Pamela Smith And Benjamin Schmidt Have Gathered

The First Requirement Of War: Allies Must Not Kill Each Other.

The King Just Sits There, Moving One Square At A Time. The Queen Can Move So Freely. I Suppose I’d Rather Lose The Game Than Forfeit Her Freedom.

Somewhere In The Center Of My Soul, A Rusty Chain Began To Unwind. It Freed Itself, Link By Link, From Where It Had Rested, Unobserved, Waiting For Him. My Hands, Which Had Been Balled Up And Pressed Against His Chest, Unfurled With It. The Chain Continued To Drop, To An Unfathomable Depth Where There Was Nothing But Darkness And Matthew. At Last It Snapped To Its Full Length, Anchoring Me To A Vampire. Despite The Manuscript, Despite The Fact That My Hands Contained Enough Voltage To Run A Microwave, And Despite The Photograph, As Long As I Was Connected To Him, I Was Safe.

I Know,i Can Smell It, Too.

Memories Were Short And History Unkind. It Was The Way Of The World.