#despite coming from a ride-or-die soup nation

[squadrah]

la squadra's favourite soups >:)

I was asked by a good friend to really give this one my all and then some, so prepare for a lot of flavor text, ehehe.

Risotto: From Sicily he brings his love of traditional Peperonata, brewed rather thick and served with some crusty bread for mopping, as well as the conviction that soup, whether simple or complex, should be a complete meal onto itself. You won't see him serving anything on the clear or thin side because it might as well be a drink then; Ribollita and French Onion Soup are his idea of good vegetarian home cooking, and if he makes soup with meat, he will buy up the cheap cuts, bone in, and load the pot to the brim.

Formaggio: He will always take what he can get of course, but you won't catch him ordering soup anywhere, because the ones he truly cares for are either the sort of home cooking restaurants often scoff at like the humble Stracciatella, or something restaurants often get wrong such as authentic Goulash. The latter especially is his darling and he wants it home cooked with carrots, potatoes and egg noodles, but Risotto's best efforts still do not compare to how he remembers it from his mother's table.

Prosciutto: He will only touch soup if it's strong enough in itself - he would never order any with the idea of fixing it in post by adding chili. From mildest to hottest, he would appreciate a concentrated Beef Bouillon with or without the trimmings, might also like Frutta Di Mare All'acqua Pazza if the water is "crazy" enough, and would love a good Tom Yum, but his prime favorite would be a bone marrow soup like Bulalo, where there's plenty of richness and flavorful meat to go around. He must have all the marrow, of course.

Pesci: He's on the opposite end of the spectrum from Prosciutto due to his acid reflux and prefers his soups on the mild side while also eschewing those with a tomato base or onions if he can help it. You cannot go wrong with a classic Chicken Noodle, but he especially likes smooth vegetable soups like butternut squash with toasted croutons on top, and he would be first in line for anything that uses cream or other dairy, like Seafood Chowder (any type of chowder would be a big hit with him) or Yayla Çorbası.

Ghiaccio: He is at odds with soup because to his mind it's not a proper meal, and there are textures and flavors he finds repulsive, so it's a struggle. When he has any, it's usually small portions he can quickly drink or eat: clear bone broth is as close as he can venture to bouillon because the meaty flavor is negligible, and he appreciates your standard Miso for the tofu and the crunch of green onions and beansprouts, as long as the bean paste is mild. If he had the means or access, he would love the concept of Nabemono in general.

Melone: In his sickly childhood he ate a lot of Acquacotta, which he still craves sometimes despite having developed a gluten allergy, and unfortunately for him, the list of forbidden delights does not stop there. He loves a good Zuppa Imperiale, but again, the semolina in the dough cubes is a menace, and anything made with cream will avenge itself unless he takes his Lactaid. Of the soups he can safely have, he has most taken to Borscht for the excellent taste as well as its vibrant color, and has proclaimed it a health food.

Illuso: This one, in spite of his upbringing, is a soup purist who believes that soup is strictly a first course, and therefore it should be something simple and light that is easy on the stomach and whets your appetite for the rest of the meal. He loves Gazpacho and could drink it like a smoothie, and is fond of Caldo Verde with its single slice of chorizo (it's like finding the prize in your Galette de Rois), but in winter he will branch out and have Minestra di Noci as often as they can get walnuts, perhaps with some chestnuts added in.

Sorbet: Here we have someone who appreciates a wider range, but having grown up on odds-and-ends type soups often poorly made, his standards are now much higher even for something as simple as plain Caraway Soup, and he has been working on improving them all. His favorite by far is any type of lentil soup such as Minestra di Lenticchie or Masoor Dal, for the taste as well as lentils symbolizing abundance, and when he craves something sweet, any Fruit Soup will be welcome before savory main courses, hot or chilled.

Gelato: Cannot live without soup and never met one he did not like; in fact he regularly cooks a variety of them including Fruit Soup, though to him that is in the dessert category. His greatest favorites are made with sausage or entrails: think Fabada for the chorizo or Menudo for the tripe, as well as any type of meatball soup. He's not big on pasta in soup (he prefers egg noodles), but if the ravioli is filled with ground offal (mostly liver or heart, as kidney and lungs are much harder to come by nowadays), he will gladly have it.

[jessecrust]

games as art, part 2: who cares?

An eternity ago, I wrote a blog about a game you might have heard of called Elden Ring and why it and other games like Hades are probably works of art. It's something I think about far too much on lonely car rides to and from work (my commute is roughly 10 minutes). And it's something I've been thinking about a lot more lately having spent a good deal of my free time actively avoiding any new games and trying to get games from the 90s and 2000s to run on my PC without crashing. Honestly, it's actually extremely easy to avoid playing new games because they're released at a rate of about 2.5 a year in a good year.

And yet it somehow feels like there's never been more video game content out there. There's your multiplayer shooters, your MMOs, your "live service" games, mobile games, remakes, re-releases, etc. etc. I'm not one of those people who think you can draw a line between "real" games like something on a major console or PC and "fake" games like this cute thing I have on my phone called "Cats&Soup", but if every video game is indeed art then it is a unfathomably broad category.

Why does any of this matter? Well, if you've ever spent any time on Wikipedia, you may have come across this, or a similar, sentence:

Deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" by the United States Library of Congress, Die Hard was selected for preservation in the National Film Registry in 2017

One reason it's important to figure out what exactly we're talking about when we have these incredibly tedious conversations is so we can figure out what is worth preserving. I feel that in our Age of Content, as I'll call it, it's increasingly difficult to figure out what we should be preserving for future generations.

I don't think this is me being pretentious, although that word itself has come to mean something entirely different in the age of the never ending Battle Royale Multiplayer Shooter and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. A few nights ago, I saw someone say Quentin Tarantino was a pretentious director because he didn't want to make a Marvel movie. That idea really bothered me, that someone would see a guy who spent his career making eminently watchable popcorn movies and think "what a snob". Yes, I admit, I got sad about one guy writing a tweet, that's really dumb, I know. But go type Martin Scorsese into a Twitter search and you'll find he's not alone in thinking there's something pretentious about making movies that doesn't include a CGI raccoon.

But back to the pretentious art snobbery, it's not necessarily a question of "real" vs. fake or art vs. not art. I've had a good time watching movies like Spider-Man: Far From Home, The Batman (which I wrote about), and even that weird Dr. Strange movie that people can't really decide if they liked or not. These movies are probably not in any real danger of disappearing, but other movies are and most, if not all, video games are. And no one is seriously making the claim that none of them are worth preserving: The Dark Knight, a movie about Batman, is part of the National Film Registry.

Film lovers like Scorsese and other writers, directors, critics, etc. have worked hard to preserve their artform for future generations. I can't think of any director or writer or video games that is doing the same for games. It already requires extensive modding to get some games to run on modern PCs, let alone tracking down physical copies of classic games that could easily cost more than you make in a full eight hour shift at your job. Game directors and writers are not celebrities in the way film directors, actors, and musicians are. Try to name a video game director or think of a game you've played recently where you even bothered to find out who directed or wrote it. The most widely known director of video games is probably Shigeru Miyamoto of Nintendo and I doubt even he would be recognized by more than a quarter of the general population despite being responsible for over 75% of your childhood nostalgia. Yes, there are plenty of hobbyists, academics, etc. that are doing everything they can to preserve games, but we need those artist/advocates to really drive home the stakes. Who better to talk about the history, love, and preservations of this medium than their own creators?

As more technology is pushed to the wayside, as physical media continues to decline and copyright laws in the digital sphere get stranger and stranger, there's a real danger of not being able to immerse yourself in the history of games in the same way you can with every other piece of human culture. What good is a top 100 video games of all time list if I can't even play them? I can't even play the version of Overwatch I bought five years ago. To be sure, this project is also necessarily anti-capitalist, since the rights holders to these franchises and IPs will fight/have fought tooth and nail to stop it.

Do you know why "you can run Doom on anything" became a meme? Partly because anyone can download its source code for free. Imagine if the same were true of every other game release on or before 1993.

To close, I'll tell another anecdote about a post I saw on the internet. I saw a comment somewhere, maybe YouTube, that said something to the effect of "I'm glad I'll get to play Silent Hill 2 when the remake comes out". This is a problem we have to solve quickly...

[greenbagjosh]

Feb 2006 Days 4 and 5 – cruise up the Bosphoros to Anadolu Kavagi and departure to BG and RO

EN Hi everyone, today we will have some sunlight, take a ferry north from Eminönü to Anadolu Kavagi with many stops along the way, enjoy a lahmacun and soup, get money out of an ATM, get to Sirkeci station for the night train and miss out on a whirling dervish performance and end the day by getting out of the train for an exit passport stamp.

 TR

Herkese merhaba, bugün biraz güneş ışığı alacak, Eminönü'nden kuzeye vapurla Anadolu Kavağı'na gidecek, lahmacun ve çorbanın tadını çıkaracak, ATM'den para alacağız, gece treni için Sirkeci istasyonuna gideceğiz ve kaçıracağız semazen gösterisinde ve çıkış pasaportu pulu için trenden inerek günü sonlandırın.

 BG

Здравейте всички, днес ще имаме малко слънчева светлина, ще вземем ферибот на север от Eminönü до Anadolu Kavagi с много спирки по пътя, насладете се на лахмакун и супа, вземете пари от банкомат, стигнете до гара Sirkeci за нощния влак и пропуснете на въртящо се дервишко представяне и завършете деня, като излезете от влака за печат за изходен паспорт.

 RO

Salut tuturor, astăzi vom avea puțină lumină solară, vom lua un feribot spre nord de la Eminönü la Anadolu Kavagi cu multe opriri de-a lungul drumului, savurăm un lahmacun și o supă, scoatem bani dintr-un bancomat, ajungem la stația Sirkeci pentru trenul de noapte și pierdem la un spectacol de derviș rotitor și încheiați ziua ieșind din tren pentru o ștampilă de pașaport de ieșire.

 SR

Поздрав свима, данас ћемо имати мало сунчеве светлости, трајектом северно од Еминону-а до Анадолу Каваги-а са много успутних стајалишта, уживати у лахмацуну и супи, извући новац из банкомата, доћи до станице Сиркеци за ноћни воз и пропустити на вртлог дервишке представе и завршите дан изласком из воза за излазни печат пасоша.

HU

Üdvözlet mindenkinek, ma napsütésünk lesz, komppal indulunk Eminönütől északra Anadolu Kavagi-ba, sok megállóval az út mentén, élvezzünk egy lahmacun-t és levest, szerezzünk pénzt egy ATM-ből, érjünk el az éjszakai vonatra Sirkeci állomásra és hagyjuk ki örvénylő dervis előadáson, és úgy fejezze be a napot, hogy kiszáll a vonatból egy kilépési útlevél bélyegzőért.

CZ

Ahoj všichni, dnes si dáme trochu slunečního světla, pojedeme trajektem na sever z Eminönü do Anadolu Kavagi s mnoha zastávkami, pochutnáváme si na lahmacunu a polévce, vyděláváme peníze z bankomatu, dostáváme se na stanici Sirkeci na noční vlak a zmeškáme na vířícím dervišském představení a den zakončíte vystoupením z vlaku pro razítko výstupního pasu.

 DE

Hallo allerseits, heute haben wir etwas Sonnenlicht, nehmen eine Fähre nördlich von Eminönü nach Anadolu Kavagi mit vielen Haltestellen auf dem Weg, genießen ein Lahmacun und eine Suppe, holen Geld aus einem Geldautomaten, fahren zum Bahnhof Sirkeci für den Nachtzug und verpassen es auf einer wirbelnden Derwischvorstellung und beenden Sie den Tag, indem Sie aus dem Zug aussteigen, um einen Ausreisestempel zu erhalten.

 Today is Sunday the 12th February 2006.  This would be my last day in Turkey.  I thought the previous day, why not to take a cruise up the Bosphoros?  Hopefully the weather will be nice.  Well at least in the morning it was.

 About 7 AM I had breakfast and then went to Eminönü to catch the ferry to Anadolu Kavagi.  It cost about $ 15.00 round trip.  The ride up would take at least an hour and a half, as it would stop at five different places, either on the European side or the Asian side.  I remember doing something similar with my parents in the 1970s, and back then it was easy to tell the European side from the Asian side.

 The ferry was ready to board about 9 AM.  It was better to be inside for most of the time, than to be on the outside except for the more interesting stops.  The weather at Eminönü was nice, the clouds were not particularly thick, but when the ferry passed Rumeli Hisari, coulds thickened up and it started to snow.  The next half hour it snowed but did not ice up the Bosphoros.  We stopped about four more times before ending up at Anadolu Kavagi.  Anadolu Kavagi is a tourist town on the Asian side, and has a military base.  For lunch I went to a small restaurant on Dolay Ck.  I ordered a lentil soup, lahmacun, and an Ayran, which is a yogurt drink.  I watched the snowfall outside the restaurant.  

 I wanted to get a good view of the Bosphoros, so I walked up Cafer Baba.  I saw the nearby hills covered with snow.  I could not stay much longer.  That was the last time I saw snow in Asia.

 I wanted to buy some provisions for the night's train travel, and I was running out of money. I found an ATM but it was inside the military base.  I asked permission to enter just to use the ATM.  The gentleman was very nice to allow me to enter, and once I withdrew my money, I left and went back into town.

 Once I returned to town, I bought some Efes beers and snacks for the night's train ride.  I also bought a copy of the day's edition of the "Hürriyet" newspaper, even if I could not speak Turkish.  To end, I had a couple of glasses of tea until it was time for the return journey.  The journey took an hour and a half to get back to Eminönü.  I took the tram back to Sultanahmet and walked back to the hotel. I asked for a ride to Sirkeci station, and someone volunteered to take me for 10 Lira, not a bad deal.  I packed up my belongings and about 6:30 PM I was at Sirkeci station.

 There was one last thing I wanted to do, but it would possibly make me miss my train from Sirkeci station to Bucharest.  I had supper, a lahmacun with seasoned onions and ayran, then took my luggage to the car where my compartment was located.  I had the compartment all to myself.  The train did not have a restaurant car of its own.  I had a sink and mirror and electric outlet.  The bathrooms were down the hall.  The train left Sirkeci station about 8:30 PM for the border at Kapikule, close to both the Bulgarian and Greek borders.  It seemed a bit slow, despite being an electrified route.  

 I went to sleep for a while until about 2 AM when the conductor knocked on my door to let me know that we were approaching the border and that everyone had to exit the train, in spite of the cold weather.  Everyone had to leave the train, line up at the customs building, get a "Cikis" stamp for exiting, and board the train again.  It was good to get back on the train.  The train passed Kapikule and crossed into Bulgaria.  

At Kapikule the electrification ended (there is a project to extend electrification to Bulgarian national rail standard) and thus the locomotives were switched from there until Dimitrovgrad where the electrification resumed.  When the train approached Kapitan Andreevo, the Bulgarian custom guards boarded, knocked on the compartment doors, saying "Passport control", and reading aloud passport numbers by walkie talkie.  My passport record was clean and I was given an entry stamp into Bulgaria.  It must have been about 4 AM when the train went on to Svilengrad, Dimitrovgrad, Shumen and Ruse.  About 8 AM I bought a cup of coffee for two euro.  I received a cup of coffee and a CFR (Romanian railways) packet of sugar.  That was the only "food and drink" I received that entire ride.  The train ride was very long, with an electric locomotive from Dimitrovgrad to Ruse, where it was swapped out with a diesel train to go to Giurgiu in Romania.  I also received an exit stamp at Ruse.  The train went along and crossed the Danube into Giurgiu, Romania.

 At Giurgiu, the train stopped for about an hour.  The weather looked fine, sunny with few clouds.  But the weather could change at any moment.  The Romanian customs agents took my passport into an office and I was worried for about half an hour.  I eventually received it back, with an entry stamp.  The train left maybe 6 PM and arrived at Bucharest Gara de Nord around 7:30 PM, and it started snowing.  

 If you come to Bucharest, always be careful of scammers.  Particularly luggage handlers and taxi drivers.  If you can use public transportation, know how to get to and from your hotel and do not ever depend on the luggage handlers or taxi drivers, as they can demand outrageous fees.  For example a taxi ride should cost less than $ 10.00.  Sometimes a person can be charged $ 30.00 or $40.00, maybe more.  I did end up at my hotel, although with $ 30.00 less cash than I expected.

 It was cold and I did not really want to go out that night.  The hotel had a restaurant and I ordered some soup and an Ursus beer.  Ursus is one of the major beer brands in Romania.  Then I went to sleep.

 EN

Next adventure – the Bucharest metrou, Piata Unirii and the Ceausescu presidential building, the infamous O-Zone song on CD, supplement for the sleeper for Sofia BG

 TR

Sıradaki macera - Bükreş metrosu, Piata Unirii ve Ceausescu başkanlık binası, CD'deki rezil O-Zone şarkısı, Sofia BG için uyuyan için ek

 BG

Следващо приключение - метрото в Букурещ, Piata Unirii и президентската сграда на Чаушеску, скандалната песен O-Zone на CD, добавка за спалния за София BG

 RO

Următoarea aventură - metrou bucureștean, Piața Unirii și clădirea prezidențială Ceaușescu, cântecul celebru O-Zone pe CD, supliment pentru dormitor pentru Sofia BG

 SR

Следећа авантура - метро у Букурешту, Пиата Унирии и председничка зграда Чаушескуа, злогласна песма О-Зоне на ЦД-у, додатак за спавање за Софију БГ

 HU

Következő kaland - a bukaresti metrou, a Piata Unirii és a Ceausescu elnöki épülete, a hírhedt O-Zone dal CD-n, kiegészítés Szófia BG alvójához

 CZ

Další dobrodružství - metra v Bukurešti, Piata Unirii a prezidentská budova Ceausescu, nechvalně známá píseň O-Zone na CD, doplněk pro pražce pro Sofii BG

 DE

Nächstes Abenteuer - die U-Bahn von Bukarest, Piata Unirii und das Präsidentengebäude von Ceausescu, das berüchtigte O-Zone-Lied auf CD, Zuschlag für den Schlafwagen von Sofia BG

[kensingtonbooks]

First Sneak Peek at DREAM ON by Stacey Keith

The following is a special sneak peek at DREAM ON, selected by author Stacey Keith, from the book’s first chapter:

Nobody in Cuervo, Texas, drove a car like that.

Cassidy Roby crowded around the service window along with everyone else who worked at Artie’s Burger Express and stared at the thing as it idled next to a backlit speaker menu. Artie’s was shaped like a horseshoe, with the fast-food restaurant perched on a concrete slab in the center and car stalls angled along the outside. Each stall had its own speaker menu so the driver could call in his order. Cassidy couldn’t see who this driver was because the restaurant’s bright overhead lights blanked out the windshield, but the car was …

“Sex on wheels,” sighed Darlene Fischer, Cassidy’s best friend since grade school. She hip-bumped Cassidy aside so she could get a better view, but until the driver opened his window, all anyone could do was admire the lines.

“Like hell,” Artie muttered, clutching his spatula. “It’s a BMW M6 convertible. That beauty ain’t been out the showroom but maybe a month. Two, tops. She can do zero to sixty in—”

“Nobody cares about that,” Darlene said. “I just wanna know who’s driving it.”

Cassidy decided she didn’t want to get caught staring. Anybody who drove a BW6 … whatever it was … in a town with a population the size of Cuervo’s—what were they up to now, three thousand?—probably got sick of being gawked at. She went to the back, picked up a clean spatula and then slid it under a meat patty sizzling on the grill. Besides, she thought idly, chances were pretty good that the driver was an arrogant, self-important—

“Omigod!” Darlene hollered from the window. “Omigod, it’s him!” 

Beth, the other waitress, cupped both hands over her mouth. “What if he orders something?” she said in a muffled, horrified whisper.

“Of course he’s going to order something,” Darlene snapped. “You think he’s here to buy car parts?”

Cassidy bided her time. She poked the patty with the corner of her spatula and tried to think who could have put the wait staff into such a state. Artie made a sound of disgust and shuffled back to the grill. With his white paper cook’s hat, bushy eyebrows and splotched white apron, he reminded Cassidy of one of the characters on “Sesame Street,” a show her daughter now proclaimed she was too old for. Oscar, if he worked in a restaurant. Same disposition.

“Why aren’t you out front?” he asked, pushing the meat around with his spatula.

“Who’s out there?”

“Mason Hannigan. We’ll never hear the end of it now.”

Cassidy’s heart gave a strange sideways lurch and she put one hand on the bread rack to steady herself. What on earth was Mason Hannigan doing here? He’d left Cuervo behind years ago in his souped-up Ford truck and his full-ride football scholarship to the University of Texas. Even before he’d left, Mason had been a quarterback legend. Now he was a national one. With Mason at the helm, the Dallas Lone Stars had two Super Bowl wins and maybe a third one on the way. Not that she’d followed him, of course. Well, not on purpose. If her dad left the sports page open on the breakfast table or a TV sports anchor waxed poetic over Mason’s stats, she could hardly be accused of actually caring. Never mind that Mason was pretty much all anyone talked about here: Local boy makes the big leagues, insert your “I knew him when” story here.

But there were other reasons her heart was bucking and wheeling like a rodeo horse. Personal ones. Mason had changed everything there was to change about her life. Because of him, she rarely dated. Because of him, she’d had Lexie. At fifteen. While she was still a freshman at Cuervo High. She and Mason had never so much as kissed under the bleachers or held hands or gone to the movies. Yet he had directed the course of her life in ways she rarely let herself think about now. By the time Lexie was born, he was long gone and she’d been left with nothing but regrets.

Sweet, lovable Lexie had never been one of them.

That was over ten years ago. Mason’s whole family had relocated to Dallas to be closer to their superstar athlete. So why was Mason back in Cuervo?

“What’s keepin’ you?” Artie growled. “Go on now. I ain’t payin’ you to stand around.”

“Yes, sir.” Cassidy could barely get the words out. She wiped her damp palms on the half-apron of her carhop uniform and glided to the front on Day-Glo purple inline skates. Unlike the shorts and the Artie’s Burger Express T-shirt, the skates weren’t a requirement, but Cassidy found that she got around a lot faster that way.

Darlene was still jumping up and down and squealing. “He brought friends. They’re in the car with him.”

“We think they’re football players, too.” Beth’s eyes were glassy, as though the idea of all that beefcake in one vehicle might make her faint.

“Omigod,” Darlene said. “They’re ordering!”

Cassidy mustered the courage to look. She felt lightheaded, like maybe she’d be the first one to crash to the floor. With the driver’s side window rolled all the way down, she could clearly see it was Mason. A terrible heat surged beneath her skin. It traveled north at an alarming speed, setting fire to her chest, her neck, her cheeks. She was boiling like a lobster in a pot, and the only reason Beth and Darlene hadn’t noticed was because they were boiling, too. 

“Hi,” came Mason’s familiar voice from over the speaker. “We’d like six Artieburgers, two with extra onions, pickles and mustard, six fries, and a grilled chicken sandwich, dressing on the side.”

Since the mic was still on, they could hear Mason’s friends issue disparaging remarks about the sandwich and what that meant about Mason’s sexual orientation. She heard him laugh, which killed her just a little.

“If one of you gals don’t take that order—” Artie yelled from the back.

Darlene snatched the mic, all business now despite her obvious terror. “What size fries with that?”

“Large,” Mason replied in the sexy Texas drawl that seemed like home to Cassidy, that reminded her of evenings spent on the porch swing watching the lightning bugs. Most people craned their necks and got mildly agitated speaking to a screen instead of a person. Not Mason. He’d always had the cool alpha confidence that life would go his way. So far, it had.

“Would you like anything to drink with that?” Darlene asked, her voice going up an octave.

See if they have any beer, someone said inside the car.

“Don’t be a dick,” Mason told him. Politely, into the speaker he said, “Four cokes.”

Cassidy skated over to the soda fountain and the stainless steel ice maker beneath it. She pulled four large wax-coated cups from the dispenser, lined them up, and dug them one by one into the crunchy ice. Her movements seemed odd and jerky to her, but she managed to fill the cups with soda, fit the lids snugly, and remember to leave the paper sleeve on the top half of the straw. On impulse, she grabbed a tongs and picked out half a dozen lemon wedges, which she arranged on a paper napkin. Okay, so she might have remembered that he liked lemon in his soda. It didn’t mean anything.

Now that Darlene had finished taking their order, she was clearly in the midst of crisis. Ordinarily, Cassidy would have given her a big hug and told her everything was going to be okay, but it was possible that she was having a crisis, too. Things didn’t feel right. They felt eerie and … what was that word Pastor Jim used? Portentous. Like a storm was coming. Like everything was about to be pulled up by the roots and then dashed to the ground in a million pieces. 

“I’m not going out there,” Darlene said. “I can’t. I have a zit on my chin.”

“Well, I can’t go out there!” Beth wailed. 

“Are you kidding?” Cassidy said. “They’re just a bunch of guys. They’re not going to bite you.” 

“You have to do it,” Beth pleaded, her face pale and earnest. “You’re so pretty and all the boys like you. If I go, I’m just going to drop the tray.”

Cassidy swung her gaze from Beth to Darlene and then over Darlene’s shoulder to the parking lot. Two other cars pulled into service stalls, one of them a minivan full of boys in baseball uniforms. In about two minutes, Artie’s was going to be slammed with food orders and screaming kids. What other choice did she have?

“That’s my Cassidy,” Darlene said approvingly when she drew back her shoulders and smoothed her ponytail. 

“I’m only doing this for you,” Cassidy told her.

“Absolutely.”

“I am.”

“I know.” Darlene winked at her and then tucked a #2 pencil inside her messy-on-purpose topknot, which dislodged a long spiral of brown hair. 

“What’s past is past,” Cassidy said. 

“Yep.”

She loaded a tray with the sweating soda cups and the lemons. “If I have a stroke and die, it’s up to you to make sure Lexie finishes her English homework.”

“Will you stop jawin’ and get the hell out there?” Artie yelled.

Cassidy took a deep breath. I can do this, she thought. My folks didn’t raise a fool. She re-balanced the tray and skated out the door.

#

“Damn,” Mason’s friend and linebacker, Jasper, said after a low whistle. “That is one sweet little hometown honey.” 

In the back seat, Mason’s two other teammates leaned forward expectantly. 

“Where?” Temple demanded to know.

“Sit down,” Brian, his seatmate, told him. “I can’t see.”

“I told you Cuervo was the bomb,” Mason said, but then as the honey drew closer—on skates, no less— his hands tightened around the steering wheel. 

It was Cassidy Roby.

Mason blinked. Refocused. He’d forgotten how much his type she was. He’d forgotten … well, a lot of things. She hadn’t changed one bit. Same glossy ponytail, all sun-streaked and blonde. Same perfect little body. The skates made her taller, but he knew that without them, she barely reached his shoulder. Why her type had always appealed to him, he didn’t exactly know, but petite and wholesome did a whole different number on him than the women he found himself dating these days—beautiful, yes. Models, yes. But they were all cheekbones and sharp shoulders. Give them a salad and they’d push away the croutons. Yet these were the women who traveled in his circle now. After a while, it seemed they all wore the same hungry look, and it wasn’t a look that warmed a man’s blood. 

Mason felt that blood thicken as Cassidy wheeled her way to the car. He also felt a little tongue-tied, which was ridiculous. Since when did he not know what to say to a girl? 

Jasper’s elbow dug him in his ribs. The other two were laughing at him.

“Better wipe that drool before she gets here,” Jasper said.

For a split second, Mason wondered if he was drooling. Cassidy turned to wave to someone and he saw the sweet round shape of her ass. 

Jesus.

“Hey, Mason,” Cassidy said, bending over so she could see him. “Nice car.”

If she wore makeup, he didn’t see any. She looked exactly the same as she did in high school, with the light sprinkling of freckles over her scooped nose and those big blue eyes. He heard sniggering and Temple actually punched him through the back of his seat.

“Yeah,” he said, stifling a grunt. “Just got it. Had to buy a four-seater so I could haul these …” He’d almost said dickheads … “Guys around.” 

She bent lower and peered inside. Mason didn’t need to turn his head to know that his teammates wore their most ingratiating grins. Brian actually said, “Ma’am.” 

But now he could see right down the gap of her Artie’s Burger Express T-shirt, two scoops of creamy vanilla cradled inside a pink lace bra, and this view of the forbidden made his palms sweat.

“So what brings you back to Cuervo?” Cassidy slid a corner of her tray inside the car and began off-loading the drinks. Behind him, there were more “Ma’ams” and “Thank yous.” Jasper actually said, “I bet it’s gonna be extra sweet because you were the one who brought it,” which made Mason cringe, but the others howled with amusement. Even Cassidy grinned.

“Well,” she said. “I brought you boys some lemons to balance the sweet, just in case you like them as much as Mason does.”

She’d remembered. What did it mean? And how much of a girl had he turned into for trying to read something into the gesture? Get a grip, he told himself. 

“I’m here for Coach Winston’s award ceremony,” he said. “You know how much Coach did for me. These dillweeds just decided to come along for the ride.”

“He’s always talking about Cuervo,” Temple explained. “We had a few days off, so we figured why the hell not?”

“You miss Cuervo?” Cassidy looked directly at him, just as casual as though he hadn’t been away since forever, and Mason felt the effect of those blue eyes right down to his groin.

“Well, sure,” he said. “I grew up here, same as you. Why wouldn’t I miss it?”

“Two stoplights and a water tower and you’re pretty much done taking in the sights.” Cassidy tucked the empty tray under her arm. “I love Cuervo, but that doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

“Lot of memories here,” Mason said.

Her eyes flickered. A curtain seemed to drop over that pretty face, and when the curtain lifted, some part of her had gone with it. “I’ll go check on the rest of your order.”

With a curious sense of loss, Mason watched her skate away. He remembered then that Cassidy had a child—a daughter, right?—and that the father was Parker Nolan, former captain of the basketball team and a grade-A asshole. Was he still a part of their lives?

“You got no game,” Jasper said, grinning. “Brian would have had that one bagged and tagged ten minutes ago.”

“Damn straight, I would have,” Brian agreed. “That was pathetic.”

“Looked to me like you said something that pissed her off.” Temple ducked his head so he could check his hair in the rearview mirror. Since he wore a crewcut, there wasn’t much to check. Just to fuck with him, Mason flipped up the mirror, which earned him another punch through the seat.

While his friends argued over who had the most game, Mason squeezed a lemon into his soda, recapped the lid and let his gaze wander over to the service window. Although he couldn’t hear them, it appeared that two women were bouncing around inside and screaming. Of course, Cassidy wasn’t one of them. Cassidy didn’t bounce. Cassidy worked. In high school, she and her two sisters had all worked at the school library with Mrs. Jenkins, and Mrs. Jenkins was a terror. One time, Robbie Burdaine had returned a heavy photobook on the NFL two weeks late, and Mrs. Jenkins slammed his fingers shut inside of it. If Cassidy Roby survived four years with her, she was one tough cookie.

But what was a hottie like Cassidy doing in a place like this? Mason took a long draft of soda and let the tart sweetness wash over his tongue. He watched her move around inside the prep area, wrapping burgers, assembling condiments. Of course, Cuervo wasn’t exactly cranking out job opportunities. There were maybe two sit-down restaurants that kept odd hours, and Artie’s, which might reasonably be thought of as the Saturday night hot spot. She did have a kid to support. 

That alone should have been enough to make him turn the page on his inner Rolodex. But his old feeling of nervous excitement swept over him when she came skating out with their trays, one balanced expertly in each hand. The seating area in the center was swarming with Little Leaguers now, making her near-misses and semi-collisions all the more breathtaking to watch. Another minivan pulled up, disgorging more kids in baseball uniforms. They were everywhere, shoving and yelling. Mason had an uncomfortable awareness that when he and his friends got together, they didn’t act a whole lot better. 

“Here you go,” she said, gliding up to his window. “Sorry about the racket.”

“They’re alright.” Mason purposely ignored the shit-eating grins on the faces of his teammates. He practically hurled Temple’s hamburger at him. “Remember what your dad used to say? ‘A boy ain’t nothing but a noise with some dirt on it’.” 

For the first time, Cassidy gave him a smile that didn’t seem at least partially professional. It transformed her wholesome face into something that made him feel as though he’d been sacked by a three-hundred-pound defensive lineman. Mason knew then that a grace had been given. Somehow he’d pulled away the mask. Beneath it lay an intense love for her family, her roots, her history. It was a woman’s love, and Mason didn’t know what to call it right away because he never saw it on the faces of the women he knew.

She kept the smile as he continued to dial out hamburgers, fries, and ketchup packets. “My poor dad. All he wanted was at least one boy to play ball with. What he got were three girls instead.” 

“I doubt he’s complaining,” Mason said, more confident now. “How are Doak and Priscilla? She ever manage to park her car in the garage?”

Doak Roby, a retired fire chief, had motorcycle parts strewn from one end of his garage to the other. Priscilla always bickered with him about it, although never too seriously. Mason figured she mostly did it to keep things interesting. 

“Nope. And he bought a new Skil-Saw last week. Mom knows it’s a lost cause.”

Cassidy retrieved her trays and tucked them under one arm. She moved with the grace of an athlete, and Mason had a sharp, heated fantasy of her naked body under his, of hearing her gasp when he entered her juicy little—

“I’d better get back,” she said, killing his buzz. “Looks like Beth and Darlene are in the weeds.”

‘In the weeds’. Mason frowned. Must be shop talk. He didn’t want her to go, not yet. “Listen,” he said. “I’d like to visit your dad, you know, catch up, say hi. I wouldn’t be bothering anyone, would I?” Like Parker Nolan. Who may or may not be living with you. 

She leaned over again. Mason could feel himself drowning a little in the clear blue of her eyes. She bit her full bottom lip, pink like he imagined her nipples would be, hidden inside that flimsy bra. He couldn’t think clearly when she was this close, and he had to set his sandwich on his lap to hide a growing erection. Christ. What was wrong with him? Ten years later and he was still panting after her like a big dumb dog. 

“Dad would love that,” Cassidy said. “You know he thinks the world of you. And I’m sure Mom would invite all y’all to dinner, so don’t be shy.”

“Home cooking sounds too good to pass up,” Jasper said around a mouthful of burger. “Mason here tried to cook us dinner once and set the kitchen on fire.”

Cassidy looked up and her smile evaporated. “Uh oh. Hate to tell you, but it looks like you’ve been spotted.”

Mason dragged his gaze away and saw at least a dozen yelling boys descending on him with pens, pencils, markers, receipts, and napkins that meant he’d be swamped for autographs. They were herded by a phalanx of parents whose indulgent smiles never hid the fact that they’d sent their kids in to do the dirty work.

Before he could say anything to Cassidy, she’d coasted away and the first of his fans had lined up by the side of the car. So much for eating. At least Cassidy spared him an amused and not-unsympathetic smile. 

Brian slapped him on the back. “Go be a hero. Don’t forget to roll up your window on the way out.”

“Oh, and leave your sandwich,” Jasper said.

“You guys are the biggest dicks on the planet,” Mason told them. 

Temple reached over the seat to help himself to Mason’s fries. “Yeah, but at least we know how to get laid.”

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Chapter Two | The Princess and the Dragon and Other Stories About Unlikely Heroes

Prologue / Chapter One / Chapter Three

Read Chapter Four (and the rest) on my Patreon

‘Lovely fish soup, Dad,’ Amelia ventured, as she sat down to dinner with her parents later that evening. The family ate in the ancient, drafty castle kitchen. Ever since the head chef and kitchen staff moved away to find jobs in more prosperous parts of the Three Kingdoms, her father assumed the role of castle cook. Amelia could see zero olives, which meant he was having a good day. After his stroke, Amelia took on most of his responsibilities so Queen Hazel didn’t need to double her workload, but he insisted on running the kitchen. Across the table, her mother attacked a loaf of bread and tried not to raise her eyebrows. Amelia dipped her spoon into the bowl. ‘Wow. I can really smell… garlic?’ King Emmanuel was an enthusiastic chef, but the people of the Kingdom of Mirrors generally survived on what they could afford, which was bread and olives. There are a great variety of ways to serve bread and olives, but they all require imagination, which King Emmanuel ran out of around the same time his teenage daughter took over his job.

‘Garlic is the only thing that makes the fish seem fresh,’ her father said sadly. ‘I mean, er, it is fresh. Of course. It came from the harbour… yesterday.’ Amelia knew it had come from the harbour a week ago because she was the one who went out with the kingdom’s little fleet of fishing boats to see what was left in the sea after so many years of the Sapphire Dragon helping himself to its fish. She also knew how much effort it took for her father to be able to stand at the kitchen counter at all, so she tucked in.

As they ate, the family went through the day’s business. ‘As you know, Emmanuel, Queen Margaret sent messengers last week to remind us we owe another portion of loan repayment,’ Queen Hazel said, ‘but Amelia managed to persuade her to give us until the winter solstice.’ Amelia was surprised at Queen Margaret’s leniency. King Emmanuel had put off asking Stormhaven for money until after the Midsummer Riots because no one did business with Margaret de Winter unless they wanted to spend the rest of their lives feeling like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. Stormhaven was the richest of the Three Kingdoms, and its ancient matriarch ruled with a personality far colder than her name.

Queen Margaret travelled all the way south when Amelia was small; Amelia’s abiding memory of the visit was the elderly monarch’s icy stare and enormous fur coat, which she insisted on wearing even as the midday sun melted windows and one of her servants fainted from heatstroke. Amelia never saw Margaret emit a bead of sweat. Rumour had it that she slept with a dagger under her pillow, had locked one of her nephews in a dragon-guarded tower and planned to rule from beyond the grave via an Ouija board and set of tarot cards, despite a kingdom-wide ban on magic use. Amelia believed every rumour.

‘How much does Margaret want for this installment, exactly?’ King Emmanuel asked. He had his daughter’s wide brown eyes and awkward shoulders and when they smiled, they were copies of one another: all teeth and lots of dimples. Neither of them had smiled recently, and although Emmanuel was only fifty, he could have passed for Amelia’s grandfather.

‘She has demanded five hundred gold bars,’ Amelia replied. ‘Unfortunately, we have zero gold bars. Do you think she would take the equivalent weight in olives?’ she asked. She was only half joking. The Kingdom of Mirrors’ olives were famous throughout the Three Kingdoms and the nation’s most popular export. Just last year Amelia traded a quarter of the state’s olive oil stock for a thousand cattle from the Valley of Dreams.

‘The only language Margaret speaks is money,’ her mother sighed. She sipped some soup, winced, then looked at the table. ‘Of course, Amelia, Queen Margaret would be very happy to marry you to one of her sons or grandsons.’

‘No.’ Amelia said flatly.

‘Amelia…’ her father began.

‘No.’ Amelia uncovered an olive and stabbed it. ‘How many times do I have to say no? You can’t just marry me off to clear our debt!’

Her parents did not mention that they could. Nor did they mention that her older brother had been happy to marry himself off until fate threw him off course. They didn’t need to.

‘Oh, we’ve had another message from the merpeople,’ her mother added. ‘The dragon has taken two more children this summer. Parents are starting to move north to safer waters.’

‘That’s all we need,’ Amelia groaned. ‘Half the population of merpeople in the harbour won’t make life difficult for anyone. ‘

‘They’ve suffered as much as we have,’ Hazel pointed out. ‘And they can’t just move to dry land.’

‘Thanks for mentioning that, it hadn’t occurred to me!’

Her mother raised her eyebrows, which suggested Amelia had better stop arguing, so she spent the rest of the meal in silence and excused herself as soon as the plates were washed. She wandered the castle for half an hour and found herself back in the classroom at the top of the tower, staring at the newspapers. The Kingdom of Mirrors was once a prosperous, vibrant nation known for its lively street festivals, beautiful architecture and delectable sea food. Her parents weren’t to blame for its terrible fortunes. But if no one did anything about the dragon, the war and their debts soon, there would be no kingdom left to rule when her father died. Which, a tiny and horrible voice in the back of her head whispered, would probably be sooner rather than later.

Irritatingly, Amelia wouldn’t be in this position at all if not for her annoying brother.

Because she grew up with an older sibling, Amelia was never expected to shoulder a large portion of royal responsibility. Throughout her childhood she was taught the basic requirements of being a good princess—how to make small talk with someone who has bad breath, the best way to throw a dinner party for politicians with special dietary needs, the fastest way to stab an adversary with a longsword—then left to her own devices. But when Amelia was twelve, Prince Nicholas embarked on the customary coming-of-age quest that all wealthy, promising young men undertook when they reached their mid-teens or decided they did not enjoy academic study.

His quest was to ride north to the castle of Queen Margaret of Stormhaven and choose one of her many offspring to marry (or her offspring’s offspring—there were enough of them to choose from). In return, Margaret would cancel half of the kingdom’s debt. He was also to rid one of Stormhaven’s many mountains of a pesky goat-eating lion on his way, just to prove his worth. Instead, Prince Nicholas killed the lion on the slopes of Traveler’s End Mountain and, when a local goat farmer named Raphael made Nicholas dinner to say thank you, he decided to marry him. Although marriages between royalty and commoners were perfectly normal in the Kingdom of Mirrors, Nicholas wanted to live on the mountain with his husband and their goats rather than inherit a large, hot kingdom filled with olive trees and refugees, so he abdicated. Most of the kingdom protested: marrying below one’s station is one thing but rejecting public duty to become a farmer (albeit with the title Duke of Lumiere) is quite another. Gossip columnists complained that Princess Amelia was even less tamable than her brother, although critics agreed that at least she would have decades to practise being queenly.

King Emmanuel had his stroke six months later.

Amelia and her mother did a pretty good job of running things with the help of their High Council, but they spent most days wondering how much longer the kingdom could go on without defaulting on their loans. A few years ago, Amelia hadn’t even known what the phrase ‘defaulting on loans’ meant, and she hadn’t cared. Why couldn’t her brother have quested to the south coast instead of heading north? He could have killed the dragon like a good prince was supposed to do and then gone on some little journey to rid Traveler’s End Mountain of that lion. It wasn’t even a magical lion, Amelia thought bitterly. It was a standard, goat-eating lion. She was even more annoyed with herself for missing having him around the castle. He would have liked Harry the amulet salesman, and he always made royal engagements feel like an adventure instead of like a piece of complicated homework.

Amelia tidied the newspapers and organised a few textbooks, just for something to do. Her favourite history book, The Magic, Mayhem and Mystery of the Kingdom of Mirrors was dog-eared and out of date, but the author had recently moved north and was now focusing on researching the Valley of Dreams’ historical association with the wine industry. Then there was The Monarchies of the Three Kingdoms (and how two of the kingdoms managed democracy), and Sorry, Dragons Don’t Really Die, But Here’s How You Can Try. Amelia scowled at it. Down on Market Street, a trombonist started a solo. A second later, a cellist started one too. Why on earth were they still playing music? It was night time! When Amelia became queen, her first Royal Decree would be a change in live music laws. She pulled Dragons Don’t Die from the shelf, angrily sweeping past the sections on Ruby Dragons, Emerald Dragons and the Lesser Spotted White Gold Dragon. There was the section on the Sapphire Dragon:

 Sapphire Dragons are not the largest of the dragon family, nor the most dangerous. They can’t spit poison and their eyes won’t paralyse you. They do not eat people. Unfortunately, what they lack in strength they make up for in cunning: it is hard to outwit a Sapphire Dragon, and their only known weaknesses are their sensitive ears and delicate eardrums. They cannot stand high pitched sounds at great length, and if anyone were to shoot an arrow into the ear of a Sapphire Dragon, they would surely slay it, as the opening of the ear is the only part of the Sapphire Dragon’s anatomy that isn’t protected by a layer of scales. No one in human history has ever come close enough to try, though.

Their sensitive ears.

An idea hit Amelia like a beam of sunlight.

Before she could think too much, Amelia hurled herself down the tower stairs and through the castle, so quickly that the stained-glass windows started to blur together. Her parents were sitting in the smallest drawing room with cups of wine. The king worked through his physiotherapy exercises while the queen read a book about strategic negotiations.

‘I have a plan to slay the Sapphire Dragon!’ Amelia gasped as she skidded to a halt on the rug, narrowly avoiding the wine cups.

Her parents looked up. ‘Amelia,’ her mother chided, ‘can’t this wait until tomorrow? Your father can’t take too much excitement.’

‘I hardly think a conversation with my daughter is bad for my health,’ the king murmured, although he didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘Does this have anything to do with your plan to build a giant water cannon and fire it at the dragon?’

‘I made that plan ages ago,’ Amelia said dismissively. ‘We don’t have enough equipment to build a canon powerful enough. This is a new plan.’

‘All right,’ Queen Hazel shrugged. She had the same long afro hair as Amelia, but while Amelia braided or tied up hers to keep it away from her face, Hazel wore a new style or accessory every week, refusing to fire her hairdresser even as they cut down every other expense. She also remade all her dresses, so she looked like she had a new outfit for every occasion, even though it was really the same material, redesigned four or five times a year. Even curled in a frayed armchair, she looked more like a queen than Amelia ever would. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Amelia took a deep breath. ‘Well, the reason the kingdom has had to borrow so much money over the last twenty years is that we’re fighting a war we can’t win, and the entire population of the south of the kingdom moved north and the bottom dropped out of the tourism industry. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

‘Correct,’ her father agreed.

‘And the reason for the war, refugee crisis and tourism trouble is that the Sapphire Dragon razed every village on the south coast and is sitting at Scavenger’s Ruin right now, setting fire to anyone who tries to kill him. That’s right, right?’

‘Right,’ her mother sighed.

‘And it’s entirely possible that, were the dragon to disappear then the war would be over and within three to five years, and assuming we ran a sustainable tourism programme and ploughed proceeds into rebuilding towns, life as we once knew it would return.’

Both parents nodded.

‘Well then,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s time the dragon disappeared.’

‘Oh, well, I’m glad you’ve thought of that,’ Queen Hazel said with a wave of her hand. ‘We’ve spent twenty years thinking that we quite like having him around.’

‘Mother!’ Amelia was stung. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

‘We know that, Amelia…’ the king said gently. ‘But if we knew how to kill the Sapphire Dragon, we would have done so by now. Dragons can’t be killed easily. Or at all. Do you really think we haven’t tried everything we can think of?’

‘Of course not!’ Amelia said quickly. ‘It’s just, you’re going about it all wrong.’

Queen Hazel’s eyebrows did a complicated dance. ‘How, exactly, are we going about it all wrong?’

Amelia steadied herself. Please don’t let them laugh at this please don’t let them laugh—

‘Wasps at the food carts in Market Street don’t sting all the people to make them abandon their food. They just buzz around until people are so irritated that they go indoors to get away.’

‘Um, yes,’ Queen Hazel said. ‘But I don’t think we can get rid of the Sapphire Dragon with wasps.’

‘We need something more annoying than wasps,’ Amelia pressed.

‘Mosquitoes?’ her mother suggested.

‘Fish soup?’ her father asked.

Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘People. People are so annoying! They yell at you about feather pillows, they insist on selling you fake amulets and they play their trombone at the same time as someone else is trying to play the cello! What’s the most annoyingthing you’ve ever heard?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ her father replied. ‘It was the time you and Nicholas decided to form a jazz band. Half the castle got tinnitus.’

‘I think the most annoying thing for me was when our seamstress had quadruplets,’ the queen mused. ‘None of them would sleep at the same time, remember? For months, you could always hear a baby crying. Eventually you thought you could hear a baby crying even if it was quiet. I thought I would go insane.’

‘Some would say you did,’ the king said amicably. The queen stuck her tongue out at him.

‘So what you’re proposing is that we just annoy the Sapphire Dragon into just getting up and flying somewhere else?’ King Emmanuel asked.

‘We can if we make everything he hears ruin his delicate ears.’ She held up Dragons Don’t Die. ‘The Sapphire Dragon’s ear canal and eardrum is the only unprotected part of its anatomy.’

Her parents looked at each other. It was the same look they exchanged when Nicholas brought Raphael the goatherd home.

‘How do you propose we make enough noise to ruin his hearing?’ King Emmanuel asked.

‘We hold a festival.’

‘A festival?’ the king asked. ‘For… for whom? The dragon?’

‘For our long-suffering troops down on the south coast! This year is the twentieth anniversary of the dragon’s arrival. Our brave soldiers deserve a traditional Kingdom of Mirrors festival honouring their work and sacrifice. So I’m suggesting a three month event—’

‘Three months?’ Queen Hazel asked. Her eyebrows did another dance.

‘Three months,’ Amelia continued, ‘of sporting events for the soldiers, each one with its own marching band. Three months of accompanying orchestral performances, street theatre, opera shows, circus events. Three months of jazz music.’

She knew she was onto something, because her parents exchanged another look. It was the look they exchanged at Nicholas and Raphael’s wedding.

‘All right,’ her mother sighed. ‘Call the council to meeting.’

Amelia smiled as she swept from the room to find parchment to write notes to the High Council, calling them to a breakfast meeting the next day.

When Amelia was queen, she would commission a new mosaic for the castle’s walls, depicting how she defeated the Sapphire Dragon.

Copyright © 2019 by Francesca Burke

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.