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Interview with a Supernormal 

by LeeAnn McLennan

As the first known biographer of supernormal life, I was able to wrangle clandestine interviews with a supernormal I met when she saved my life. I know her as Kate Brighthall but don’t try to find her because that’s not her real name. She was kind enough to reveal facts about her world and allow me to write about them. I suspect she wanted to make sure at least some details are correct to counterbalance the tabloid rumors swirling around. 

Below is an excerpt from notes I took when Kate told me about how supernormal abilities develop. She was unusually chatty that day. 

…………………………………………

As told by Kate Brighthall…

Supernormal children aren’t born with their powers active. Despite what some tabloids seem to think, our children aren’t distinguishable from normal children at all. Not at first. 

Supernormal children start showing signs of basic package abilities around age three. Basic package abilities (my daughter Zoe’s term) include super speed, sight, smell, hearing, and strength. For those supernormals living among normals it can be challenging covering up what our children can do. Naturally, children want to show off by trying to outdo their normal counterparts in sports, games, and such, but we must remain hidden. Many supernormal family vacations involve going places where kids can use their abilities freely — and no, I won’t reveal any of those places, so don’t bother asking.

As our children grow up, we introduce different ways to hone those basic package skills. Again, because we must be discreet, this might include using sight or hearing skills while bird watching or using scent skills to identify every ingredient in a prepared meal. Many of us are exceptional chefs or very picky eaters. 

More intense training begins at age thirteen when a child’s significant ability manifests. A significant ability can be one of many different skills — it could be an extension of the basic package or something very different. For example, Zoe’s significant ability is super speed. She can run the 120 miles from the Portland warehouse to Mt Hood and back in fifteen minutes.  Others gain significant abilities such as the power to manipulate objects without touching them. I can manipulate objects weighing up to 5 lbs. Other abilities include fire starters, like my niece Olivia. My brother, Alex, is an empath — a skill often used for healing. Supernormals can heal more rapidly than normals but we occasionally need a little help. Alex also uses his ability to help normals heal — surreptitiously, of course. 

Most abilities are easy to hide from normals but some of us manifest abilities that require we stay hidden. It’s not unheard of for a supernormal to manifest wings, gills, or present other physical changes. Once, a long time ago, we didn’t worry about staying hidden. That’s how some myths got started — normals saw supernormals in action. Nowadays we stay off the grid; it’s safer that way — for us and for normals. 

As teenagers manifest their significant ability, we focus on honing their new skill. There are tried and true exercises for each ability, but my brothers and I challenge ourselves to find new ways of training. It’s been particularly interesting training Olivia’s fire starter skills — her range is amazing but her control still needs work. Good thing her grandfather had the same skill and built a fireproof training room. 

There is only one forbidden ability — mind reading. Any child who manifests this ability must learn to suppress it — almost all supernormals who manifest this ability develop the power to control minds as well. They usually end up going insane because it can be difficult to handle the influx of information. 

Why is mind reading forbidden? Around two hundred years ago, a supernormal with the ability to read minds destroyed most of the supernormal population globally. Because of this cataclysmic event, there are less than a thousand of us worldwide. Fortunately, it’s a rare ability; typically, only one child per generation manifests it. I’ve only known one personally and he is in a medically induced coma to protect himself and others. 

Every family lineage has a role in the supernormal world. For example, my family, the Brighthalls, often train to be trackers, seeking and containing the monster population while protecting normals from these creatures. Oh yes, monsters are among us. We can discuss it at another time.

Sometimes we have to kill the monsters but usually we try to capture and then release a creature in a safer habitat. As the normal population has grown, it’s becoming harder and harder to keep monsters away from normals. Sadly, due to encroaching populations we’ve had to kill more creatures than we did in the past. I’m trying to find better ways for us to capture and contain these monsters. Most of them are harmless when kept away from normals. Recently we tracked a firebug — a small tentacled critter who emits sparks and sometimes flames — usually harmless in a remote desert setting but not in an urban environment where it can harm normals. We were able to use Olivia’s ability capture it and now it’s on its way to a safe habitat. 

Once a significant ability is manifested it takes about six months for full development. After that period, our abilities are set and don’t grow any more. Of course, we can refine our skills. For example, manipulating object of 5 pounds or less might seem like a limitation but I’ve learned that it depends on what that object is. 

My family is atypical because we integrate into the normal population. Our job as trackers means that we usually live in normal cities so we find have to work hard to blend in among normals. Also unusually among supernormals, we often marry normals. Supernormal genes are dominant so our children have abilities. I remember when I told my normal husband about supernormals — he was stunned but has adapted very well to our double life. 

I think it’s good to stay connected to the normals — keeps us grounded in both worlds. Not everyone agrees. Most supernormals keep themselves separate from normals as often as possible. It’s a generally held belief that if we were to reveal ourselves to normals they would try to study us or control us. Historically, the few times we’ve come out to normals, it’s been a disaster for us and we’ve had to go back into hiding.

……………………………………………………….

At this point, Kate received a text message. I don’t know what it said but she gasped and abruptly ended our interview.  As she rushed off I heard her mutter, “Olivia what have you done?” 

This biographer has written about Kate Brighthall’s family in the fictional (or is it?) Supernormal Legacy series, starting with Dormant.

FRIENDS OR WHATEVER

by Karen Eisenbrey

Jackson

“Jackson, wait up!” 

My heart flips like a platform diver; it's Justin Hornbaker, All-American Golden Boy. 

“Hey, Justin, how's it going?” I hold the door, and we leave school together. The girls have band practice, so I'm on my own this afternoon. Hanging out with Justin even for a few minutes beats any other plans I have.

“All right, man. I'm hoping you can help me out.”

“Sure, anything. What's going on?”

“See, I—one of the guys on the team asked for advice, and I wasn't sure what to tell him.” The sun catches Justin's wavy blond hair and lights it up like a halo. Hard to believe he's not on homecoming court. “But you know people, right? Like how they think or whatever?”

I don't know about that, but according to my friend Barbara, I know literally everybody in school. She calls it my superpower. Which is probably why I am on homecoming court. “OK. Wanna sit down?” I sit cross-legged like a wise man on the concrete planter around the flagpole. Knowing what people need and giving advice—those are my real superpowers. “What does your friend want to know?”

Justin stays on his feet, pacing back and forth. “So, he's a senior like us, right? And he wants to go to the homecoming dance, but he doesn't have a date yet.”

“I'm not seeing the emergency. He's got plenty of time to ask somebody. Or it wouldn't kill him to go stag.”

“That's what he wanted to do. But Mom is all about rites of passage and milestones. His mom. Apparently. She says he has to have a date so it'll be special.”

“So, what, he wants a list of girls who might say yes? Who is it?”

“No, no, no, that's not it.” Did Justin answer my question by not answering my question? Interesting. “We're talking about a popular guy, right? He knows lots of girls who would probably love to go with him. He needs to know the best way to ask.”

I stroke my chin and nod sagely. “If he's thinking a big production, tell him to walk it back. No marching band, OK? I mean, if he's really into someone, he should make it special, but private is classier. He could ask to meet after school, maybe under that big oak tree. Very romantic, with the leaves turning color. Or out here by the flagpole …”

Justin's ears turn bright red. “He's not planning anything like that! It's more, if he asks a girl to go as friends, will she be insulted?”

“As friends.” 

“Right. He's, um, not in the market for a girlfriend. So should he be up front about it? Or will it hurt her feelings more if she thinks they're dating but they're not?”

“Sounds like a thoughtful guy.” Now I want to hire the marching band, or get down on one knee and hold Justin's hand, but I settle for direct eye contact. “Here's what I think. I think I know who we're talking about, and I think he should go—with me.”

He holds my gaze. He doesn't beat me up. “Um. With you? Like, as friends?”

I could drown in those blue eyes. “As friends, or whatever.” I'd prefer whatever, but friends is a good place to start. “It's perfect, right? A date; no girlfriend; no hurt feelings.”

“Yeah, perfect.” He slumps down next to me. “Except I'd … he'd ... Look, the parents don't know, all right? Almost nobody knows. It's hopeless.”

“Never mind. I'll give it some more thought, let you know, OK? Maybe I'll have a better idea.” Who am I kidding? There is no better idea. But maybe it's not completely hopeless. Almost nobody knows.

“Thanks, dude. I—my friend—appreciates it. See ya!” Justin gets up and starts walking toward the street before turning back. “So who are you really going with, Mr. Homecoming King?”

I force myself to smile. “Well, the only person I want to ask isn't out to his parents. So keep me posted, all right?”

Justin swallows. His ears are red again. “You … you'll be the first to know.”

Justin

I walk away, ears on fire. It takes everything I have to hide how wobbly I feel as I join the crowd of kids streaming out of the building. That conversation didn't go anything like I thought it would.  

Jackson Durand just asked me to Homecoming.

Should I be flattered? Yeah, I'll take it as a compliment. I mean, I know girls are attracted to me. Not a brag, just an observation. So—

“Hi, Justin.” 

I look up at the two voices. “Oh, hi Zoe. Hey, Dakota; lookin' good.”

See? Those two are besties with my ex; I don't dare ask either of them to the dance. Yet they sing my name and surround it with pink glitter hearts. So, I shouldn't be—

“Hi, Justin.”

“Hey, babe! Places to be, so …”

My sister's teammate. Can't remember her name, if I ever knew it. 

“Hey, Justin!”

“My dude.” 

I fist-bump the tiny anonymous freshman and hope I didn't insult their gender identity. Apparently everyone is attracted to me, so I shouldn't be surprised if out-and-proud Jackson is, too. But.

Jackson Durand just asked me to Homecoming. 

I asked him for advice; he asked me for a date. Anyway, he asked my “friend” that we both know is fake. No wonder my head is spinning. How dumb am I, to pretend I was asking advice for someone else? Like someone as smart as Jackson would fall for that old ploy. Why didn't I just say, “Hey, man, how do I get a safe, platonic date for the dance?” He knows everybody in the whole school, which means he must know at least one girl who wants the same thing I want.

So why did I act like I have something to hide? Duh, because I have something to hide. More than one thing. Like … how I'm a secret comic book nut! Yeah, that's my big secret. The blockbuster superhero movies are making it a lot more mainstream, but I don't tell just anybody. It's not like I dress up and go to Comicon. I go; I just don't dress up. It's fun to watch everyone who does, though. And I'm not talking about ogling characters in tight or skimpy costumes, OK? It's so great to see people getting totally into their thing, being with their people. I respect that. Tight costumes are a bonus.

Meanwhile, Jackson Durand just asked me to Homecoming.

He knows.

No. He doesn't know. He guesses. 

“Justin!” The shout is accompanied by the hum of an electric wheelchair and clicking dog toenails.

I stop to let them catch up. “Hi, Scout; hey, Bella!” I squat next to the chair so she doesn't have to look up. “How ya doin'?”

“Great!” 

FYI, Scout's the girl in the chair. Bella is her service dog, a sweet yellow Lab. I like Scout (not that I don't like Bella); she's dealing with way more than I am, but I've never seen her give up on something she really wanted. Plus, she has the best bullshit detector I've ever seen, which makes our American government class a lot more interesting.

This gives me an idea. “What are you doing for Homecoming?” Great idea, right? I like her well enough and nobody could fault me. I'd look like a hero.

“I'm going … with Charlie! He … asked me … yesterday. Didn't you … see … my balloons?” It's worthwhile to be patient with Scout's halting speech, but I didn't expect that.

“Yeah, but I thought it was your birthday. So, going with Charlie Rust? That's cool.” Charlie was a middle-school track star, but he lost a leg and damaged his brain in a car wreck a few years ago. He's had more to deal with than me, too. He's got a cool prosthetic now that lets him run again, so I guess going to a dance is well within his abilities. “But I was gonna ask you.”

“You … snooze, you lose.” Scout laughs. “I'm not … the one you … want to go with.”

Bullshit detector's better than I thought. “Well, save me a dance, OK?”

We separate at the crosswalk, where she turns to load into a special schoolbus with a lift while I cross the street to catch public transit. I board the next bus along with a crowd of laughing, yelling kids.  I find a seat and put in earbuds so no one will bug me.

Maybe I'm making this harder than it needs to be. It's just a dumb school dance. Except I've noticed how squealy a lot of girls get about it. To them it's a BIG DEAL. I could pick some random girl and ask her to go with me, but then she'd have expectations. That I would disappoint. I know because that's what happened last year when I had a girlfriend.

Does it actually count as boyfriend/girlfriend when your “relationship” mostly happens at school and by text? Chloe thought so. I chose her because she was super busy with school and ballet and had a very strict curfew. Add in that neither of us had a driver's license, and it's no mystery why we didn't go out much or have a lot of alone time. It was OK until I legit forgot our three-month anniversary. Who remembers things like that? But then as a test, I deliberately forgot her birthday, and she broke up with me. Which is what I wanted, but it made me sad. Not that she broke up with me, but that she'd wasted half the school year with a dude who wasn't that into her for reasons that had nothing to do with her. I tried to be a decent guy and that whole thing felt wrong.

But Jackson freaking Durand just asked me to Homecoming. And I almost said yes.

***

About the time I've decided to disappoint my mom and go to Homecoming by myself, a miracle: Storm Skye asks me to go with her, as friends, no pressure. It couldn't be more perfect. Storm looks like a model, and it's more than plausible for the captain of the basketball team to go with the captain of the cheer squad. Mom will have lovely photos for her album and I can stay safe in my closet. 

It's a closet called Basketball. 

I've always been just a regular guy, a bro with a secret. If you have athletic ability, you can spend most of your time with other guys and no one bats an eye. Sometimes it's … uncomfortable, but the great thing about team sports is you can put all that energy into the game. There's a science-y name for it; I forget what. I call it Discipline. Dedication. Giving a hundred and ten percent. And if a teammate starts talking raunchy about girls, I play the Enlightened Feminist Ally. They all know (and are intimidated by) my sister Jordan, so even that isn't suspect. I just wish I could be honest. 

Like Jackson. He's been out at least since the beginning of high school, and it hasn't hurt his popularity. It's just part of who he is, along with being drop-dead gorgeous and somehow knowing everybody and what they need. So no wonder I almost said yes.

I'm still getting dressed when Storm rings the bell. Yes, I'm letting her drive us to the dance. Not because I'm a big feminist ally, but because she has her own car and I still don't have my license. I straighten my green bow tie, chosen to match Storm's dress. Which I haven't seen, so I'm hoping for the best. I think I look pretty good in my rented tuxedo. I let my sister choose the vest, all different colors including green to match the tie. She also persuaded me to wear my green high-tops instead of renting shoes. Good call, Jordan. I feel almost like myself in this monkey suit.

“Storm, tell me about this beautiful dress!” Mom exclaims as I head down the stairs.

“My grandmother had an unmarried aunt who sang with a big band. Grandma ended up with some of her clothes, so when a group of us decided to go vintage tonight, I knew who to ask. Hi, Justin.”

Storm smiles up at me, looking like an old-time movie star with her hair up and sparkly jewelry. Her dress is dark green like my tie, strapless and form-fitting to about the knee where it flares out. She even has long gloves to match, and a dark fur stole that looks real enough to bite.

“Justin, you didn't tell me your date was a princess.”

“Queen, actually. Storm, you look great.”

She steps up close and pretends to straighten my tie. “You clean up pretty well yourself, mister.”

Mom clears her throat and nods toward a side table. I grab the corsage box and lift out the pale green flower with its ribbons and doodads.

“An orchid! Thank you!” Storm holds out her left hand and I slip the elastic strap onto her wrist.

“Wait, I need a picture!” Mom grabs her camera and waits while we re-enact the scene. Then Storm pins an arrangement of roses and stuff to my lapel while Mom snaps away. I figure we're good to go, but Mom isn't done yet.

“I want a few posed shots, like I took of Jordan and Cruz before they went to dinner. Why didn't you two do that? There are so many romantic little spots these days, and Dad and I would have been happy to pay for it.”

“It's not—” I begin to explain.

“This dress barely fits as it is!” Storm interrupts, hands framing her trim waist. “No room for a restaurant meal in there.” She winks at me as Mom leads us into the living room. Nice save.

“Stand in front of the fireplace. Oh c'mon, pretend you like each other!” I put my arm around Storm's shoulder and she wraps her arm around my waist. “Good! Say cheese! Now Justin, stand behind Storm with your arms around her waist. Storm, put your hand over his so the orchid shows. Good!”

This goes on basically forever. “OK, Mom, enough pictures. The dance will be over if we don't leave soon.”

“One more …”

After we escape, I make small talk about Storm's sweet ride. Not fake small talk; it's a cool car, a yellow Mustang convertible. I wish we could put the top down because my ears are still flaming from some of the poses Mom put us in.

“How, um, did you know I needed a date?” I ask her when I've run out of car talk.

“Jackson happened to mention it.”

“I wondered if he had something to do with it. Because, you know, we were talking about Homecoming, who we wanted to ask or not or whatever.” I shut up before I spill the truth. It's probably too dark for red ears to betray me.

Storm gives me a quick glance as she drives. “Yeah, Jackson’s a great guy, the way he figures out what everybody needs.”

“Exactly! A great guy. We’re lucky to know someone like that.”

Storm must have amazing parking karma because she finds a spot right in front of the school. Prom will be off campus, but Homecoming is always at the school. I guess it doesn't make sense to “come home” to a hotel ballroom. The building doesn't look like the same place where we spend our days. It's not only that it's night, because it seems different from game nights, too. Must be all the kids in tuxes and formal gowns. 

We walk inside and get in line to show our tickets and student I.D.s to a chaperone. Zoe and Dakota are ahead of us with their dates, a couple of guys I don't know well. They look good, if uncomfortable, in formal-wear. We fist-bump while the girls all hug each other.

“Storm, you look amaaazing! Hi, Justin.”

How do they talk in unison like that? But Storm actually does look amazing. I hope they're not mad at her for being with me, but I'm kind of relieved they're not singing my name anymore. I'm happier to see Scout and Charlie. And Bella. And a big man I assume is Scout's dad. He looks like a Marine or something.

“Lookin' good, you two!” They're both dressed to the nines, and Bella has flowers on her harness. Charlie looks extremely serious and maybe a little terrified, but Scout's never looked happier.

Scout gives Storm the once-over. “You … found a good … date, Justin.”

“Nope, she found me. We look good in pictures, though.”

Finally, we get to prove we belong here, and then we enter the gym. I spend half my life in this room but I barely recognize it. Amazing what you can do with crepe paper, balloons, and twinkle lights. The DJ has already started his set and people are out on the floor, dancing in pairs and groups. A couple of goth weirdos slowly waltz around the edge of the dance floor. It's creepy how they seem to hear their own music, but whatever.

Jackson is there without a date, as promised. I cut in while he's wheelchair boogying with Scout to make sure I get my turn. Yeah, that's why. I don't mind dancing with Storm, except for an excruciating slow dance where I suggest we “leave room for Jesus.” It just about kills me when King Jackson dances with Queen Storm. I don't want to wear a tiara or a satin gown, but what wouldn't I give to be in her place.

***

We leave the dance early to get to an after-party in some girl's basement. That doesn't sound inviting, and honestly, I wasn't planning to go. But it turns out it's a really big finished basement decorated with shiny streamers and Christmas lights, with a few floor lamps so it's not too dark. The real selling point, though? Live music. Storm's in the band, singing backup and playing tambourine. It's a four-piece, all girls, dressed to party in different decades. Storm's vintage satin gown and long gloves suddenly make sense. Of course. She's wearing a costume.

Jackson arrives around the same time we do, but at first it seems like attendance will be thin. The band's on their third song before the crowd really fills in. Then it turns fun, people dancing and yelling and slamming each other. It's a dry party, but nobody seems to miss the beer. Bottled water is wildly popular as it gets warm and stuffy. Hardly anyone seems to trust the big bowl of bright green punch. I think it has ice cream floating in it, but I'm not sure. 

The band takes a break, and Storm finds me in the crowd. I guess we're still on our date.

“Warm in here.” She takes off her wrist corsage and holds it between her teeth while she peels off her gloves. “I don’t have any pockets in this dress. Hold these for me?” She hands them to me. They're warm and smooth.

“Sure.” I stuff the gloves into the pocket of my tux jacket. Guys all around are watching enviously, thinking they want to be in my place. Dudes, you have no idea.

Jackson squeezes into our circle. “Nice work, Barbara, Storm. Hey, Justin.” 

“Dude! Is this an awesome party or what? Who needs beer when there’s live music?” 

“Best party I’ve ever been to!” This from the band's lead singer, who must be Barbara. I don't know her, but apparently she's best buds with Jackson. And maybe Storm, because now she's wearing the tiara.

Jackson cracks up. “Barbara, your idea of a wild night is staying up past eleven to eat pizza and watch action movies.”

She scowls. “That was your birthday party, not mine.” 

I jump in to help her out. “Man, I love movie parties! Invite me next time, too.”

“What do you think of Comicon?” Barbara asks, with a smirk at Jackson.

“Um, Barbara ...” Jackson looks uncomfortable; not something you see every day.

“Dudes! I went last time! So awesome!” I'm having a good time, I like these people—why not reveal my unimportant secret?

“Really? You liked it?” Jackson sounds … surprised? Relieved?

“Oh, yeah! Next time, I want to go in costume, though. Like as Thor! That would rock.”

“Then Jackson is the man to make that happen,” Barbara says. “You guys should talk.” 

The guitarist starts tuning for the second set. Barbara glances that way, then beckons. “Come on, Storm. Back to work.” 

Storm taps each of her cheeks. “Kiss for luck, boys.”

Um, what? Jackson leans in without question, so I guess it's OK. We each give her a quick smooch. I keep my eyes open. So does he, so we're looking at each other across her nose. Oh, wow.

“Justin, hold this too, OK?” Storm slides her corsage off her wrist again and holds it out. “Or Jackson; I don't care. I just don't want to wreck my first orchid.”

Jackson

I can't believe Barbara did that. I told her about my costume design hobby in confidence. I never told her the name of my crush, but give the girl credit. She handed me a perfect opening. As the music starts up again, I walk with Justin to the end of the room farthest from the PA.

He leans close. “Can you really set me up with a costume?” 

I work to hide the full-body thrill of his breath in my ear, but I'm taking full advantage of the necessity to get right up close to be heard. “Sure, if you want. I design and construct something for myself every year.” 

“You design them? Like original characters?”

“Most years. Always with a mask, so I can go undercover.”

“That's awesome! Ooh, idea! Next year, I could be Thor and you could be Loki! Yeah?”

“So, go together?” I bite back the word date but I'm thinking it. “I'm liking this idea.” 

“Hey, by the way, thanks for my date,” Justin says, reading my mind.

But you turned me down. I keep that thought to myself. What I say aloud is, “So you figured it out?”

“Hah, yeah. But really, thanks. Storm could've gone with anyone.”

“Well, she's taking a break from drama this year; seemed like a win for both of you.”

“She's a good sport. We had fun, but ...” Justin takes half a step back and twiddles Storm's corsage. He glances up from the flowers toward the band as they start into one of their few slow-ish numbers, a soul ballad Barbara says she wrote for me. He gazes at Storm in a way that makes me think I was completely wrong. Then Justin looks me in the eyes. “It's not exactly Homecoming, but … wanna dance?” He slips Storm's corsage onto my wrist.

I stare at the orchid, then at Justin. “Are you sure?”

“She said you could hold it.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Yeah. I'm not sure, but if not now, when?”

Can't argue with that. So we hold each other close and sway to whatever the band plays, regardless of tempo. Friends? Whatever? I don't know. 

But Justin Hornbaker just asked me to dance.

Three Horsemen

by Beth Gibbs

They arrived an hour before sunrise, three horsemen riding through the sky toward me as I stood in my kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew. Their horses landed on my large balcony area in the early gray light and the three figures dismounted. They weren't invited but I had been expecting them for a while now. 

They stood awkwardly in a line in front of my balcony door, their backs to me as they surveyed the city below them. Each wore a cloak that matched the color of their horse – muted black, dust red and a pale stone color like bleached rock.  The stove top espresso maker started to hiss as the coffee reached completion. I waited for it to finish and then poured myself a cup. The horsemen hadn't moved though one of their horses started eating my boxed herbs.

I opened the door, my white knuckles clenching the handle of my cup, and stepped out. Each horseman turned as if in a choreographed dance: the black cloaked figure with the gaunt face and beady dark eyes, the ruddy bearded face with the red cloak and his manic eyes and finally the pale cloaked figure with the skeletal face, exposed teeth and black holes instead of eyes. Famine, War and Death.

None of them spoke but each seemed to look at my coffee.

“Breakfast?” I asked. Nods all around. “Have a seat.”

They sat in a row on the bench with their backs to the city.

“Uh, eggs?” I ventured, trying to think what I had on hand to feed three unexpected guests. 

Famine grinned, showing blackened teeth, and held up four spindly fingers. War looked at Famine and put up both fists, looking ready for a fight before turning to me and thrusting out six fingers as if they were weapons.  Death looked at me before politely shaking his head no.

“I'll see what I have.” I turned before Famine got greedy and tried to outdo War’s request. There goes that dozen eggs I just bought, I thought.

“Juice?” The voice was whisper thin, a last gasp sound. All the rest of us looked at each other in surprise. Death so rarely spoke, a sentence per century perhaps.

“I think I have some orange juice.” Hopefully it wasn't expired but perhaps that wouldn't matter much to the recipient.

“In a paper cup? Glass cups hit the teeth wrong.” Famine piped up for their traveling companion. They had always been tight, that overlapping of work that bonds folks together.

I rummaged around in my kitchen miscellaneous drawer, the one I had promised I would never end up having but was as inevitable as my three guests are to the world. Stuck in the back was a stack of paper coffee cups with a familiar green and white logo. I figured Death would be fine with a little dust.

I started another round of coffee and poured orange juice into Death’s special paper cup. I pulled a tray off the top of my fridge that I used for bringing drinks and snacks out at small intimate cocktail parties. I don’t usually take anything in my coffee but wasn’t sure about my guests so a little pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl went onto the tray with the coffee and cups. I balanced the whole thing in front of me and brought it out to the balcony.

The three had arranged themselves on the bench facing my apartment with the rising sun poised behind them, blocked by low clouds that I swore weren’t there before they arrived. War jumped up when he saw me coming with the tray and pulled my patio table over in front of the bench, the metal legs squealing against the concrete. I put the tray down in front of the other two as War then dragged a chair over for me. I had forgotten how diplomatic War could be, at least at the beginning of an engagement.

I ignored the chair as I put the cups and coffee carafe out. Famine immediately poured a cup and then began dumping in spoonful after spoonful of sugar. I put the juice cup in front of Death who nodded in appreciation.

“Oy – save some sugar for me!” War sat down next to Famine and poured a cup hastily, spilling a little in his eagerness. Famine had moved on from the sugar to the milk. I had sniffed it before putting it out; a little sour but hopefully they wouldn’t notice. Probably not with the amount of sugar each of them had added.

“How do you want your eggs?” I asked as War stirred his sugar in aggressively and glared at Famine as half the milk went into their coffee cup.

“Over easy but lacy edges.” Famine didn’t look up from their coffee prep.

“Scrambled.” War said as he snatched the milk from Famine. “You’re using all of it!”

“I have more milk.” I said, offering my hand out to take the pitcher for refilling. War looked at me for a second before pouring the rest of the milk in his cup, the milky coffee then running over onto the table. I sighed audibly and grabbed the pitcher from his hand as he bent over to loudly slurp from the rim of the cup.

“My cup runneth over!” War cackled as I walked away with my tray.

I prepared the eggs, irritated that the two had asked for different preparation methods and that I hadn’t refused. To ask them to agree on one egg preparation method for the morning was too much. They didn’t get on much what with their work in conflict so often. Nothing like a good famine to end a war and nothing like a good war to end a famine. I made Famine’s eggs first – they weren’t as picky about temperature as War would and I didn’t need him throwing a fit over cold eggs. I made myself toast in between the batches, treating myself to butter and jelly. I ate standing over the stove while stirring the scrambled eggs. I only had four more pieces of bread left and had sandwich plans for later after I got my unwanted guests off my balcony for good. I didn’t want to share with that lot who would demand toast. Except for Death who never had much of an appetite even for something so perfect for him as bone dry toast.

I put the plates of eggs on the tray with silverware and cloth napkins, a pointed nod to War. There had, after all, been many skirmishes started from mishandled hospitality. A waft of horse manure hit my nose as I walked outside with my carefully balanced tray that had another pitcher of milk added last minute. Two of the three horses had left large piles for me to maneuver around to get to the table.

“Which of you will be cleaning up after your horses?” I asked while setting plates down like a seasoned diner waitress.

War and Famine managed a shrug before both greedily digging in to their eggs. Famine had ignored the silverware and was slurping up their eggs with their hands, yellow yolk dripping down their  fingers and onto the sleeves of their robe. Probably they’d suck it off their sleeves later in desperation when their hunger struck again. I shuddered and looked over at my other guests.

War had made fast work of his eggs, stabbing them fiercely with his fork. “Could have used some toast.”

I ignored him and looked over at Death who was clutching his juice cup like a wary toddler who expects it to be snatched away at any minute. Death had always fascinated me. We didn’t work closely together often, usually right at the end of a long running project, but I had always admired his work ethic. He was steady, not as fickle as the other two.

“So you know why we’re here.” Famine looked up, the gauntness in their face receded a little from the eggs and coffee. I watched War roll his eyes. He wouldn’t have started so directly.

“I do. I’ve been expecting you to drop by.” They watched me as I reached for the coffee carafe and poured the last trickle into my cup. While I was cooking the eggs, these two gluttons had snatched another cup of coffee between them. And not bothered to mention it as I sat down. I would have gotten another pot going. I should have anyway. I sighed and took a sip.

“Well?” Famine asked.

“Answer is still no.” I looked away. I knew it was the right answer for me but I still hated to disappoint them. 

“Ah, dammit!” War slammed his fist onto the table. “This can’t keep being your answer.”

“I agree.” Famine looked at me with disdain. “Is the reason the same?”
I nodded. Death just stared out into the space in front of him. Maybe. Hard to tell when someone has no eyeballs where they’re looking.

“Burned out?” War spat the phrase out. “Same bloody excuse you gave last time?”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.” I replied. Famine opened their mouth to say something but War kept going.

“No, it has been a century. You can’t still be ‘recovering’, that’s malarkey. You know how much work I’ve been doing? Or Famine? They do two jobs really if you think about it, famines and pestilence. You know how busy they have been in the last three years? And Death? Death never so much as takes a day off. But you, you take a century and still you’re not ready? Bullshit.”

I watched Famine preen under the praise. They didn’t have as big of an ego as War but they didn’t hide the pride they took in their work.

“The last few years has been some of my finest work. I didn’t think I’d get approved for a full scale global pandemic. It had been so long.” The wistful glee in their voice made me smile. I turned my attention back to War.

“It hasn’t been a century. You’re exaggerating.” I knew exactly how long it had been. Seventy-seven years. And nine months. And eleven days. But who was counting?

“Close enough!” War huffed. He looked down at his plate, hoping for more eggs to appear. He glanced up at me, still somehow not connecting that the way he was treating me wasn’t going to endear me to get him more eggs. Or the toast he knew I had but was too diplomatic to bring up directly. For a warmonger, he did know how to pick his battles. Most of the time.

“I said I was taking the next hundred years or so off. And I’m sticking to that plan.” I stated this as firmly as possible. I didn’t know when I’d feel ready again. If I’d feel ready again.

“It isn’t fair, you know?” Famine picked up the thread as War mumbled into his beard and took a noisy slurp of coffee. A long pause descended on the table. I didn’t want to play along but I knew that the only way to get them off my balcony and get to yoga on time was to indulge them in the same conversation we had every few decades.

“What isn’t fair?” I asked though I’d heard this from Famine many times. Or War. Sometimes the two flipped roles just for fun. 

“You’re denying people what they need in this world. You can’t just up and quit without consequences.”

“What consequences? The same old shit keeps happening and the world keeps turning.” I replied. I couldn’t imagine going back into the fray. I felt like removing myself had been a good thing for everyone not just myself. Though definitely for myself.

“You know the consequences.” Famine stated, suddenly looking down at their plate. I blinked in surprise. I had expected a full rehashing of our past conversations. But Famine wasn’t up for it. I looked at War who was turning red in the face, trying not to lose it over Famine’s sudden change in their game plan.

“I do.” I replied, running my finger around the rim of my coffee mug. “I’ve been okay with those for this long though. A few more years won’t hurt.”

“We miss you, you know?” Famine looked up at me, eyes huge with a hollow look. I never knew how they did that trick, the starving child eyes. It had always been effective on me in the past. War didn’t cave to that sort of manipulation and Death was immune to it. I fell for it often but today I wasn’t having it.

“I miss you all, too. You can visit anytime.” I looked over at the piles of horse shit and thought about my dozen eggs that was supposed to get me through the week. “With notice, of course. I don’t like surprise visits.”

“The work isn’t the same without you.” War shifted in his chair, not meeting my eyes. He was always a quick one to regroup to the new plan. He surprised people that way but it was natural in his line of work.

I frowned at the two of them. I bet this had been their plan along. Pretend it was going to be the same conversation as last time but then try to trot out a new emotional ploy to get me back. They looked up at me with the timing of synchronized swimmers, Famine with their hungry child eyes and War with look of longing. I wondered how long he had practiced that in the mirror.

“Enough.” The word almost disappears in a early morning breeze. We all stopped and stared at Death. Two words in less than an hour. His lower jaw was set firmly though a drip of orange juice trailing down ruined the effect a little. I vacillated between feeling awed that he spoke and honored that he drank the juice. 

We all waited on the edge of our seats before looking at each other. Famine looked at Death with bemusement. War’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide as he stared at our companion. Death didn’t even glance at us but instead picked up the paper cup and poured the rest of the juice into his mouth, the orange liquid disappearing into the black abyss. 

“I – uh.” My words were lost in my shock. Famine looked over and gave me a tight head shake. I stopped my useless attempts to respond.

We sat in awkward silence for a beat longer. Death finally turned his head and looked at me, the black eye sockets conveyed nothing except howling emptiness. 

“Happy?”

The sound of the word was no stronger than any of the others, a short whisper that sent shivers up my spine. My mind rebounded from the shock of three spoken words from Death to realize that I have been asked a question. Not a snarky question. War would ask that. Famine would back him up. No, this was a different question. A straight forward one with a complicated answer.

I paused, contemplating what’s being asked. Had I been thinking about being happy? Was that why I left? I didn’t know. I had been too busy living. That was not accurate either though. Busy was the wrong word. Distracted? Focused? The two words were at odds with each other but both felt true. 

War and Famine looked at me, also waiting for an answer. I looked at them. They seemed happy when they talked about their work. War would take the occasional vacation but they were always short lived. He would come back sunburned with stories of everything being overpriced and not like the good old days which always leads to a tediously long story about the Roman Empire. As if we weren’t all there with him. 

Famine never seemed to take vacations. They rested in between projects, as they call their work, but even that is spent brainstorming the next plague or trade embargo. They organized team retreats as a pretend break but those just devolved into planning stages for them. Their work required a lot of collaboration and none of us were as dedicated to Famine’s passion projects as they wished we were. 

And Death did not seem to know the meaning of a vacation, of time off. Death worked around the clock, nonstop. No breaks, just tireless constant work. I felt a flush of guilt. I walked away but could Death? The consequences of a world without Death would be unimaginable. I shut my mind down from that dark spiral that nipped at the edge of my soul, the call to go down that exact path. It wouldn’t take me anywhere good. Or useful. In that moment, I found my answer.

“I wouldn’t say happy.” I said carefully. “Content is a more accurate word. I’m content.”

I saw movement from War and Famine, eye rolls perhaps. A huff of exasperation from War and a snort Famine. I ignored them and kept my focus on Death. Death stared back at me, the dark emanated from within him and seemed ready to take the shape of arms and hands that would pull me in to the void. Then the darkness shifted and receded back within the cloak. A ray of sun broke from the clouds and sunlight filled the air around us.

Death nodded at me. No more words today from him. He rose, black cloak swirling around him as he glided to his pale horse. I looked at War and Famine. War’s face held defeat and disappointment. I hated to let him down. He probably needed me more than the other two. I gave a certain meaning to his work that was not found with the others. 

“Soon?” He asked with such wistfulness that I felt the guilt creep in again.

“A century flies by. You know that.” I replied.

He nodded as if he didn’t believe me before pushing back from the table, patting his stomach in appreciation and then lumbering over to his horse. I watched him go before turning to Famine who was busy slurping up the dregs of their coffee which I knew from experience was mostly a sludge of sugar at this point. They always ate and drank as if it was their last meal. Which in some ways, it always was.

“Well, disappointed you’re still in this silly phase but I guess this just means another breakfast in the future.” Famine said as they stood and held out their hand. Dried yellow yolk was cracking over their fingers but I still stood up and took their hand. They gave me a weak handshake.

“Try to give me a heads up next time. Maybe dinner?” I said to them. They just shook their head and smiled. We both knew that wouldn’t happen. Famine gave me a limp salute and stumbled to their horse. The other two were mounted and ready to go. Famine took their time getting on their horse, much to War’s irritation and Death’s ambivalence. 

And then they were gone, riding into the sunrise and disappearing in seconds as if they never had been there. Like a dream. I looked at my balcony. A dream with dishes to clean and piles of horse poo to deal with. I started to stack plates and wondered exactly how I was going to get all that crap off my eighth floor balcony.

Painless Separation

by Benjamin Gorman

A few weeks ago, our relationship started to get rocky. No, not rocky. It got wiggly. Anyway, I knew a break-up was inevitable.

Noah and I had been together for over six years. I wasn’t his first (I was his third), but we were both so young when we got together, we basically grew up at the same time.

I remember when Noah introduced me to his parents. They loved me immediately. They cooed over me. “So cute!” they told him. That felt good. I’ll miss them, too.

Mostly, our relationship was… well, you know how, when people ask about how things are going and you say, “Great,” but you don’t really mean exceptional? You just mean that there’s nothing wrong. Noah was very stable; considerate but not particularly affectionate, dependable but not passionate.

I mean, I had my little issues. His diet, for one thing. Noah loves candy. That always bothered me. He wasn’t heavy. In fact, Noah’s a skinny guy. But he was always looking for the next gummy bear the way a less moral man might keep an eye out for floozies. It irritated me. It wasn’t a serious threat to the health of the relationship or anything. But it was the one way Noah was inconsiderate, and because his sensitivity was my favorite of his qualities, that unwillingness to think about my needs bothered me just a bit.

Still, over-all, Noah was great to me. He was protective, but not in some annoying, macho way. And tender. I liked that a lot. I guess I’d always known we wouldn’t go the distance. Relationships that start when you’re so young almost never do. But I fell into a rhythm, I got comfortable, and I guess I let myself be lulled into a false sense of security.

Then, a few weeks ago, I could tell he was just not holding on to me quite so tightly. I thought about it a lot, of course. I suspected there was someone else. I wondered if I was being pushed out. But there didn’t seem to be any evidence. I just started feeling like I was …I don’t know, dangling there, somehow.

And the more I thought about it, the worse it got. Pretty soon I was hanging by a thread. His parents, who’d been so supportive at first, turned on me so quickly it shocked me.

“I think it’s time,” they’d tell him. I was right there!

His dad was the worst. Noah’s mom would just leave the room whenever the topic of our relationship came up. Like she wanted to wash her hands of the whole thing. That stung. But his dad was really in his face, actively trying to pull us apart. I don’t think I’ll ever fully forgive his dad. And the way Noah just let his dad talk to him like that, and never stood up for me… I thought I’d never be able to forgive him, either. But then…

See, it all came to a head earlier tonight when his dad was getting in his face again.

“But it hurts!” Noah said. See? That was the kind of sensitivity I depended on. But now it had all turned to selfishness. No concern for me whatsoever.

“We won’t do it if it hurts. It can wait a little while. Maybe tomorrow night.” His dad said this in a completely calm voice. Like postponing a breakup for a single day was some great mercy.

“Okay,” Noah said. I was in agony. He was just accepting this one day delay without a word of protest? I couldn’t believe it!

I should have been outraged. Such an obvious attack on my pride should have motivated me to break it off first. I know that now. But it just made me more desperate, more clingy. Pathetic, I know.

Then his dad said, “Oh, I have an idea!”

My hopes fell. Brainstorming about our break-up and he’d had a eureka moment. How could it get any worse?

“What?” Noah asked his dad. And there was an eagerness in his voice that shook me to the core.

“Hold on,” his dad said, and ran out of the room.

He came back a moment later holding an ice cube. Both of us were confused.

“Lean your head back,” his dad told him. Then he used the ice to numb Noah.

It’s strange, because the cold didn’t just prepare him for the breakup. It calmed me down, too. This was happening, I told myself, happening right now, but somehow it didn’t bother me as much anymore.

Then his dad took a piece of string and looped it next to me, then around behind me, and then back around to the front. He gently moved the string back and forth until it slid up above me. Maybe it was just because of the ice, but this reminded me of the tenderness his dad had shown back when I first appeared on the scene. Despite all his calls for our separation, his dad was acting like he cared again. I couldn’t feel much, but it felt good, in its own strange way. In fact, it almost tickled.

Then his dad twisted the string in front of Noah’s face and pulled the ends in opposite directions, first very gently to get his hands a few inches apart, then one quick tug.

And, just like that, we were through. There may have been a sound, but I was so surprised I honestly can’t remember if it was a pop or a bam or a squelching or just silence.

Next thing you know, I was in free fall. There’s always that moment, right after a breakup, when you’re just untethered, spinning and bewildered. For me, it was very brief.

I hit bottom fast. But, to my surprise, I felt whole. I was different, but the same. Complete, but separate. We had ended. I persisted. Frankly, I still can’t wrap my mind around it. Maybe I’m still grieving. I don’t know. But that wasn’t the end of the breakup.

His dad picked me up and set me down on the bathroom counter, right in front of Noah. It gave me a whole new perspective on him. Noah wasn’t sad, and that should have hurt me. A lot. But he looked shocked, and I could identify with that.

Then Noah smiled and examined the new gap between his teeth where I’d been just seconds before. His smile grew a little, and his eyes, already wide from the speed of the breakup, warmed up as though someone had stuck needles in them and injected them with pure joy.

“Oh my gosh!” he shouted, his voice cracking on the “oh,” with the “gosh” bursting out like an untied balloon filled with awe.

And he was so happy, so overjoyed, so beautiful that I couldn’t hold a grudge. I forgave him. I forgive him, and I love him.

When the tooth fairy slips me out from under Noah’s pillow and flies me off to whatever’s next, I’ll go away happy.