For your reading pleasure, Tempest presents yet another exquisite example of romantic narrative…

Beside the Silent Seasons
by Ken Fermi-Nelson

   No; Igraine — she who had always seemed so cold! — was not pleased. Not at all! Neither the sweet orchard smell nor the chill gloom of the crypt impressed her, and it was all because he wasn’t there. Intellectually, she realized that Holly von Morris, the ultramarine mysterious stranger with the large dog, had a full life in which he was drinking himself to death in the company of the hateful Edwin, and he could not be expected to hold any consideration for the pleasure of one immortal, antediluvian girl. Intellectually, she knew this. And yet…
   Truly, it had been a most amoral day when that television program had brought him to her attention.
   It was then that a confused chorus of greetings from the courtyard shattered her composure into a million inexplicable pieces! She realized, in a single instant, what was now to happen. Surely it could not be — but it was! At the door, the brightest, verdant and masculine face she had come to know so well! “I’ve been mad, simply mad, without you to douse my fires,” he chuckled while there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling. “I need you, my perfect little carrot!”
   Then, without any warning, as there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, she knew that life without him was unthinkable, if not burning. Wthout him, could she ever have wondered if this would be a good time to remind him about the books he had borrowed?

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