Story One
England feels a firm tug on his apron. A pulse of annoyance beats in his jaw. He bites the side of his mouth to quell the urge to scold the lad. Or more likely to just soften the scolding. He has told America many, many times about proper behavior and slowly, oh so slowly, the colony was learning. But progress was progress and he knows America has learned how to ask for things with words, in English. They were still working on the volume of his requests.
England knows logically that there was a time, a time before Rome, when he was wild. When he danced with druids and sang in ancient tongues. But he'd forgotten all the details. He'd forgotten if he was anything like how America is.
America tugs again. "Words America. Use your words." He hears more than sees the lad squirm. England continues with his task. He watches his blade glide through the parsnip. It's a fine work of craftsmanship. It could probably just as easily go through meat. America does not use any words.
The colony makes a little noise in the back of his throat. England sighs. He doesn't want him to think that the rules of etiquette only exist when America finds them to be convenient to him. Yet they appear to be at a standstill. It's a temporary hindrance not an indulgence, England lies to himself. These things take time.
England wipes off his blade setting it carefully on the counter top. He looks down at America. Clear blue eyes gaze back up at him. "What is it America?"
America pulls again on the apron. England allows himself to be drawn down to his knees. "Yes?'
America's lips twitch as if he's trying to keep a secret inside. "America?" He opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue. Blackness bursts out. Hundreds of baby spiders spill out.
England's mouth drops open. No sounds emerge. He flings himself back as the tide of spider swarm down the colony's shirt. His back collides with the counter. The knife falls off and clatters on the floor.
America starts to laugh. His shoulders shake as he wraps his arms around himself. The spiders disperse like smoke in the air. The only part of England that moves is his mouth. It opens and closes. Slowly he's able to form words again.
"What the fuck."