Just got my author's copy yesterday. The anthology features stories about about a suburban U.S. high school catering to young wizards and witches, and my story "The House" bats cleanup in the volume (always a fun position to be in):

She lay face down on her bed, clutching her pillow over the back of her head, and moaned, “It’s useless. Useless!”

            In the hallway outside her bedroom, Brianna’s mom had the linen closet open and was stacking sheets in it: Bri could smell the lavender water from here as her mom sprayed it onto layer after layer. And for the moment, the light clean scent infuriated her. Her mother’s compulsive housewifeliness didn’t usually bother Brianna so much except at moments like this, when the world was ending, and how nice the sheets smelled wasn’t even slightly germane.

            “Sweetie,”  her mom said,  “maybe you should just wait a few days and ask him again.”

            “It wouldn’t help,”  Brianna muttered. “He’d just get the idea I really wanted to do this project with him.”

            “Yes, but you do really want to do this project with him.”

            “That’s not the point!!...”

Fortunately for me, when I’m plastered I routinely lose the ability to type — at least without committing so many typos that I simply give up on the project until the blood alcohol drops. So this isn’t for me.

But for those who have better motor skills even when inebriated, Google now introduces an app that (when enabled) slows you down with math before you send that late-night boozy message.

Fascinating…