Those who remember the minutiae of WFCs past may have noticed a prompt triple play triptych was one way of responding. In the end only the middle of mine ended up finished. The third part, a speed networking event with a somewhat obnoxious tech entrepreneur with a mobile app called Codex Malificus or something, never saw text emitted from scribing device. Probably for the best.

This is the first part which was supposed to be in a Mary Gentle style alt- Venice somewhere 1600-1750. It didn't work out.

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Even Housebats Get The Blues

Bats are lucky, right?

I always heard they were lucky.

They sound lucky.

I feel lucky, when I'm a bat.

I guess that's why I get into situations like this.

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Substantial breasts wave untethered as she assaults me. The broom head sweeps past my ear. Her nipples trace syncopated time signatures in the air, with the fleshy bass notes of constrained fluids as her breasts rub against one another.

Oh, I didn't think nuns were supposed to know those words. Even in Latin.

She has pretty ears, and her pubic hair sub-rustles like Tuscan grass on a dewy evening. She's come out of the bath but her long black hair is only wet at the ends. Water droplets fly through the air like midges as she nearly brains me again.

I sigh and flit away through the open window. Not the best introduction, I guess.

--

I met my ex in the south west corner of Piazza San Marco over a dinner of house moth and mosquito. Ixie, her name is. We joked about Florentine cats and the shortage of belfry space midtown. You might hear her around the city; she has the sweetest ultra-soprano voice and a sly little wing flutter that drives you wild.

We raised a kid together. A little girl. She grew up and moved out to a monastery on one of the lagoon islands. I see her around sometimes.

Ah, but that was all another time, another season. Ixie will be off with another guy in a few months when the bats have all stopped being frigid.

That's part of the curse. They're all bunkered down in happy seasonal celibacy while I'm still flying around as horny as a rhinoceros beetle.

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I study theology. That's not part of the curse. At least not directly. It's a suitable occupation for a young gentleman of means. I don't mind it actually. I can while away a pretty happy afternoon on Aquinas and Augustine.

And if I've had to interrupt my studies to attend to family business for a few months at a time, what of that? It is no less appropriate. Catacombs don't populate themselves.

Our bankers are very discreet. Our family has known them a long time.

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I knaw on the rose stem for ten minutes before it breaks. My mouth is full of fairly disgusting flower sap as I drop it on Sister

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Leo's a good drinker and a mediocre student, with flashes of brilliance.