painfully at the touch of contaminated water, women underwent a slightly longer—but no less painful—process when they were infected. Then they had only two missions: eat and infect. Depending on what your gender was. The only positive was that the Skunkers were not cunning.
Jamie reached over and undid the safety on the rifle. Andrew made a face—his nostrils flared, but Jamie could forgive him for that at this point—and pulled off a shot. It neatly took out a standing display rack of Frito-Lay products. Annette didn’t flinch. Pus dripped from her arm onto the floor. Green and gold particles scattered from the drop, wiggling to find water before they died.
Andrew said, “Jamie, watch—”
Jamie froze. The counter behind them was covered with open bottles and glasses of water. Her eyes swept the store, and she realized that every surface was covered with open bottles of water. It took her a long moment to realize that it was a booby trap waiting to happen.
Jamie turned to look at her best friend just as Annette threw a bottle of water in Jamie’s face. Green and gold burrowed into the fabric of Jamie’s shirt. It was that moment when you smash your leg on the coffee table and realize that in two minutes it’s going to hurt, a lot.
Andrew looked from Jamie to Annette, and he laughed his chesty laugh that Jamie now saw was the one he used when he didn’t really find things funny.
“This is fantastic. Now we’re all going to die. She always did like you better than me,” he said, and he aimed the rifle.
Which was slightly unfair, as only one of the statements was true.
PUDDLES
by Tessa Gratton
Every now and then, one of my fellow Fates will bust out a story that I really, really wish I’d written. This is one of those times. In only a few thousand words, Tess has managed to make ordinary, everyday puddles seem both scary and kind of sexy. Before, I would have said that either of those adjectives was impossible. Also, there is dysfunctional flirting. —Brenna
In which I attempt to write a Brenna story. Subtle, weird, with a misunderstood romantic hero. —Tessa
I don’t know what made me do it.
The giant puddle was like every puddle: a hole in the world reflecting back light and sky. I’d always loved them, been fascinated by them. Wanted to close my eyes and leap through into that mirror world. As a child I would skim my fingers along the surface, distorting the reflection, and then sit back to watch it slowly, slowly right itself.
Tiergan Fitch used to push me into them when he found me poking around his family land. He patrolled it on a red dirt bike, lording around like a knight on a stallion, and I was the trespasser and thief. “Yo, Izzy, you like puddles so much, marry them,” he’d say, chin lifted. He’d raise the pine staff he always carried and charge. His bike would veer close and I’d lose footing, only to tumble back into the water. As he pedaled off, he zigged and zagged to smash through every single other puddle.
I thought he was a heathen who hated water. Everyone else thought he was just a bully, until we were in sixth grade and Juliet Banks decided he was beautiful. She looked up his name in a baby-name book and told all of us, “It means strong-willed, so of course he can be difficult.” Her lip gloss and eyeliner made her look older, and she started wearing real bras like the grown-ups wore, that she said her mama bought her at the mall. Soon all our friends were begging for push-ups and tinted lip gloss, and I was alone in my jeans and training bra thinking Tiergan was a dick.
It became a game. I’d creep into the woods after a rain, toes quiet in my sneakers, hair all pulled back to avoid snagging in the thin pine needles. The best puddles were along the hiking trails, since most of the forest floor was covered by years’ worth of soft, rotting needles and leaves. The air smelled better than peach cobbler, all clean and fresh and alive with rain, electricity,
Jamie reached over and undid the safety on the rifle. Andrew made a face—his nostrils flared, but Jamie could forgive him for that at this point—and pulled off a shot. It neatly took out a standing display rack of Frito-Lay products. Annette didn’t flinch. Pus dripped from her arm onto the floor. Green and gold particles scattered from the drop, wiggling to find water before they died.
Andrew said, “Jamie, watch—”
Jamie froze. The counter behind them was covered with open bottles and glasses of water. Her eyes swept the store, and she realized that every surface was covered with open bottles of water. It took her a long moment to realize that it was a booby trap waiting to happen.
Jamie turned to look at her best friend just as Annette threw a bottle of water in Jamie’s face. Green and gold burrowed into the fabric of Jamie’s shirt. It was that moment when you smash your leg on the coffee table and realize that in two minutes it’s going to hurt, a lot.
Andrew looked from Jamie to Annette, and he laughed his chesty laugh that Jamie now saw was the one he used when he didn’t really find things funny.
“This is fantastic. Now we’re all going to die. She always did like you better than me,” he said, and he aimed the rifle.
Which was slightly unfair, as only one of the statements was true.
PUDDLES
by Tessa Gratton
Every now and then, one of my fellow Fates will bust out a story that I really, really wish I’d written. This is one of those times. In only a few thousand words, Tess has managed to make ordinary, everyday puddles seem both scary and kind of sexy. Before, I would have said that either of those adjectives was impossible. Also, there is dysfunctional flirting. —Brenna
In which I attempt to write a Brenna story. Subtle, weird, with a misunderstood romantic hero. —Tessa
I don’t know what made me do it.
The giant puddle was like every puddle: a hole in the world reflecting back light and sky. I’d always loved them, been fascinated by them. Wanted to close my eyes and leap through into that mirror world. As a child I would skim my fingers along the surface, distorting the reflection, and then sit back to watch it slowly, slowly right itself.
Tiergan Fitch used to push me into them when he found me poking around his family land. He patrolled it on a red dirt bike, lording around like a knight on a stallion, and I was the trespasser and thief. “Yo, Izzy, you like puddles so much, marry them,” he’d say, chin lifted. He’d raise the pine staff he always carried and charge. His bike would veer close and I’d lose footing, only to tumble back into the water. As he pedaled off, he zigged and zagged to smash through every single other puddle.
I thought he was a heathen who hated water. Everyone else thought he was just a bully, until we were in sixth grade and Juliet Banks decided he was beautiful. She looked up his name in a baby-name book and told all of us, “It means strong-willed, so of course he can be difficult.” Her lip gloss and eyeliner made her look older, and she started wearing real bras like the grown-ups wore, that she said her mama bought her at the mall. Soon all our friends were begging for push-ups and tinted lip gloss, and I was alone in my jeans and training bra thinking Tiergan was a dick.
It became a game. I’d creep into the woods after a rain, toes quiet in my sneakers, hair all pulled back to avoid snagging in the thin pine needles. The best puddles were along the hiking trails, since most of the forest floor was covered by years’ worth of soft, rotting needles and leaves. The air smelled better than peach cobbler, all clean and fresh and alive with rain, electricity,
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