andy cannon

Great chapter!

Becky's loss is Andrew's gain. Connor is training him well.

WOW! This just keeps getting better!

Another great chapter!

The demon told it like it was, most of the time. That's the problem with demons all of the time.

Great start! I can already tell that Creek will be a fantastic Dad.

A beautiful, bittersweet ending to a great story,

Great start! Sebastian can use a little good fortune it sounds like. I can't wait to hear Shaun's story.

Sober Dexter seems competent and likeable. The questions now are can he get the help he needs to stay that way, and can Reese help him turn the restaurant around? The œufs au plat bressanne sounds wonderful!

Another great chapter. The restaurant business is brutal, with low margins for profit and the reliance on customer's good perception to survive. The downgrade by Michelin was possibly accompanied by a rash of negative Yelp reviews that could be difficult to overcome for an establishment with slipping standards and what appears to be a consciously old-fashioned menu. I am fascinated by the well-written story.

Watching someone spiral out of control like that is painful. I am looking forward to this story.

Lyrical and moving!

The play-by-play of the baseball is very vivid and well done!

Great story! I thought checking into a French hotel sounded difficult, then the French medical system showed up!

Poor Rory! having to live with such a horse's patoot for a father.

An interesting take.

Calvin is all too aware of the effect he has on "Masey-boy" and is playing him like a fine violin at this point.

Will Mason spontaneously combust the first time roomie Calvin walks out of the shower with just a towel wrapped around his waist,,, and the towel 'accidentally' drops? I'm staying tuned to find out!

An intriguing start. I look forward to seeing how a submissive top is developed.

A really nice chapter with deliberate pacing, a slow burn all the through with increasing sexual tension. Matthijs is playing a long game, I think, about 3 or4 moves ahead of Åke, with an intriguing ambiguity washing over all the action.

A really fantastic character-driven story. Jack’s interior monologue is convincing: self-loathing, bargaining with self, the cycle of shame and desire, and the description “a pastiche cavern from a B grade horror film” perfectly captures the seediness of many uni gay venues.

The original plan for the epilogue was to have several characters write letters to close out their stories, but taking the spotlight away from Jamie and William just didn't feel right. The one letter I just can't let go of, is this one from my favorite minor character, Alfie O'Brien. Clonmore Cottage County Cork Michaelmas 1824 My dear Jamie, You’ll laugh when you read this, for we’ve a new hand aboard the O’Brien crew. Our Brigid, a ruddy-haired lass with a voice that could summon the watch from the fo’c’sle to the masthead. She’s no more than a fortnight old and already gives commands like a commodore. Mam says it’s the family gift, and I fear she’s right. I pity the poor swains who’ll come one day to court her. Mam swears she’ll be rocking in her chair cackling while I sit on the step with a brace of pistols across my knees to test their courage. Now, you must come and see her soon. Molly has graciously approved the visit, not that I require her leave, but still, “a happy spouse, a happy house,” and I’m not fool enough to argue against it. Mam reminds Molly of the poitín mischief when you were here for the wedding, and for that she decrees you and I shall have the barn for our quarters next time, lest the womenfolk lose their sleep again. Our wee Jamie is three now and giving me grey hairs faster than powder smoke. He’s as adventurous as his namesake, scrambling through ditches, climbing everything but the rafters, and tormenting the hens. We were mending the chicken coop last week after a storm, and when he tired of chasing the chooks into the garden, he came to help me. Serious as a bosun, he held nails in his little fists while I hammered. I sang one of the old shanties to pass the time, you remember the one about the old maid of Havana and the lusty midshipman. Wouldn’t you know, the lad marched into the parlour and gave a near word-perfect recital for Molly and her tea guest, Mrs. McKittrick. Molly near died of shame, Mam cackled till she wept, and I, poor innocent, was banished to the settee for three nights. And all for a song I never sang in that or any other parlour! It startles me, sometimes, how the years are racing on while I’m busy laughing; with Brigid in the cradle, wee Jamie already three, and you not here beside me to see it all. I puzzle a bit over you and Mr. Pitt in Lymington. Mam says it’s not my place to wonder at another man’s hearth, but I’ll say only this: you’ve spent your life looking after others, Jamie, and I hope wherever you are, you’ve someone who minds you in turn. I'll say no more lest Mam clip my ear for meddling. Still, I’d rather see you here, with rain dripping through our thatch and Molly ruling the kitchen like an admiral. Come soon, Jamie. Bring your stories, your laughter, and your appetite. Your friend always, Alfie O’Brien, Gentleman Farmer, Guardian of the Jug P.S. Do not teach my son any more verses when you come, or Molly will set on you with the broom. P.P.S. If you arrive muddy, she’ll have you swab the yard like the midshipman you once were. Boots off at the door, mark me. P.P.P.S. And what of this Mr. Pitt, then? Does he scowl as fiercely over his porridge as he does a compass? If he’s to come with you, tell him Molly will brook no long faces at her table. P.P.P.P.S. No poitín this time. (Or at least, none where Molly can find it. If you smuggle it, share fair, but hide it well, or Mam will find it and start the trouble herself.) P.P.P.P.P.S. Should you bring a gift for wee Jamie, let it not be a whistle or a drum, or I’ll send you packing back to Lymington in disgrace. P.P.P.P.P.P.S. If Brigid learns to bawl in time with the hens, I’ll pack her in your sea chest and send her off for the King’s service.

Epilogue In the Wake of Silence The years went on. Blake rose to lieutenant the next year, Admiral Rowley’s pen writing the commission that his patronage had promised and at last could secure. His promotion to post-captain came five years later, under the colours of a different admiral and in the smoking aftermath of a hard-fought action against a French frigate near Martinique. Pitt read about it in a London dispatch. Pride and grief twisted together in his chest. So

"Today's special, *Royal Navy Blend*. wink, wink.

An Epilogue still to post.