by the hair of my chinny chin chin // pig roast

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The last of the day’s sunlight tinted the sky so orange even the sea’s waves tinged purple. Rosemary had her back to the tide, her tail’s tips lashing the sand as she irritably struck flint. The wild boar wouldn’t cook itself—no matter how much time she’d spent seasoning it or that one of the best craftsmen in the Typhoon built the spit—but the fire was testing her patience.

“And this is why I always use magic to boil water for the tea,” Rosemary mumbled. Then she sighed, rubbed her muzzle with a paw, and began again.

This time, the flint sparked. The dry kindling caught fire. The larger logs began smoking. Rosemary turned her head away from the firepit to cough.

Rosemary sighed and moved to another patch of kindling. The flint scraped and sparked, then, eventually, the second kindling spot caught fire. The logs were producing more smoke, but it couldn’t be helped; she’d already removed, via magic, as much water as she could from the wood.

Her tail’s forked ends curled inwards, straightened out, curled again in an endless cycle as she stared at the fire. Her body was frozen stiff with impatience as she held herself back from poking and prodding the fire.

After an eternity of patience, the first log caught fire. Rosemary grinned to herself as the smoke took on a sweet cedar smell. Now, finally, she knew the boar was cooking.

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PEACEFALL

peace comes at dawn, but yours comes at night

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“Why, thank you, Alex.” Rosemary looked over her shoulder to her nephew. Her maw curved into a slight smile, then all four of her eyes widened slightly as she realized that she had to hurry, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to eat any of the pig.

“Oh dear, forgive me for forgetting your dietary restrictions.” She was doubly annoyed with herself, since her inability to eat bread had caused similar issues in the past. Her experiences should’ve prepared her for this, but, she supposed, this was all part of why social bullshit was so overwhelming.

Rosemary’s smaller pair of eyes shifted to the pig; she concentrated on the airflow, using wind to push the rising hot air to the side before the smoke could rise to the pig to simultaneously cook and spin it. “While I’m holding it still, tear off whatever chunk you want. Don’t worry about if it’s too much—I’m already planning on feeding the leftovers to Eri.” Her saltwater croc probably wouldn’t even taste the spices, but at least he was a lovely trashcan.

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PEACEFALL

peace comes at dawn, but yours comes at night