Loosh was of age and he wanted a divorce. When his parents asked why, he said, “I don’t have to tell you, but I will.” When he’d told them, his mother said, “Are you sure about this, dear?” and his father said, “You ungrateful little—!”
When the conversation was over, Loosh called his lawyer, who arranged lodging for the night and set aside half an hour to meet with him the next day.
“That boarding house stinks!” Loosh commented when admitted to his lawyer’s cubicle the next morning.
First question: Who do you think you are? Why should we trust you to build and operate a Mormon speculative fiction e-collective?
Susan stood in her doorway and frowned down at the note, its handwriting all sharp, black spikes. She could read the words, “Dear Sister Marsh,” but everything after that was as unintelligible as Cyrillic. She glanced at the girl standing on her front porch, who shifted her weight from one skinny leg to the other.
“Tell me again who sent you here, honey?” Susan asked.