Femme Fatale Dakota Schoen 50 If you thought knives were sharp, just wait until you’ve seen eight inches of cold. Hard. Plastic. A carpet of crumpled green paper and drool. Flags of soft skin stretched tight over hard muscle, ascending, descending, 昀氀ying round and round. The grace of weightless spring petals 昀氀uttering through the breeze, only to return to the ground sharp, heavy, menacing, CLACK! Yes, these must be weapons. Amber eyes emerge through locks of auburn. A kaleidoscope 昀椀lters through that starlight-freckled gaze, 昀椀rst lilac, then raspberry, then sapphire. Who knew something could look so good in every goddamn color. Sticky palms force-feed the ever-growing carpet, and then the gaze is gone, replaced by hips and hands and a hiccupping heart rate. CLACK! CLACK! A new set now appears, two small corsets perched atop eight inches of cold. Hard. Plastic. God knew what she was doing when she made weapons like these.