness, Squick is a lucky girl! libbyrose123, you are a star! Thank you so much!

(must get that fabric to you... will be after festival though, as we're snowed under!)

( Pics )

Nemo rushed out from under the ledge of a piece of coral, his stunted fin flickering wildly. "Dory!" he cried. "You made it!"

The blue fish stared at him blankly for a second, spun around in a circle, and then scooped him up in a big hug. "Nemo! I made it!" She paused. "Made what?"

He grinned at her. His friend was notoriously forgetful, and he'd grown to adulthood dealing with her lapses. As he opened his mouth to speak, another clownfish slipped out from under the coral and snuggled beside him. "Dory, you remember my mate, of course?"

Dory nodded emphatically, "Yes, yes, of course. Lovely to see you, uh-"

"Caroline," Nemo prompted.

"Caroline," Dory repeated.

"Hi, Dory. Glad you made it. It's nearly time!" Caroline wiggled her black-tipped fins, and darted away, back under the table coral.

"Come and see," Nemo urged Dory, leading the way. They carefully skirted past the anemone where Caroline and Nemo lived; the orange clownfish were immune to its sting, but the regal blue tang could easily become a victim. Behind it, in a shallow depression underneath the safety of the coral's spreading branches, lay a thousand tiny eggs, grey and pearlescent. Within the eggs, tiny forms shifted, with eyes clearly visible.

Dory stared, her mouth agape. "Wow, Nemo. They grew."

"They sure did!"

An egg twitched. All three fish watched in wonder. Another egg twitched, and another.

In the expectant silence, the fishes' thoughts turned, as often happens in times of imminent new life, to those lives that had been and gone. Nemo leaned against Caroline. "I wish Dad could have been here." She slipped a fin over his back, and Dory did the same.

"Marlin would be so proud," said Dory. His passing of old age, frail and weak, was seared upon her memory, as was the knowledge that she would probably outlive Nemo, the coming brood, and even the next generation of clownfish.

They waited, wrapped in shared memories, hope and excitement. More eggs twitched, the movements inside becoming more emphatic, and the three fish inched closer to watch. Suddenly an egg split, and a tiny clownfish larva burst out. It was translucent and fragile, but Dory squinted closely at it, then flung her fins wide. "It's a boy!"

Another egg split. "It's a boy!"

Another, and another. "It's a boy! It's a boy! Boy oh boy, it's a boy!" She swam in excited circles. "A boy! And a boy! And another boy!"

Dory swam around and around the clutch as more eggs hatched. "A boy! It's a boy!" She stopped and thought for a moment, then pointed at a wriggling egg as it split. "...surely this one will be a girl?" The tiny fish wriggled out and Dory looped the loop in joy. "It's a boy!"

She stopped and pointed again. "Must be time for a gi- it's a boy! Whee!"

As more and more eggs hatched, Dory swam around in a state of agitated confusion, finally coming to a halt in front of Nemo and Caroline, who valiantly tried to repress their giggles. "Surely you should have a girl by now? Ooh, another boy!" She darted away in glee, trying to shepherd the larvae into a group.

"Dory!" Nemo called. "DORY!"

The blue fish halted, and looked back at him. "What?"

"They're all boys!"

"I know! Isn't that strange? So this one should be a girl- it's a boy! Wahoo!"

"No, Dory! All clownfish babies are boys!"

Dory blinked at him in confusion. "What do you mean, all clownfish babies are boys? That makes no sense." She peered accusingly at Caroline. "Are you a boy?"

Caroline grinned. "I used to be."

Dory's jaw dropped. "Wha-? How... how does that work?"

Caroline shrugged. "When there's no females around, we just... change. The biggest male becomes a female."

Dory squinted at Caroline with the dubious expression of someone who has been tricked many times before.

"It's true!" Caroline added.

Dory looked at Nemo. He nodded in agreement, and she looked back at Caroline with slightly less scepticism. "You really used to be a male?"

Caroline nodded. "I've had babies before, but I didn't lay the eggs. My mate-" she broke off, and took a moment to compose herself. "She got taken by a barracuda, and with her gone, I became a female."

Dory listened, her eyes wide with fascination. "Those awful barracuda. That's just what happened to Marlin! Coral got taken, and... wait. You're playing tricks on me! Marlin never turned into a female."

Nemo looked sad. "There must have been something terribly wrong with him. He should have turned into a female. I don't know why he didn't."

Dory assessed him, askance, still not quite sure if he was telling the truth. "Really? Marlin was broken? Well, at least he was a great dad. I don't think he'd have been any better as a mum."

Nemo glanced aside. "Actually, he'd, um, she'd, um. Have been my mate."

Dory blinked. "Your what?"

He cleared his throat. "My mate. Except he didn't turn, and we don't know why, and it's rather embarrassing that he didn't."

"That's incredible! I wish I'd known that before! Why didn't you tell me?"

In unison, Nemo and Caroline answered "We did". Dory didn't hear them; she'd already darted back to the thinning cloud of larvae and was ducking and spinning, greeting each one with a startled exclamation of "It's a boy!"

Oblivious, the larvae drifted upwards, towards the light of a waxing gibbous moon. Nemo and Caroline watched them go, content in the knowledge that tides and currents would drift them through the ocean, to reefs their parents would never see.

That was how it was supposed to be.

Tuesday 11 September, 2018

There were aliens on the TV last night. Mum said they came in a big spaceship. They are having a big war with lots of guns and they are the good guys and they need our help. If I was bigger I would help them. I would go boom boom boom at all the baddies.

By Billy


*


Tuesday 18 September, 2018

Mum said that we're not going to help. She said the big boss men had lots of meetings and they decided that we won't help. I want to help! I want to go boom boom boom! The Xrrsts are fighting the Ch'niks. I don't like the Ch'niks because they are big and scary like big giant insects. I like the Xrrsts because they are purple and fuzzy.

By Billy


*


Thursday 20 September, 2018

I hope the Xrrsts win. Jennifer said she hopes the Ch'niks win but that's just dumb.

By Billy


*


William Reynolds
79809 St. Rt. 139
Jackson, Ohio 45640

December 7, 2029

Harvard College
86 Brattle Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
Attn: Admissions Department

Dear Admissions Department,

There is no doubt that Harvard University has the most highly-regarded Exobiology program in the country. My lifelong dream has been to become a Exobiologist, from even before I was old enough to know the word. The Xrrsts captured my imagination at the age of seven, and though there has been no sign of them for over a decade, I still believe that one day we will re-establish contact with them, or another extra-terrestrial lifeform.

My ultimate goal is to attain my doctorate, and contribute to the growing body of research on the past communications with the Xrrsts, until such a time as more practical study is possible.

I have attached my application, as well as transcripts, an essay, and all of my letters of recommendation as defined in my admissions packet. I appreciate your time and consideration and look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,
William Reynolds.

*

From: exobiowill@gmail.com
To: jenniferbishop2011@gmail.com
Subject: WOOHOO!
Date: March 28, 2030

I GOT IN! Harvard, here I come!


*


From: william.reynolds@hcri.harvard.edu
To: jennifer.anne.bishop@us.army.mil
Subject: They're back!
Date: August 28, 2041

Jen! I don't know if you've heard, but the Xrrsts are back! It's all pretty hush-hush at the moment, but the big news is that I get to meet with them tomorrow!

It's all very exciting, but I will do my best to act in accordance with my station (*ahem*) and not leap around like a seven-year-old boy!

============

This message has been sent from the office of Dr William Reynolds, Lecturer (Exobiology).
If you are not the intended recipient, please inform the sender immediately.


*


CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT: TOP SECRET
Xrrst Incident Debriefing
August 29, 2041

Witness: Dr William Reynolds, Exobiology Department, Harvard University

Dr William Reynolds was present at the proceedings by request of Captain Jennifer Bishop, who recommended him based on his studies of the previous contact.

The following statement is in his own words:

I arrived at the base as directed, at 0800 hours, and was escorted to the briefing session. I was delighted to see Captain Bishop present (Note: connection there? Investigate.) but even more delighted at the prospect of finally meeting a Xrrst.

We were shown to the chamber where the Xrrst waited, and we observed it for a while behind one-way glass. It was smaller than I expected, but its fur was that beautiful iridescent purple I remembered. It appeared quiescent, more calm than during the previous contact, but of course it is difficult to judge until we become fully conversant with their mannerisms.

After observing the Xrrst, Captain Bishop, our escort of military guards, and I entered the room. The Xrrst greeted us, speaking through a communicator similar to the ones we saw last time. It's quite fascinating, really - in the past 23 years their communicator has reduced in size by a factor of twelve, and the translation has lost the unpleasant high-pitched tones. No-one has been able to tell me anything about the ship it arrived in, but I would be so interested to know if- oh, sorry, I'm getting off track.

We entered the room. I did wonder briefly about contamination, but as the previous contact had occurred without any problems, I decided not to raise the issue. Ha.

I introduced myself to the Xrrst, and it said its name was K'tad. Or possibly Kitan. I'll have to study the phonetics more closely. I expressed how pleased I was to meet a Xrrst at last, and it appeared quite agitated. I tried to gather information as per the recommended protocols, but it was not very forthcoming.

When I mentioned the war with the Ch'nik, it said "It was close but we won," but then- (Subject visibly upset. Interview paused for three minutes.)

When I asked about the war, K'tad's fur began to ripple and pale, and it groaned and shook. I tried to approach it, but one of the guards warned me away. As the shaking became more violent, I went over and asked if it was okay. K'tad looked at me and said "You will be, all the helpers will be", which I didn't understand, but then a purple cloud of something exploded out of K'tad and went all over the room.

And... I saw it go into them. Into Jen- Captain Bishop and the guards. But it didn't go into me. Why didn't it go into me?

K'tad died, didn't it. Are Jennifer and the others going to die, too?

(Subject too upset to continue. Interview finished 2315.)


*


From: william.reynolds@hcri.harvard.edu
To: jennifer.anne.bishop@us.army.mil
Subject: Hello
Date: November 30, 2041

Hi Jen, how are you doing? I'm guessing you're in a little windowless room much like my own, but I am delighted to have net access again. It's been a long three months.

The General said that if they continue to detect no changes for another three months, that we will be free to go. I can't wait.

When we get out of here... would you maybe like to go on a date? With me?

William.

*


From: william.reynolds@hcri.harvard.edu
To: jennifer.anne.bishop@us.army.mil
Subject: Movies?
Date: March 3, 2042

Hey love,

I had a great time last night. You're such a good cook. Want to go to the movies tonight? Meet there at 7?

xxx


*


CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT: TOP SECRET
Bishop Incident Debriefing
March 3, 2042

Witness: Dr William Reynolds, Exobiology Department, Harvard University

The following statement is in his own words:

It happened with Jen just like it did with K'tad. We were lining up to get our movie tickets and she started to shake. She fell down shaking and lots of people stood and stared. Some people tried to help, but then she exploded in a purple cloud, just like K'tad, and it all went everywhere and into everyone (audible sobs, interview paused for six minutes).

Except the people who tried to help. K'tad said "all the helpers will be okay". What did it mean? What's happening? And why is Jen dead?

(Subject too upset to continue. Interview finished 2100.)


*


From: william.reynolds@hcri.harvard.edu
To: jennifer.anne.bishop@us.army.mil
Subject: I miss you
Date: April 13, 2042

I miss you so much. I know you will never read this, but it helps to pretend I'm talking to you. You always listened to me.

It's spreading everywhere, Jen. Some of the people at the movie theatre left before the military locked it down. And months later, always in crowded places, they exploded too. We can't stop it.

They don't know what it is. It's a bit like a fungus, a bit like a virus, a bit like some sort of mutating nanobot. They think it's triggered by pheromones, when you get enough people in an area, but it's not been proven yet.

Other people noticed that it doesn't affect people who try to help. There's all sorts of theories about why. Some people think that the Xrrsts are trying to teach us to be helpful, to stop being so apathetic and self-obsessed. People are either avoiding public places, or being conspicuously helpful at all times.

I think it goes deeper than just teaching us a lesson. From what we can tell, the Xrrsts are incredibly long-lived in comparison to us, and they must think on scales vaster than we can imagine.

They're breeding us, directing human evolution with survival of the kindest. Next time the Ch'niks or some other force come through, the Xrrst will ask us, and we will fall over ourselves to help them. Helpful cannon fodder in waiting, keen to throw ourselves on the flames.

Human society could stand to be a little nicer, yes, but too far will be devastating. And at what horrendous cost in human life?

Oh, Jen. I don't know what to do.


*


Friday 10 September, 2083

Today we went to the museum. We looked at lots of stuff. Mrs Jamison really liked the extibihit show about William Reynolds. Jackie laughed because that is like my name. There was lots of words that I can't read but there were some pictures too. He looks a bit like my great unkle Billy.

Mrs Jamison said he saved the world by stopping a germ that was killing all the mean people. I don't know why he would do that. Mean people are yucky.

By Willa R.


*

Jill suppressed a sob, wiping a faintly grubby hand across her reddened eyes. Sorting through her mother's house was proving even more difficult than she'd thought it would be. The kitchen had been a treasury of childhood memories; the good bowls used only at birthday parties, the carving knife sharpened to a thin spine of itself, the "special spoon" with roses on the handle which she and Matthew used to fight over at breakfast time.

She hadn't expected the hallway cupboard to provoke similarly strong emotions. The Yahtzee box started the tears, seeing her own childish handwriting scrawled across the inside of the lid: "Jill got 438! Beat that!"

Matthew had added his own addendum. "Stinkybutt! I got 439!" She laughed, remembering the hours they'd spent trying to beat each other. Dice were serious business, back then; Mum would join in on the long nights when Dad didn't come home.

The graceful loops of her mother's writing finished the exchange. "Sorry, chick, Mum got 443." Jill traced it gently with a finger, and sighed. She closed the lid and set the Yahtzee box gently on the floor.

Next on the shelf was the Scrabble box. Her mum, Beth, had loved Scrabble. She knew all the funny little two-letter words, "QI", "XI", "ZO" and all the rest, and used them to wicked advantage. Scrabble was a New Year's tradition in the family. Whoever played a word on the stroke of midnight got 50 extra points, and they still mock-complained about the time Beth played "JACUZZIS" across two triple words, just as the town clock started to chime.

Jill scrubbed a hand across her eyes again. There was work to do.

"Hey, Matthew," she called.

He stuck his head out from the bathroom, his own eyes suspiciously red, and said "Hmm?"

"Would you like Scrabble or Yahtzee?"

"Yahtzee," he said, without hesitation.

One side of her mouth twitched into a grin. "You would. Stinkybutt."

He laughed, and went back to sorting towels. Jill went through to the kitchen, where the table was covered with two piles of assorted memories and miscellania. Yahtzee went on his pile, and she reverently placed the Scrabble box on hers.

***

It was dark by the time Jill got home. She staggered from the car, her arms laden with boxes and bits, and gingerly made her way up the front stairs. The outside light wasn't on, so she fumbled at the door for several minutes, unable to find the lock in the dark, until Alex groaned his way off the couch and let her in.

"How'd it go?" he mumbled, immediately settling back in to his game of something loud and violent.

"Okay. It's pretty hard, you know? All those memories..." Jill trailed off. Alex didn't even notice, staring at the TV and thumping buttons on the controller. She shrugged, and went into the kitchen, depositing the armload of her mother's belongings on her own table. The "special spoon" went in the cutlery drawer ready for breakfast, the carving knife went in the knife block, and she drifted around the house finding a home for the other pieces.

The Scrabble box was the last thing on the table, and Jill considered it with an inertia born of emotional exhaustion. She slumped into a chair and stared at it, then carefully reached out and lifted the lid.

It smelled like her mother's house, like long, warm afternoons, like cheese soufflés and date scones. She didn't bother to hold back the tears that silently slipped down her cheeks, but picked up the board, unfolding it as though preparing for a game. The tiles underneath were all face down, as Beth had always insisted on doing at the end of every game.

Except five.

"H₄ E₁ L₁ L₁ O₁", they read.

Jill blinked.

"They must have got bumped in the car," she thought. "Or Matthew's playing a trick." She turned each tile face down, her movements jerky and cautious, covered them with the folded board, and put the lid back on, then carried the box to her own hallway cupboard. The faded box looked a little out of place among the glossy boxes of the modern games that Jill preferred, but she placed it atop Settlers of Catan and Tsuro with care and pride.

***

Matthew came around for dinner the next day, with a packet of fish and chips tucked under his arm. It was his last night in town, before he flew back to Hamilton. They spread the takeaways on the newspaper at the kitchen table and ate them, licking salt off their fingers, and teasing each other over who deserved the last potato fritter. Alex accepted a plateful, but stayed in the lounge, stabbing greasy fingers at his controller, and at the TV when something didn't go his way.

With the chips gone, and the oily paper bundled away into the bin, Matthew and Jill stared at each other with the uncertain expressions of dancers who have forgotten the next step.

"Scrabble?" she suggested, her voice brittle and bright.

"Sure thing, Stinkybutt. Not one of your fancy games this time?" he asked.

"Just Scrabble," she said firmly, getting up and heading for the hallway cupboard.

Scrabble box in hand, she went back to the kitchen. "You wouldn't believe what happened last night," she said, putting the box down on the table. "The tiles were all turned over, except ones that spelled-"

She stopped. Underneath the board she'd just picked up, the neat regularity of the backs of the tiles was broken by five, face up.

"C₃ H₄ I₁ C₃ K₅"

"I changed my mind," she said, hurriedly putting the board back and closing the lid. "I think you'll like Tsuro."

Matthew raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. They spent the next hour making flight paths for dragons. Jill lost several games, simply because she couldn't concentrate.

"You okay?" Matthew asked. "You look a bit... distracted."

Jill nodded. "Just... you know." Her gesture encompassed the kitchen, and a world of loss.

He nodded in reply. He knew.

***

When he left, Jill hurriedly opened up the Scrabble box. She knew she'd turned all the tiles down last night. And yet, there it was, the name her mother had always called her.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. This was impossible. She turned the tiles face down, closed up the box, and put it in the cupboard. Her muscles ached with tiredness and suppressed tension, and she collapsed into bed, completely drained. What dreams she had were tattered and incoherent, though threaded through with loss.

In the morning, she couldn't resist the urge to check. She peeped into the Scrabble box, with her muscles tense, already half-mocking herself.

"H₄ E₁ L₁ L₁ O₁", they read. Jill could almost hear her mother's voice, calling with the exaggerated "o" sound she used when Jill was lost in a book.

"Oh, Mum," she said, and leaned her head on her hands and wept.

Alex found her there when he bumbled his way out of bed, late for work as usual. He planted a kiss on her head, snatched the toast out of the toaster, and left the house. Jill sat there, staring at the Scrabble box with her thoughts churning.

Gingerly, she reached out and turned all the tiles face down, then one by one picked them up, searching for the letters she wanted.

She placed them in order, "M₃ U₁ M₃", and shut the box.

It felt silly to look in a Scrabble box every hour, and when lunchtime came, she decided to put it back in the cupboard and leave it overnight. She lay awake, ignoring Alex's snuffly breathing, pretending that she wasn't listening for the click of tiles turning, until sleep engulfed her.

***

Jill was due back at work the next day, and although she was rushed and unprepared, she took the time to check the Scrabble box. Her "M₃ U₁ M₃" was gone; there was a new word in the tiles.

"H₄ E₁ R₁ E₁".

Crying, Jill found the letters she wanted.

"L₁ O₁ V₄ E₃ Y₄ O₁ U₁ M₃ U₁ M₃"

Work was agony, trying to operate in a fog of agitated disbelief, but she somehow made it through, despite the words of concerned colleagues distracting from her surface stoicism.

***

In the morning, the tiles read simply, "W₄ H₄ A₁ T₁." Jill blinked at them in confusion, before comprehending. She'd used more than one word, and perhaps, in this strange system of communication, it just didn't work.

She stared at the tiles, trying to come up with a single word to express an array of complicated feelings and questions. In the end, she settled on "W₄ H₄ E₁ R₁ E₁."

***

"H₄ E₁ A₁ V₄ E₁ N₁"

It was agony, communicating only one word each day, but Jill was too thankful to complain. One word from her mum each day was infinitely better than a lifetime without.

"W₄ O₁ W₄"

***

"Y₄ E₁ S₁"

"D₂ E₁ S₁ C₃ R₁ I₁ B₃ E₁"

How could you not want to know what heaven was like?

***

"W₄ H₄ A₁ T₁"

Jill stared at her mother's message, and flicked back through the notebook she'd started to keep. What had she sent yesterday? "DESCRIBE", what was wrong with that?

Eight letters. Jill sighed, and googled for synonyms. "D₂ E₁ P₃ I₁ C₃ T₁," that would hopefully do.

***

"S₁ U₁ B₃ L₁ I₁ M₃ E₁"

Jill grinned. Beth deserved it. Then a thought crossed her mind, and she gasped, hurrying to find the letters.

"D₂ A₁ D₂"

***

The next morning, Jill rushed to open the box.

"A₁ B₃ S₁ E₁ N₁ T₁"

Scrabble tiles had no tone, no expression, but Jill could discern her mother's dry amusement. There was only one thing she could say.

"F₄ I₁ G₂ U₁ R₁ E₁ S₁"

***

"J₈ U₁ S₁ T₁ I₁ C₃ E₁"

Jill laughed. Just like Mum, that laconic humour. She'd accepted Dad's wandering ways with resignation, but it didn't mean she'd liked it.

"I₁ N₁ D₂ E₁ E₁ D₂"

***

"P₃ A₁ R₁ T₁ N₁ E₁ R₁"

Partner? Did Mum mean Alex? Jill frowned. How could she ask, given that "ALEX" wasn't a valid Scrabble word?

Ah. Her mum was pretty smart, she'd work it out. If she was wrong, her mum would tell her so.

"A₁ X₈ L₁ E₁"

***

"C₃ H₄ E₁ A₁ T₁ E₁ R₁"

Alex? A cheater? All he cared about was X-box and beer, a sad truth that Jill had been trying to deny to herself for months.

"N₁ E₁ V₄ E₁ R₁"

***

"C₃ H₄ E₁ A₁ T₁ E₁ R₁"

The tiles stared up accusingly from the box, insistent.

"W₄ H₄ O₁"

***

"G₂ A₁ M₃ E₁ R₁"

Jill blinked. She didn't decide on a reply message straight away, but spent the evening discreetly watching Alex. He'd swapped to a headset and microphone, and his usual shouted rantings had been replaced by murmurings.

"B₃ E₁ L₁ I₁ E₁ V₄ E₁"

***

"G₂ O₁"

"W₄ H₄ Y₄"

***

"C₃ O₁ N₁ F₄ I₁ R₁ M₃"

"O₁ K₅ A₁ Y₄"

***

"G₂ O₁"

"W₄ H₄ E₁ R₁ E₁

***

"B₃ R₁ O₁ T₁ H₄ E₁ R₁"

"O₁ K₅ A₁ Y₄"

***

"Jill? You here? I need to talk to you." Alex stumbled in at 9pm, to find the house dark and quiet. He spotted a note lying on the kitchen table, and picked it up.

Alex,

I've gone to Matthew's for the weekend to think some things over. I'll be back on Monday, on flight NZ527. Please pick me up at 3:10pm.

Jill.

He never noticed the worn carving knife floating up from the knife block.

Meal time was always a battle. There was no denying it; Davi was a picky eater. K'tisha mustered an enthusiastic expression as she placed Davi's heaped plate in front of him. He promptly shoved it away.

"Nope. I don't like it," he pouted.

K'tisha tensed. "But you haven't even tried it!" she cooed. "I got it especially for you! And you must be hungry after school."

Davi deigned to hook his plate closer, and eyed the contents suspiciously.

"It doesn't look right." He prodded it. "Are you sure it's ready?"

"Of course it is, dear. The lady at the market helped me choose a good one, and all!"

"But, Muuum, it looks yucky."

"No. It's perfect. Look. Its skin is in perfect condition, no spots or marks, and it's exactly the right colour."

Davi scowled. "Jeq's family had one the other night, and it wasn't that colour."

His mother suppressed a sigh. "The lady at the market said the darker the better, so long as it's not too shiny. Davi, you need to eat."

He slumped back in his chair, glowering at her. She stifled an urge to shove the plate into his face.

"The lady taught me all about them! This was the absolute best one there! Good skin condition, good skin colour, a good weight for its size. It even passes the tap test!" She demonstrated.

He glared.

K'tisha sighed, and reached for a knife. "Look, I'll cut it up for you." She levered the blade through the skin, working off some suppressed frustration, and extracted a delicate slice.

"See? Look how red and juicy the insides are. Mmm, yummy." She pantomimed deliciousness, and shoved his plate back at him.

Davi sniffed, and sniffed again. "Mum, what's that smell?"

K'tisha sniffed, too. "That's funny, it smelled alright at the market." She gingerly prodded her carefully selected offering, and then hooked it up in one tentacle. The creature dangled loosely, its four funny appendages hanging down. She shook it, to little effect, then brought it towards her olfactory organ. "Eurgh!"

Revolted, K'tisha slithered across the kitchen and dumped the human into the recycler, then scrubbed her tentacles at the sink.

"Sorry, Davi. Shall I pop out and pick up a couple of Centaurians, instead?"

Davi nodded.

40 years ago...

I don't know how Chuck got the whisky, but he did. I'd never tasted it before, but when my first sip seared its way down my throat, I tried to refuse the next.

Chuck laughed at me. "Come on, Jimmy, you gonna come all the way out here and not have a drink? It's too cold to just sit here."

He had a point. The autumn air was brisk, and the warm glow of my first sip smouldered nicely within me. Wordlessly, I held my hand out for the flask. The second sip was smoother, and didn't seem so determined to ignite my sinuses. I took a third.

He grinned at me. God, I loved that grin. I didn't have words for how I felt about him, but that was okay; I knew I could never speak them, anyway.

"That's more like it." He settled back against the fence and stared up at the bare branches of the overhanging trees, taking a swig. I leaned back, too, careful not to touch him, but intensely conscious of the warm length of his thigh, stretched so close to mine. The scent of Old Spice, pilfered from his dad's bathroom, drifted around us. We watched the moon in companionable silence, sharing the bottle back and forth. I closed my eyes with each sip, aware that my lips were where his had been, knowing it was wrong.

"Man, this place is a mess." Chuck gestured, bottle in hand, to our shrouded surroundings. The crisp light of the moon made mysterious hummocks of the headstones, engulfed in masses of ivy and moss.

"Mum said the council is talking about cleaning it up, maybe opening it up again. Redhill Cemetery is nearly full, and this one still has plenty of space."

"Huh." He took another swig. "Good luck getting anyone to work here. What with the ghost and all." He handed me the bottle, warmed from his hand, and I took a mouthful and savoured it. Maybe this stuff wasn't so bad.

"Oh yes, the terrible ghost." This was something we'd done together since we met in first grade, traded ideas back and forth, making up stories together. "He wanders the cemetery every night, you know."

"Looking for the pants his wife stole." This struck us both as hilarious, and it took several minutes for us to hiccup our way back to sensibility.

"It's a tragedy, a man without pants," I said. "If only..."

"...if only, he'd kept them on."

The whisky spoke. "When his boyfriend came to visit." Chuck put his head back against the fence, his whole body relaxing and shaking with laughter. His leg touched mine, and I froze. My blood was racing through my body, driven by whisky and desire. He stilled, and I held my breath as he turned to look at me. In the moonlight, his eyes were the colour of smoke.

A moment passed.

Chuck scrambled to his feet. "School tomorrow. We'd better get home," he said. He tucked the flask into his jacket pocket and offered me a hand. I stood up, braced against his warm grip, and we walked to our houses in silence.

35 years ago...

"Hey, Jimmy." Chuck leaned over the cemetery fence. I'd never found work after graduation, so when the council finally got around to sorting out the old cemetery, I went for the job. A dollar an hour pulling up ivy and digging up weeds. The work was hot and hard, but muscles formed and bunched under my skin, and I bulked out from the angular teenager I'd been.

"Hey, Chuck." He threw me a beer; it fizzed as I opened it. I chugged it as he half-unzipped his greasy overalls and lit a cigarette. "How was work?" Chuck always had a story about something that had happened at his dad's workshop; how old Mrs Williams filled her car up with oil instead of petrol; the dodgy magazine they'd found under the seat of the pastor's car.

"Old man Montgomery brought his truck in today. He backed it into his wife's clothesline and put a leak in the gas tank. He patched it with gladwrap and bandaids to get it to the workshop." Chuck took a long drink from his can of beer, and offered me a cigarette.

I accepted, and held it between my lips as he lit it for me. "Really?"

Chuck snorted. "Don't know how it held together. He had a black eye though, said his wife was pretty cross about the clothesline."

I laughed. "Wives, eh. Who needs them?"

"I'll drink to that." We clinked cans, and drained them dry.

"Speaking of Montgomeries, I found another one today," I said. "Over under the oak tree." I gestured to the furthest corner.

"Oh?" he said.

"Ebenezer Montgomery, 1910 to 1928."

"Huh, right age to be Monty's... brother?"

"I figure so." We often did this, discussing the headstones I'd uncovered. So many of the surnames were familiar.

"He's the one that joined the circus, right?" Chuck grinned at me.

"Yep. Such a tragic end. Death by lion."

"That's what you get when you sleep with the liontamer's wife."

We laughed. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than this, forever; standing in the sun with Chuck, inventing stories about their lives, much more exciting than our own. It was amazing how many of the people buried in our little town had travelled the Amazon, or explored the Arctic.

But he wanted desperately to leave town, to see the world, to do bigger things. Every paycheck was squirreled away, saved for his escape. I saved, too; I liked our little town, but I wanted to go where he went.

30 years ago...

I'd long ago cleared the cemetery, though the ivy had a way of sneaking back in. It was no longer spooky, beyond the usual unease that cemeteries generate. I was proud of it, proud of my service to the town, and glad that the council kept me on as a groundskeeper and gravedigger.

I dug Chuck's grave.

He'd come by after work as usual. He was in a bad mood, bitter about being tied down. His dad was ill, and he couldn't leave the workshop. We'd drunk our usual beer, and followed it with extras. It had warmed me, and I'd done something I'd dreamed of for years.

I'd kissed him.

He'd kissed me back.

Then he'd turned, got into his car, and driven away. He never made it home.

Each shovelful of dirt was salted with my tears. The preacher spoke of loss, of friends and family, and Chuck's dad leaned on his cane with a trembling, accusing glare. He blamed me.

I blamed me.

20 years ago...

The council bought a little digger to dig the graves. It's not dignified. Easier on my back, though. I did the weeding and mowing, tidied up the flowers when the wind came through, that sort of thing. At the end of each day, I'd sit by Chuck's grave and talk to him.

But then Chuck's dad died. The bitter old man hung on longer than anyone thought he would. His headstone glowered at me, stark and stern next to Chuck's, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was listening in. It was never the same, after that. I couldn't tell Chuck how I was feeling; just "Good morning, Chuck" and "Good night, Chuck".

1 year ago...

The council set up a team to handle all the cemeteries; Redhill, my one, and the new one they opened on the south side of town. They said I was too old, that I couldn't handle the work. It was true. All those cigarettes took my breath away. But I didn't like the job they did; their weedwhackers were quick, but the ivy is smart enough to just stay low. It'd take over if I let it.

So I kept doing my rounds, tidying up, weeding where I could, and checking on Chuck. It got harder every week, especially in winter when my breath whistled like the wind in the branches, and I thought about staying at home.

My little one-bedroom flat had little appeal, though, and I couldn't leave Chuck out there, alone. I'd bundle up warm, and shuffle out to his grave, sitting in silence, thinking the thoughts I couldn't speak.

One day I got there, and his headstone was gone. His father's stone still loomed, but Chuck's was gone. Those bloody teenagers, always hanging out here and mucking around, must have broken it. I was so angry that my chest hurt.

With tears in my eyes, I knelt beside his grave, in the spot that I'd worn bare of grass. "Oh, Chuck," I said.

I smelled whisky and Old Spice. I knew it was him, before I felt the warm grip on my shoulder.

Now...

I must be dead. There's no other explanation for it. I don't mind. My body is firm and fit again, no aches and pains, and Chuck is here with me.

The afternoons are endless. We sit together against the fence, sharing a flask that never empties. He flashes that grin at me, and we spin stories back and forth between us.

This planet is not our home. We came here thousands of years ago, in a failing ship. The flickering remnants in the reactor core were barely enough for us to fire off a call for help, and guide the ship to earth as best we could.

Though the planet seemed to bask in blues and greens, our scarred ship landed in a brown dustiness. We could not survive here, not in our true forms. The gravitational pull was too fierce, the atmosphere too oxygenated. Our ship was nearly drained, and help was a million light years away. We had no choice; we had to meld.

Melding is an emergency procedure, used only in direst need. If lifeforms are compatible, we can integrate our consciousness to form a shared symbiont, where we can bide our time, passing from host to host with each generation, waiting for assistance to arrive.

Earthbound, we could only scan the nearby area, hoping for a suitable host animal. Should it be those spotted creatures, with claw and tooth and the fearsome speed of our nf'anda at home? Or those small, darting animals in their underground colonies, taking democratic turns to bask in the sun and stand on guard? Or the voiceless, angular beasts that graze on the treetops?

Eventually we settled on an animal with size, intelligence, and strength, with social behaviours that mimicked our own. Its grey, wrinkled skin offered protection from sun and foes, and its faintly ridiculous facial appendage was nimble enough to be useful. We used the last dregs of power to entice a herd closer, broadcasting their own calls back to them.

They came. We shifted, and merged, encoding ourselves into their very cells. They welcomed us, in their basic way, and we learned the rhythm of the seasons, and the way of our new world.

It was brutal.

Life came and went with sudden redness, with fear and pain. It was strange to us, but we persisted through the years, passing from parent to child.

We survived, nothing more, waiting for help. Then, a thousand years ago, we heard it; the faintest signal, getting ever closer. Help was coming.

The realisation struck us hard. We had no way to respond, to show that we were still here. Helplessly, we listened as the signal peaked and then faded again, sliding into an orbit around the sun.

Despair drove some of us mad. Our mental anguish festered in the host animals; they rampaged across the dust, devastating anything that lay before them. The rest of us could only watch in horror; the other hosts learned to flee until the madness had passed.

Every year when the temperature drops, in the period of time they call "winter", the beacon comes around again. We listen powerlessly as it drifts past us. Each year, it is quieter; each year, that knowledge drives some of us mad.

I've never succumbed. Not yet. But if one day, winter comes, and the beacon does not... then, I will truly despair.

I ordered my usual gin from the servo-bot and sat down at the bar. The air was redolent with the stench of the Hudson River; ongoing clean-up work hadn't yet reversed the eco-collapse of 2133, and ten years later it still smelled of death. You got used to it, mostly. It was worse in hot weather, and today had been a scorcher.

The last few weeks at work had been hellish, fighting to meet the fixed deadline of today's lottery, but we'd done it. The atmosphere at CyberCo had been triumphantly collegial. We'd declared it "beer o'clock" at three, and then left early. I'd come straight here, for my annual tradition of watching the lottery at my favourite bar. I nursed my drink and gazed at the screen.

The Lotteries head, Jaylene something-or-other, gave her usual aspirational speech- "think big", "make a difference", the same old stuff. Then the lottery-bot, gawky and angular, fished a ball from the spinning barrel and held it aloft. It was all for show; the barrel was nowhere near big enough to hold the 38 million balls needed to represent every law-abiding, employed, adult citizen of New York, not unless the balls were

<Implant query: container volume / 38000000, allow volume factor of 1.6 for movement> 0.32mm>

0.32 millimetres in diameter.

The ball the bot held aloft was much bigger than that, but no matter. Digits slid over its SmartSkin, displaying the citizen number randomly selected by the algorithms behind the scenes. There was no need for all the stage-dressing; you could just run a random number generator over the citizenship list and choose the first seven, but the flashing lights and glamour kept people tuned in. A voice-over announced the digits, and my implant

<Implant query: Citizen 752341857> Henry James Fernandez, b. 2108, Apt. 3012, 452 Foster Ave, New York, NY 10016. Three children, 2142 income of $132,023.>

flashed up his details, while the screen showed an animated cut scene with his name and photo. The upgrades I'd made to my implant weren't strictly legal, but I hadn't been able to resist the challenge of breaching and integrating a number of supposedly-secure city databases. It was useful.

I sipped my gin; it mingled warmly in my stomach with the beer I'd had at work. I wasn't alone. A rowdy group of college kids in the corner laughed over the traditional lottery drinking game; they each picked a digit, and every time their digit was announced they had to drink. One, with the pasty pallor of a physics student, argued it was unfair to pick 0, given that citizenship numbers don't start with 0, and that started a loud discussion about probability and the unlikely characteristics of each others' mothers.

It wasn't so long since I was one of them, oblivious to the real world; I'd graduated with an double degree in Mathematics and Computer Science eight months ago, and since then I'd been working at CyberCo. They provided the gear for the lottery winners, and I spent my days working with probability analysis and consensus, modifying differential equations with 30-plus variables and integrating the calculations into code. It paid the bills, and left enough time for my other interests.

The second ball was drawn,

<Implant query: Citizen 684128953> Alicia Rose Willcocks, b. 2122. Final year PoliSci student at NYU, with part-time employment at McDenny's. Minor traffic violation in 2141, expunged with the minimum 320 hours of community service.>

and the group in the corner started the next round, reciting each digit and pointing accusingly if the person took too long to drink. Alicia's details came on screen, and they whistled appreciatively at her picture. "I'd like HER number," some wit yelled.

I rolled my eyes as I took another sip. I'd had enough of that sort of nonsense at college. Despite many attempts since the late 20th century to address the gender imbalance, I had still been severely outnumbered in my classes. I've never been a stunner, but the very fact of my femininity had been enough to goad even the most awkward of classmates into propositioning me. Urgh. Not interested. Alicia, on the other hand... I'd appreciated her smile as much as the college kids, but I wasn't crass enough to whistle about it.

The lottery-bot reached into the barrel again, and grasped one of the swirling balls. I barely listened as I savoured my drink, until

<Implant query: Citizen 722148301> Shay Malloy, b. 2120.>

I realised it was my number, my name and face being flashed up on the screen. The glass slipped from my numb hand, and shattered against the floor, the abrupt noise interrupting the next round of "Drink your digit". The pale student stared at me, and a flurry of elbows and whispers flew around the group. Suddenly they were around me, crowding me with beery breath and exclamations.

"You won!" one yelled.

"Vote for cheap beer!" shouted another, to general cheers of approbation.

I ignored them. My implant was flooding with message pings, from friends and family. I started to check the one from my mother, but it was over-ridden.

<Message: Priority: Governmental Urgent, Classified. From: New York Lotteries and Electoral Commission> Congratulations on your election. Stay where you are.>

The group around me grew quiet and withdrew, watching as two large men in dark suits approached me. How did they get here so quickly? I briefly considered running, but my shaky legs wouldn't let me. I didn't want this.

"Miss Shay Malloy." It wasn't a question. "Please come with us," said the taller of the two suits, extending a hand. I didn't have a choice; I went with them.

*

The room at NYLEC was spacious and comfortable, with the pale cream furnishings of an institute that can afford plenty of cleaner-bots. I huddled in the corner of an enormous couch. Henry Fernandez sat opposite me, his dark face wrinkled with concern. We'd exchanged introductions, then left each other alone to ponder what would happen next.

Alicia was ushered in, still in her McDenny's uniform. Despite the unflattering beige-with-yellow-trim clothes, she was stunning. Her dark eyes were wide, glittering with calculation and suppressed fear, but she maintained a casual demeanour as she introduced herself. We chatted about the superficial pleasantries of people in unwanted situations, telling me nothing my implant hadn't already reported.

The other chosen citizens gradually arrived, escorted by their own pairs of large men: Maria, a middle-aged Latina who owned a well-known bot distributor; Sherm, a 20-something who worked "whatever's going"; Charlotte, a dancer from Brooklyn with two children, fretting about whether her mother would be able to pick her kids up from school. Rickard, a perfect blustering example of middle-management in a grey suit, demanded to know how long this would take; we shrugged and ignored him. We all knew the theoretical premise of what was about to take place, but the practicalities hadn't been covered in our civics classes.

The door opened, and Rickard fell silent. The head of NYLEC came in, as pristinely groomed as when she'd appeared at the start of the lottery, followed by a few others in less formal clothes. They were techs; I knew the type, and they carried CyberCo-branded boxes.

"Good afternoon," the head announced. "I'm Jaylene Davidson, head of NYLEC. No doubt you have many questions-" she raised a manicured hand to silence Rickard as he began to blather- "and they will all be answered in time. You all know that New York is governed by consensus. Each year we select seven good citizens, assess their values and priorities, and use our analysis to form a consensus. Your consensus will drive policy and funding decisions in the coming year."

Charlotte tentatively raised a hand. "How long will it take? My kids..."

"The process takes several weeks." Charlotte gasped, and adopted the glazed expression of someone accessing her implant. Jaylene continued, "During that time, you will-" Charlotte twitched, as if receiving a painful electric jolt, "-not be able to access messaging. Any dependents will be taken care of by the city."

Alicia spoke up. "How do we do it? I know it has something to do with our implants."

"You will be fitted with a headnet. We'll put them on now, to give them time to integrate with your implants before we begin in the morning. The headnets assess your response to a range of topics. Your responses will be averaged out to form a consensus. Any questions?" Her tone was polite, but the expression on her face was cool enough to quell even Rickard.

She nodded curtly to the techs. The scruffiest one, clearly senior, fiddled with a handheld device, while the others moved around the room, fitting a stretchy net over each of our heads. One by one, a light lit up on each headnet, but the tech behind me muttered and fussed, pulling and adjusting it. The senior tech came over.

"Is there a problem?"

The tech behind me mumbled something about non-compliant settings, and the senior tech caught my eye. His eyelid flickered.

"I'll sort it out." As he adjusted the headnet, he tapped the handheld device, apparently calibrating some settings. From his smile, he succeeded, and the techs moved back to stand behind Jaylene. The senior tech gazed blandly at me, and a brief expression of abstractedness passed across his face.

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> Do not react. I will contact you later.>

He winked at me.

*

The evening passed with more briefings and acclimatisation. The real work would begin in the morning. We were shown to individual bedrooms, each sumptuously furnished in pale neutrals. I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> Are you alone? Respond if so.>

I considered his message. Concealed surveillance aside, this was as alone as I was likely to get. I composed a message and replied: <I am alone. How are you messaging me? I thought we couldn't access it.>

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> I set up an internal commnet on your specific headnet. I needed to talk to you. You are not here by chance.>

<Oh?>

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> I accessed the algorithms for the lottery selection and made sure you'd be picked. I need your help. The city needs your help.>

<What's going on?>

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> Jaylene is working with CyberCo. She's being paid off by the Chief of Police. They came up with a scheme to reduce unrest in the city. They want to take consensus to the next level - feed it back to the populace so that they will all agree with the city's policies. They've put a feedback loop in, to override your response and encourage you to respond as they want. Then when they have the nicely-packaged consensus they need, it'll be pushed out to the citizens.>

<That's horrible! Can they do it?>

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> CyberCo has the tech. You've been working on some of it. That's why I need you.>

<What can I do?>

<Message: Priority: Classified. From: Benjamin Cleaver> I hope you will be able to disable the override.>

<OK. I'll try. What do I need to do?>

I waited, lying awake until the dark hours of the morning, but my implant remained silent.

*


=====================
Please note: this is the first part of a two-part story. The second half is for the second topic of this week, Overwatch, and can be found here: http://jexia.livejournal.com/1338376.html

Demons live a long time. We have centuries to explore and perfect our appetites, whether for grief, fear, or pain. I have one compatriot who delights solely in the tang of a boy-child's first stubbed toe. My tastes are not so rarified; I can quench them in plenty.

You wouldn't expect to find a demon in a birthing unit, but I never have been. Found, that is. I cultivate the demeanour of a competent midwife, and the practicalities are trivial compared to the reproductive requirements of Hell. I work for my keep, and I'm good at it.

My desire is pain. I can spot my next meal a mile away; they're the ones who come waddling in, armed with birth plans, and empowering mantras they've practised for months. You can practically smell them, though that might be the rescue remedy drops and raspberry leaf tincture.

There was one just a couple of days ago. Heather, her name was, and the hovering, solicitous husband was Ben. I saw them stumble in together just after lunch, pausing to breathe through contractions. The uncertainty on their faces marked them as first-time parents. Perfect.

They were guided to my birthing room, and I hadn't even introduced myself before she brandished a birth plan at me. I skimmed it rapidly; no IVs, check; labour to proceed at its natural pace, check; no pain relief to be offered, check; no extended monitoring, check. This was going to be good.

I went through the usual procedures. Heather was a chatty blonde, made garrulous by nerves, but the regular pattern of silence told me she was having to concentrate through her contractions. Things were moving along nicely, though at the usual sedate pace of first births. A cervical check showed she was at a stretchy three, and I couldn't resist whetting my appetite by performing a little unauthorised stretch-and-sweep. Delectable. Heather squirmed, and I apologised for the discomfort. I needed them to trust me.

Heather listened to her iPod, and leaned on the bed, rocking her hips. Ben swapped anxiously between rubbing her back and offering sips of water. I didn't discourage him; sometimes a full bladder can slow things down.

Five o'clock came, and with it the tired uncertainty of whether she could keep going. I reassured her that I was with them for the long haul. She was working hard, and starting to really hurt. Mmmm.

Seven o'clock, and it was time to begin the preparation. I expressed a little concern about her progress, and offered my professional opinion that it was time to do a little external monitoring. For the baby's sake, of course. Heather and Ben exchanged wide-eyed glances, and she nodded abruptly. With the Doppler pressed against the taut swelling of her abdomen, it was easy enough to subtly wiggle it in order to mimic heart decelerations.

It's a shame Zxxyx wasn't there; he thrived on fear. His work on the Harvard admissions board kept him satiated, though.

I assumed the proper expression of concern, and suggested that maybe it might be time to augment her labour. For the good of the baby, of course.

One IV later, and I'd breached the first condition of her birth plan. Boom. The oxytocin flooded through her body, and the contractions immediately picked up in intensity and length. There went another condition. She was hurting now, flat on her back in bed. My mouth watered.

I bustled about, pretending to make preparations, while Ben cast increasingly worried glances in my direction, flinching at every groan. The next time I came over to check her blood pressure, he muttered, "Can't you do anything for her?"

"Pain relief, you mean?" I said, quietly. He looked at his wife, and nodded. Heather had the distant, internalised expression of someone managing intense pain. She was ripe and ready. I raised my voice ever-so-slightly, to make sure she overheard. "We can place an epidural to stop the pain, but-"

Heather sat upright, as best she could. "I want an epidural, and I want it NOW," she snapped. I nodded and obliged, paging the anaesthetist.

He placed the epidural with his usual skill, accustomed to the fractious nature of labouring women, and their universal insistence that they can't lean forward with the damn belly in the way. Heather slumped against the bed as the cool relief eased down her body. The pain was gone.

My stomach growled, its supply denied.

The rest of the evening proceeded with the usual human messiness. She squeezed out a human spawn, squalling and pink, and I suppressed the familiar nausea at their joy. The pay-off would come, in the morning.

The next day, I made my rounds. A blood pressure here, a "Have you opened your bowels?" there, and off to Heather's room for a well-deserved breakfast.

Heather huddled in her bed, cradling her son in her arms. It wasn't visiting hours yet, and I knew that Ben would be deep in sleep that the new mother had been denied by the incomprehensible demands of her son. She raised her eyes, black-ringed with exhaustion, and reddened with tears, and returned a trembling smile to my greeting.

"How are you today, dear?" I asked.

"I'm okay."

I crouched beside her bed. "How are you, really?"

"I... why couldn't I do it?" Heather sobbed. Human mothers are so temperamental, so predictable.

I laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes we have to do these things for the good of the baby."

She shuddered, christening her baby boy with tears, and aching with the knowledge that her body had let her down. Her pain was delicious, flavoured with exhaustion, self-loathing, and regret, with a side-order of lingering physical discomfort. Just the way I liked it.