Lydia saw the car pull up in the driveway, she watched as her fiance stepped out of the car but she couldn't find the motivation to cheer herself up or run to welcome him like she normally did; it had been a rough couple of weeks and it seemed like it was starting to take it's toll on her. Daniel walked into the house and was quite surprised to find her sitting by the window, legs crossed on the wooden chair, with a sullen look. Curiously, he moved towards her but she didn't even move from where she sat or glance his way.

"Babe,' he called and she looked up at him teary eyed, 'hey, what's wrong?" "My manuscript got rejected again." She said

"Oh that, sorry to hear." He replied but she noticed the sudden lack of interest in his tone.

"You don't sound sorry at all." She said and he sighed.

"I have to go shower, I stink." He said as he turned to leave.

"If there is something you want to say, say it Dan." She prompted. He stopped and faced her as he contemplated if he should really be honest with her.

"Say it Dan!" She urged "It's just that... this is like the 100th time your work had been rejected since we left College three years ago. You spend so much time writing, researching and everytime it gets rejected..." "Why are you saying it like its my fault?" "I'm not saying its your fault. I'm saying that maybe it's time for you to forget about this writing stuff and focus on something real like getting a job."

"Writing stuff? Writing is real to me, it is what I do. I love writing and you know that Dan!" "But it hasn't been working out for you so far, has it?" He asked "I can't believe you are saying this to me." "Maybe it is time you used your certificate and find a realistic job to help out financially." "I don't help out financially? That's it?" "No. You are a certified botanist, you can get a job Lydia." "I didn't graduate first class like you did Dan! I will barely get a job as a third class graduate in this economy. My best shot is getting my manuscripts approved for publication. I am a good writer, I know it." She argued

"Well you are the only one that seems to think that you are." He said and immediately regretted it. Lydia stopped and gaped at him for a second as her brain processed that.

"You don't think I'm good enough?" she asked and he let out a sigh.

"Lydia..." He began subtly

"I think I need to go for a walk." she cut in, walked past him, out of the three bedroom apartment they had bought two years ago, into the quiet street of the Lagos estate they occupied, to clear her head. The evening breeze gladly welcomed her.

  She tried to process everything ... she needed to or else she might just explode. She loved Dan a lot, he had been her high school sweetheart and not once did he stop believing in her or in her dream to become a renowned writer someday, that was why it really hurt to hear him say all that to her. They had been through so much together, survived four years long distance relationship all through college and when he had gotten a job as a senior programmer in a prominent company, she had relocated across the continent to join him.

  Unlike him though, she had done very poorly in the course her father had forced her to study in college. Being an only child of a domineering father, he had predestined every detail of her life - from her college to his dream job for her, down to a perfect suitor for her ( which most certainly wasn't Daniel) - and where her efforts weren't enough, the money had spoken for her, that was how she had been able to graduate college despite her grades. It wasn't like she was not smart or something like that, she had just wanted to write but her father hated the very idea of it, he believed it was a waste of time. He preferred she become a botanist like him and take over his research company eventually so he had gone to great lengths to stop her from writing but like they say, you can force a horse to the stream but you can't force it to drink, right? She continued writing which had pissed him off greatly and after College they had barely been on speaking terms. Her moving in with Daniel when he suggested it had been the last straw of her madness for her father; he swore never to have anything to do with her ever again. But she was stubborn like him that way.

  Daniel and her had spent the last two years having all the fun they had missed in the years apart. Daniel was a good person, smart and they were in love, that much she knew and just two months ago he had proposed. However, with her inability to a get a job or a breakthrough in her writing, things have been quite rough between them these last couple of weeks. Although she baked some snacks for sale once in a while, he was the sole provider and she felt hurt that he thought she was just being lazy. The truth was, she always felt like she needed to prove to her father that writing wasn't a waste, that he had been wrong to stop her from pursuing her dreams, probably that was why she had clung onto that dream despite the negative feedbacks but when your last motivator has given up on you, wasn't it a cue for you to just give up too? What if she really wasn't that good? Every manuscript she had submitted, she had been told it wasn't what they needed... well not all the manuscripts, some were yet to be reviewed. She had even tried writing contests but failed many times and it hurt so badly. Maybe Daniel was right, maybe it was time to bring her head out of the clouds and face reality but then she had been pampered all her life, she couldn't think of any other skill except writing - she was so confused at that moment that it all seemed very devastating.

  It was already dark outside when she returned home after a long walk that left her still confused. Daniel was in the sitting room and as soon as she walked in, he stood up with an apologetic look.

"Lydia, let's talk please." He said as she made to walk past him "You already said what you wanted... " "No,' he cut in as he held her arm, gently pulled her back to face him, 'I'm sorry about earlier. You are good enough, believe me. Any writing establishment would be lucky to have someone as dedicated and talented as you are..." "You don't need to butter me up Dan..." "I'm not, trust me. What i was trying to say was perhaps you should get a side job or start up something while looking for other writing options, I don't know why I didn't just say that earlier, I was an ass. I think all the negative comments are making you depressed, I mean I haven't seen you smile or laugh genuinely in weeks, I miss that. You are an amazing writer but you just need a break from it all, love." He said then placed one hand on her cheek and caressed it gently. It felt comforting to hear all that but possibly he was just saying that to avoid a fight.

"I believe you." She replied regardless

"I love you." He said as he looked into her eyes intently. A smile spread across her face and she kissed him on the lips, he kissed her back and shortly afterwards their clothes were flying off their bodies as they fell on the couch and made passionate love.

  *

                 *

                *   Dan helped her get a job as a cook in a restaurant just a stone throw from the company he worked in - Maggie's kitchen. It was a new restaurant in the urban part of town, not all that fancy but decent enough for those in the middle class. There were three cooks ( Mr Bibo, a huge man in his early forties who seemed experienced in all areas of life, Hassan a nineteen year old high school dropout and then there was Lydia). The pay wasn't much but at least she wasn't sitting idly at home anticipating calls from editors. Also, she had a chance to catch a glimpse of Dan everyday during his lunch break as he frequented the place. Not to mention the fact that she got to make new friends, being such a free spirit, she immediately bonded with her boss, Maggie - a divorced woman in her late fifties, Mr Bibo and Hassan who had a really good sense of humor. She was basically a sweetheart and she loved the feeling that came with being busy.

  Weeks later though , while at work, she got a mail from a publishing company informing her that her story had won a monthly writing contest she had applied for. What excited her wasn't just the $700 cash prize, it was the news that her book would be published and she would have a free online platform to post her works. The news was too great for her to contain so took permission from Maggie and raced down to Dan's office.

"I won $700 and my book will be published." She yelled in hysteria as she ran into his arms the second she laid eyes on him.

"What? Wow... that's mind blowing,' he replied really surprised, ' I am so proud of you babe. We need to celebrate." "What are you thinking?" She asked with a broad grin "Our favorite restaurant. You and me. Tonight. How does that sound?" "Amazing. I will try to get off early from work." she said. When she went back, she informed Maggie she needed to leave earlier than usual and being an understanding woman, she agreed. She went about her remaining hours there with joy bubbling in her heart, preparing every recipe wholeheartedly as it seemed like her dreams were finally coming true.

  It was minutes later when Lydia smelt it before she heard Hassan shout, 'fire!', she turned and saw that the microwave had caught fire. In a panic, Hassan grabbed a bucket of water and threw it at the microwave before anyone could stop him. The flames rose higher immediately and the fire made its way towards the gas cylinder.

"Turn off the fuse box!" Mr Bibo yelled and in that moment, Lydia who was standing by the door literally froze in fear as she watched the tragedy unfolding before her eyes. Seconds later the sound of an explosion rocked the air, adding to the chaos of the busy afternoon hustles.

  Daniel was on his way out of his office when he heard the explosion. Almost immediately, he heard screams and his coworkers began hurrying outside.

"What's going on?" He inquired "Maggie's kitchen is on fire!" one of them shouted.

"Lydia." He said then dashed towards the entrance, joining the group of people curious to view the incident. He literally raced all the way to the restaurant where people were already gathered outside - some were customers who had managed to escape, mildly injured and pretty spoken up, others were just curious bystanders. Maggie was sprawled on the ground, wailing, a cut on her forehead. He saw the ambulance and the fire service truck approaching and he glanced around anxiously for Lydia. "Lydia! Lydia!" He shouted as he looked around but there was no sign of her. He glanced at the burning building and panic built up inside of him as he wondered if she was still inside. She had mentioned getting off early right? He was about to call her cellphone when he heard someone yelling to the paramedics that had just arrived at the scene. "The cooks are still inside!" "Lydia!" He exclaimed and impulsively he dashed into the burning building. "Sir, come back!" He heard someone yell but the thought of Lydia in there alone and helpless was just too agonizing. Once inside, he unintentionally inhaled the smoke and coughed violently, he brought out a handkerchief, covered his nose but that didn't help much as the smoke that had formed a dark fog, stung his eyes making it almost impossible for him to see a thing. As he made his way further into the building, burning woods from the ceiling fell to the ground, some on the plastic chairs and tables which in turn rapidly caught fire. The good thing was that he had visited the place so often that he was certain he could grope his way to the kitchen.

"Lydia." He called as he made his way further into the building. Another bolt of cough seized him and he coughed violently for seconds, his chest was starting to ache badly. He walked a few more metres then his eyes fell on a figure passed out on the ground, just close to the counter. He hurried forward and was relieved to see that it was Lydia. The heat from the kitchen greeted him as he got closer so he quickly picked her up and made his way back to the entrance door which turned out to be a more difficult task than expected considering Lydia's weight, his lungs killing him and the fact that he was trying to avoid the burning woods falling in his part. When he eventually managed to get to the door, hands dragged him out, somebody took Lydia from him as he broke into a coughing fit. Paramedics surrounded him and an oxygen mask was placed on his nose. "She isn't breathing." was all he kept saying as they tried to get him to sit down. "Sir, you need to relax." A young man said but he couldn't. He insisted on going with her when they put her in an ambulance. Fortunately the burns on her skin weren't major but she had inhaled too much of the toxic gases.

  He was so scared that he barely sat at a place all through the hours that the doctors monitored her condition. It was in the early hours of the morning that she regained consciousness but the doctors administered so many painkillers that she dozed off minutes later. He sat by her side all through, praying silently. Later that day her eyes fluttered opened, he was so glad when she looked up at him with that familiar twinkle in her eyes.

"Hey." he called as he leaned in towards her from where he sat "Hey... So, I heard you were the fool who ran into a burning building to save a girl." She said and he grinned.

"Well, I am a fool for you Lydia. Always." He said, he was most glad that she was in a joking mood, she needed to be happy before hearing about the condition of the other cooks - Hassan was in critical condition, the doctors were not sure if he would make it, Mr Bibo who had suffered first degree burns was still in a coma. It was almost a miracle that she had gotten out of that kitchen in time but Lydia had always been a strong girl, no doubt about that.

"Thank you." she said

"Wait until you see who made today's paper." "I made the news?" she asked with glee in her eyes

"We made the news. I know, right? MOST HEROIC DEED EVER: MAN RUNS INTO A BURNING BUILDING TO SAVE FIANNCEE. They captured all my good sides." He said with a dramatic gesture that made Lydia burst into laughter and in that moment she knew she was just blessed to have someone like him in her life. Despite the fights and their differences, Dan loved her and he would always try to be there for her, that she was most certain of.


To Lupita Smith the smell of a library was heaven. To Sir Danielle Longbow it was a sharp reminder that she’d spent most of her life illiterate. It was also a reminder that she sneezed in dusty places.             “Welcome to my humble commode,” said Carl Northman brightly, arms spread with a book in one. “No, wait. Wrong word.” He flipped the book open again. “Abode. My humble abode.” He frowned.             “You don’t live here, this is the library,” Lupita said.             Shrugging with the irreverence of a teen and the posture of a thirty-year-old, he sighed. “It feels like it recently. I made the place look pretty and was I thanked? No, I wasn’t.”             “Ordering the books by colour wasn’t helpful Carl.”             “Well, it seemed like a good idea after whiskey and opium. It looked incredible. It was the dullest, heaviest rainbow I’ve ever seen.” He shrugged again, then had to crack his back because slouching was doing him no favours.             “Have you put all of the books back yet?” Lupita asked the prince consort.             “Almost. It should only take me another week or so.”             “CARL.” Lupita groaned. If there was anything she loved more than Danielle, it was books. She picked up four from a stack and thrust them into Sir Longbow’s giant arms. Looking at the stack she added four more. “Come on, we’ll help.”             “I promise I would have had it done by now, but people keep asking me to read to them.” Mister Northman hurried after them. “Children keep bringing me the epics and asking for my stirring recitals. Recital means reading it out, doesn’t it?” He gave Danielle a questioning glance. She shrugged.             Tall and strong as she was, Sir Longbow was no more use than for carrying books as Lupita gently arranged them back on the shelves by subject and author then title. Carl threw the books up after the briefest glance at their leather spines.             “Why were you trying opium?” Danielle asked Carl as Lupita removed another book from her burden.             “I was curious. And high. Very high. And drunk. Actually, I was drunk first. Being drunk led to being high. Well actually, being drunk led to the acceptance of the pipe and that led to being high. Very quickly. Being drunk and high led to me climbing in here through the window and deciding I knew better than the regular librarian.” He said it all at lightning speed, always wary that someone would tell him to shut up. It happened a lot.             “If you’re looking for a book recommendation,” Carl said.             “I’m not,” said Danielle. She hoped the quick rebuttal would cut him off. If only.             “Well you’re in luck. I just so happen to know of an excellent new novel in the works as we speak. It’s by a new writer. She’s talented.” He looked at Lupita. “Ferocious.” She frowned at him. “Underappreciated.” She nodded. “Curvacious and-” Lupita smacked him with a book about the flora of the continent. “Violent. A very violent author.             The story is the typical heroic mythology with a modern twist. The hero is in fact a heroine. Not born of traditionally noble heritage, she nonetheless has a claim to knighthood. She proves herself with acts of valour and bravery against man and monster.             The script is penned beautifully. The illustrations are the real draw though. The artist is a humble-” Lupita laughed. “Also underappreciated genius whose works will one day be recognised for the slices of divinity they are.”             With her arms empty Danielle wandered back to the desks piled high with random tomes and picked up more. “I’ve seen it, Carl. The drawings-”             Carl cut her off. “Illustrations. When they’re in a book they’re called illustrations. And some of them are painted.”             “You’ve put on weight,” Sir Longbow said to change the subject.             “I’ve gained muscle,” said the royal consort in hurt tones.             “That too. It’s good. You were skeletal. I was starting to worry you’d never recover. Can you lift a sword now?” She looked at him, knowing that his fragility had been a point of shame for him.             “High enough that it really hurts my foot when I drop it.” He winked.             “That’s a good start.” She passed him another book.             “Author, subject, title.”             “NO!” Lupita yelled. She glowered at him. “Subject, author, then title.”             “That’s one way to do it,” said Carl. He recoiled from Lupita’s fury.             “It’s the correct way to do it. Where is the librarian?” She looked around.             “You’re looking at him,” Northman pinched his elegant tunic. Crann Oaks covered it front and back. The britches beneath were black of a quality only royalty could afford.             “Explain,” said Lupita. She aimed a deadly finger at him.             “The last librarian quit after my, renovation. I took on the job as penance.” He smiled. “I’m a librarian. I have all the books I could ever read, and I get to talk to people constantly. The bodyguards help with putting the books back as well.” He waved to two knights. The two nights bowed low with scowls on their faces. “They love me really.” After hours of arranging books, the shelves were almost full. Three children rushed into the continent of Tiruile’s first public library. They bowed to Carl and looked at him with wide, glittering eyes.             “Will you read us a story, King Carl?” The children were between Danielle’s knee and waist height. She couldn’t guess their age.             Northman held up a finger to correct them. “I’m not a king. I’m a prince consort. Which is better. All of the husband’s duties, attire and grub. None of the responsibilities of running a kingdom.”             “Thank the gods,” said one of the knights stacking shelves in his green Crann tabard.             “I heard that Sir. As punishment you will stack these shelves until it’s done. Let that be a lesson to you.” He looked at the eager street rats. They were filthy. “First I want you to wash your hands in the basin by the door.”             The children ran screaming to the basin, splashing water on their soil crusted fingers. They returned dripping, bumping into each other in their haste.             “Take a seat my dears and I will regale you with the tale of…” Carl looked at the stack of books in Danielle’s arms. He picked the top one, frowned and took the next. “Aha. Today you will hear the story of Sir Aldebricht of Crann. Sit, get comfortable. It’s a long one. I’ll have to speak quickly.             Are all your chores done?” He looked at them all with a warm flash of teeth, a wolf seeing his own among the sheep. They nodded, innocent angels with dirty faces. Wide eyes drank up Carls words with insatiable thirst. As he hit his stride, sat on a stool made of a woodworm’s leftovers, the crowd was rapt. With a flick of his hand and a snarl he had them jumping out of their skin.             Before she knew it, Danielle had been listening to Carl’s tale for an hour with seven books in her arms.             “Are you there?” Lupita waved a hand in front of the knight’s face. Sir Longbow returned from the battle of Cedric’s Moor with a snap of her lover’s fingers.             “The two generals lunged with their swords. One missed by a hair. The other plunged into the heart of the warrior. Blood ran down the blade. The dying man gasped his last.” Carl snapped the book shut with a bang that made the children scream. “If you want to know who died you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”             “Awwww.” What had been three urchins had become twelve.             “I know.” The storyteller hung his head and closed his eyes. “I’m brilliant, it’s true.” Placing a sombre hand on his chest he bowed to them. “For now, you must return to your mothers, fathers, or whoever feeds you. I bid thee good day. Farewell my dears.”             Groaning as the children left, Carl stretched. His back gave a dry crunching sound. He scratched grey hair. A smile lingered on his face.             “It suits you,” Danielle told him.             “I thought I should practice before my seed bears fruit.” His eyes creased with a wistful grin. “My mother always told me stories about the way things had been, before the empire. I wish she was here to see me now. My child will be the heir to Crann.” His eyes went wide as he wiped a veiny hand over stubble. “Life is full of surprises.”             “You can say that again.”             “Nah, I don’t like to repeat myself. You should go and see your mother though.”             Danielle sighed. “You’ve said that before.”             “True. But I’m a liar. I love to repeat myself. I love to repeat myself. I love to repeat myself. I-”             “Shut up Carl.”             “No.” He wagged a finger. “Shut up, Prince Consort Carl. Get it right.”             “What is it like? You’re married to the queen. Isn’t that weird?” Danielle asked.             “Nothing confuses me more than the fact I’m not dreaming right now,” he admitted. “I always knew I was meant for great things. I had assumed the great things were leading a rebel army of imperial soldiers against the empire. Alas I was a mediocre soldier and an abysmal leader. Someday though, I will have a scribe say I did. Who could argue with me now?”             “Your wife,” said Danielle, bringing him down from the clouds. His smile collapsed.             “Ah. There’s always one.” He looked at her with his head tilted. “What do you like about me?”             It was one of the odder questions he’d ever asked her. “Your frequent bouts of brooding silence.”             Carl’s eyebrows converged, trying to crawl down his nose. “I don’t brood silently.”             “No, but a girl can dream.”             “A jest. I see. I should depart. My lovely wife the queen will be missing me. I should take my merry men and be on my jolly way.”             “Merry men?”             “Sir Galagad. Sir Petris. Attend me, sirs. I have neglected to introduce you. It must be remedied.”             One was younger than Danielle. He couldn’t have seen his twentieth year. Scars on his arms and face told of battles. His brown eyes were dark with irritation. His arms were a match for Danielle’s, thick as tree trunks.             Knight two was ragged, scarred and straight backed. He stood to attention with the posture of a spear. The scar on his lower lip meant the man couldn’t shut his mouth. The effect was a permanent grimace at odds with his professional demeanour. His nose had been a dozen times if once, swollen in the middle.             “Allow me to introduce Sir Galagad.” Carl fluttered a hand at the younger one. “And Sir Petris.” He nodded to the veteran. “Or as I like to think of them, Sir Smiles a Lot and the Once and Future Friend.”             From both men Carl received incredulous raised eyebrows. Northman winked. He clapped them both on the shoulders. “Something tells me you’d both like a beer?”             “One would be good, Prince Consort.” Sir Galagad gave a hopeful flash of yellowed teeth.             “We should not, while on duty, my lord.” Sir Petris spoke to the air by Carl’s shoulder. He was too well trained to look a superior in the eye without prompt.             “Fine. Walk with us, Sir Longbow? Sir Galagad is a big fan of your exploits.” The young knight blushed. “Sorry. Was I not supposed to tell her?”             “I would love to walk you to the castle, just in case you’re waylaid by any glass ghosts, red angels or loup gerous.”             “Don’t forget squid folk,” said Carl.             “After being in the river with them, how could I?” Danielle asked.             “I still have nightmares about them holding me down at the bottom of the river.” Northman’s face was grim as he remembered. “If it wasn’t for Sir Longbow, I would have drowned on the way to Sliabh.” He tried to smile but his lips wouldn’t commit to it. “The nightmares. Their faces.”             “We all have nightmares,” Danielle said. She thought of Minister Qian Jo, who she’d murdered to cover the tracks of a mission that had taken her across the world. “No one comes out of war clean.”             “Bloody hells we need a drink.” Carl exhaled a long sigh. “One pint each? On me. I say me, I mean the royal coffers.”             “Fuck yes.” Sir Longbow surprised herself, but she needed a distraction. “Come on Lupita, put the books down. We’re going for a drink.”             Lupita slammed a pile of books down on a desk. Even with her dark complexion she looked flushed. She was sweating, her hair out of place. “Fine,” she said. “Some of us earned it.”             The library’s first shiny new key clicked in a heavy lock. A second key turned in the other lock. The keys fell on the chain around Carl’s neck. He shivered as the metal came to rest against his skin.             “Come on then. Let’s get rat arsed.”


The man up in the pulpit embodied what a true intellectual looked like in Ana's mind. He did so because of his undoubtable ability in rhetoric, how he conveyed perfectly his ideas as if there was no distance between his mind and his lips and how he did it with immense ease. The Professor was hardly a decade older than her, he went to the same college as she did not that many years ago, and sometimes spoke of certain professors still with the reverence only a student would have. His face was nearly unwrinkled, not handsome and yet charming, full of a vivacity that Ana was sure was the same that fueled his speeches. It was not similarity of values that attracted her to his intellect, but the confidence and the seemingly outstanding capacity of reasoning he had; even in ideas she disagreed with she found interest, if he was the one to propose them. The Professor was, in perhaps a strange way, what she wanted to be. He spoke of the role of the Administration according to the Constitution and ignored the chair of the pulpit, which had stayed untouched since the beginning of the class, prefering to roam back and forth casually as if they were having a conversation - him and each of the students. Then something caught his eye. The screen of his phone lit up on top of his desk and he stopped his pacing, grabbed the phone and, after a second, excused himself. "I gotta take this," He said. Ana sighed, looked around the classroom for the first time since the Professor began to speak. "Have you got a crush or what?" Ana heard a chuckle by her side. It was Lina. She wasn't really Ana's friend, but she pertained to that peculiar group of people that, by either lack of tact or some forced wit, thought it was daring in an endearing way to take a little bit more liberty than one allowed her. Lina liked to show Ana that she knew a lot about everyone, that she obtained some sort of secret knowledge as an insider in the social world of the university. Ana glanced at her and stretched her lips over her teeth upon the sight of her classmate crossing her slender legs and leaning in, as if Ana was going to answer her prying with a confession. "No, I just like his class." "I can't see him the same way now. Y'know, after I heard he's a swinger." She whispered. "He and Matilda, they go to those key parties and do that whole pinnaple thing". Matilda was his girlfriend, another professor. Ana knew her from the hallways, a stubby woman that walked always like she had something urgent to do. "Oh." Ana said. Lina didn't find the lack of response discouraging. "Yeah. Anyway, after the picture, I don't doubt it. Have you seen it?" Lina seemed to read a negative answer in Ana's face and pulled her phone out of her bag. She didn't have to browse much before secretively sliding it to Ana. The screen showed an image of the stubby professor, topless, in what seemed to be a fitting room. She looked pretty and relaxed, whatever urgent matter she hurried to in the hallways must've been resolved, and she held her camera to the mirror, proudly taking the photo. Behind her was the Professor, significantly taller, grabbing her breasts and smiling at the camera. He cupped them greedily, with some sense of ownership, and his face showed a daring satisfaction of one who's truly comfortable. "Jesus, Lina." Ana looked away, for the first time actually showing annoyance towards her classmate's behavior. "I didn't need to see that." Lina squinted her eyes, her playful look still there but mixed with something else. "I was just trying to fill you in, sheesh." She turned the other way, annoyed. Ana could swear she heard Lina muttering ' holier than thou bitch' and a warmth, of shame or annoyance, rose to her face. Ana looked down at her hands - they looked so far away-, her mind weirdly bothered. Shortly after, the professor returned. His presence silenced the room and he easily and hastily picked up his train of thought, again pacing back and forth, as if he was winding up his argument with movement. Ana switched her weight on the chair, crossed her legs in discomfort. She felt a quaint feeling she had felt a handful of times before. Corporeity had invaded reason, his ability was irretrievably tainted by the inescapable sin of his humanity. The face of that man, serious, scholarly, gave way to a lewd grin of satisfaction in Ana's mind. I'm a man, I'm a man, said his voice, she saw the buldge on his pants while he walked, she saw the fingers on his gesturing hand sinking into the soft, warm flesh of that smiling woman, she took in the slow shift of brain into flesh and she watched that metamorphosis with horror. He must know that the picture is out there, he must know we all have seen it, and yet look how he paces so confidently, she thought, not sure if with admiration or disapproval. Ana wasn't a prude, no, she liked to consider herself quite accepting, actually. She prouded herself of talking of taboo topics without restraint in her tongue or in her mind, she despised how sexual jargon still made so many giggle like middleschoolers. That couple of academics had been the victim of a leaked picture, or perhaps they leaked it themselves and there was no victim in the story, what would be the matter with that, they're both adults and they teach adults, perhaps it wasn't the most adequate thing to do but they had the right to do it, you never know what people get their kicks out of. And yet she still had that queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't of intrusion, as if she had seen something she wasn't meant to see. It was deeper than that, sillier than that. What bothered her was that that scenario of intimacy happened on the first place, as if she had a dogma that was just deadly struck by that Professor's hands in his girlfriend's breasts. He rambled still about the Constitution, but Ana didn't pay attention to his words. He paced from one side of the pulpit to the other, a man and a mind, two grabbing hands, a sharp tongue that spoke and licked with equal passion. I'm a man, I'm a man, it said, and it said it calmingly, accepting, freeingly.  She looked down to her own hands again. She noticed how far away they seemed from her, galaxies away, even though they rested on her thighs. Then, lifting her eyes to the Professor, she suddenly envied the fact that, for him, the distance between his mind and his hands must've been just the length of his arms.


         The problem with going to dinner with Kali was always how full I am when I leave. I had needed a night out, away from the struggle of three kids and a husband, going to college a second time and navigating caring for a sick relative. She’d invited me to a high-end restaurant, her treat, but I’d had to make the drive because we lived in separate cities. Dallas was a middle point. I settled into the leather seats of my car and found my favorite playlist before entering the address of my home into my GPS. Something loud because I was full and tired. I sent a brief text to my husband to let him know that I was leaving the restaurant and the arrival time was estimated to be around ten pm. The drive should take around forty-eight minutes.        I pulled out of the restaurant and almost immediately onto the exit ramp to the main byway. Dallas on a Saturday night was always hell, but tonight the traffic was lighter than usual. Maybe it was the side of town we’d met on. It was closer to the very south end, and we both lived north of the city.        As I drove around the byway, I noticed that the city was very bright, but the edges of the city were very dark. Unusually dark. The whole night had a strange aura about it. I drove for a while, singing along to the music, when I suddenly noticed that the city of was on the wrong side of me. If I was heading north, the city should have been to my left, and it was to my right. I stared at it as long as it was safe outside of my window, wondering how this could have possibly happened, especially without me noticing.        I checked my GPS, which had rerouted without alerting me. Come to think of it, it hadn’t spoken at all. The hairs on my neck and arms raised. I hadn’t changed direction, or even taken an exit. Everything was backwards. I didn’t feel comfortable exiting at this point, and I was trying to look at the GPS while driving 80 MPH.        The next exit was well lit, and I pulled off. It was the exit I started at. My heart began to race. There was no way I could have circumvented the entirety of Dallas in the time I’d been driving. Panicked, I double checked my entry in the phone and hit start again. I got back onto the byway and began to drive.        The road looked completely different even though it was the exact same route. I drove along and traffic seemed relatively normal. Soon, however, it began to back up and cars slowed, and brake lights lit up the night. Over the tops of other vehicles, I could see lights and emergency vehicles ahead of me. Traffic proceeded at a crawl for several minutes. I switched back and forth between glancing down at the GPS and looking ahead of me at was what to come. I slowly passed a mangled SUV in the far-left lane with cop cars all around it. There were no people, however. No cops, no ambulance, no accident victims, just a wrecked single car and abandoned police cars with blinding lights and no sirens. The air felt oppressive. I passed the wreck and when I looked ahead, there were no other cars on the road. I looked around and even in my mirror, but the only thing behind me was the accident, no other traffic. I swallowed hard, my chest tight, my heart pounding in my ears. I turned off my music and listened but heard…nothing.        I continued to the next exit with the intent to stop off, but it was closed, blocked by cones and concrete construction barriers. Then the next exit was marked, but there was no ramp, just a sign with a barricade. It didn’t look like a ramp ever existed. Just a giant sign and an arrow pointing to nothing. I could see cars flowing around me on the other highways and byways, but there wasn’t a single car on my route. I looked down at my GPS and it was flickering back and forth between routes, constantly recalculating. I vaguely recognized the names of some of the exits and knew I was at least travelling in the right direction, but not a single exit from this byway to the main highway was available.        The car felt like it was closing in on me. I struggled to breathe, and my vision was getting cloudy. Yet another exit passed that was closed off. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening as I realized that I’d left Dallas, but I was travelling northwest and needed to go northeast. But not a single northeast exit had been opened and no northwest ramps existed. I began to panic, being funneled endlessly in this direction with no way to get off it.        My vision tunneled. I felt faint. Almost as though I was going to fall asleep at the wheel unwillingly, poisoned, my body and mind wanting to shut down.        All of a sudden, the GPS came back online and an exit to my right opened for the main highway that would take me home. Everything came rushing at me, lights seemed to whiz past at lightning speed before everything cleared up. I laughed almost hysterically, manically, as my lane merged with the lane of the opposite directions’ byway, and it fed onto a dual ramp to the main highway. I ended up in a long line of cars. I looked behind me and there were cars lined up behind me as well, a snake of headlights going on as far as I could see in the mirror.        I could breathe easily again, and my phone dinged at least a dozen times in a row. The last message that flashed across my screen was my husband asking, “Why aren’t you answering the phone? Are you ok?”        I looked at the time. It was after eleven and I was still thirty minutes from home.        The milage on my dashboard had logged that I’d only driven a dozen or so miles. The message to my husband that I was leaving the restaurant had a small 9:10PM timestamp on it. None of these things coincided or were even possible.

       When I finally arrived home, I didn’t even have the words to explain to my husband what had happened. He told me that my phone had repeatedly gone to voicemail and that he’d been extremely worried. But I had no real explanation other than telling him the story that sounded completely fake. I’m sure he thought I’d just had a bit too much to drink, even though I hadn’t had any alcohol at all. I entered the directions into my GPS and studied them. I looked closely at where I had been and the exits I should’ve passed. None of them were on the same route. None of the indicated exit signs I’d seen were connected in any way.        The only thing I could see for sure was that the spot that I had seen the car accident and the spot that I had exited to get to the main highway were right next to each other.        I tried to remember the accident. It had been a black SUV. I drove a black SUV. Chilled to the bone, I remembered how there was no people. No accident victims, no police, and no other cars around. But the pervasive feeling through everything I could remember was fear.        Where had I gone? Had I died on the first go around? When I passed the accident had I been passing through a spirit world? An alternate timeline?        I snuggled up with my cat and my husband and wondered if perhaps there had been a glitch somewhere and I wasn’t meant to die. That I hadn’t yet fulfilled my purpose.


“Why Now?” The first time he tried to come back into her life, Rebbecca was eight. Eight years old, but had lived a hundred with the beatings of her and death blows dealt to her mother; emotional scarring, like a cat scratch healed white on her arm, but never fades. He’d been in prison since she was four, and the memories scared her to the point where she had wet her pants. He wanted to see his daughter, but for reasons that were selfish. He figured if he inserted himself back into her life, he wouldn’t be bogged down by child support. It doesn’t work that way, the social worker tells him. He could see Rebbecca on the social worker’s terms, not his. So he disappeared again, leaving her to wonder if it had been a bad dream. She had lots of those – waking clutching her stuffed piggy, soaking wet from tears and sweat, heart thumping so hard she could hardly catch her breath. Every few months, waking in a different place, with different people who were only too happy to have her so to cash the check that paid them for keeping this broken child. Foster care they called it. Always lots of kids, but always so alone.

She was 10 when he came to the newest place, bringing dresses that were three sizes too big which she would never wear, or stuffed animals that would be taken away the minute he was gone by the foster monsters. He would ask if she wanted to come with him; she would just stare at him with her big blue eyes, begging him silently not to ask her that. The social worker, always in the background, would pipe up and tell him that is not an option. He visited two more days, but then was gone like a plastic bag twirling away in a dust devil, leaving her in relief but still very alone with the memories of a man who changed her life every time he saw her. In her solitude, at 13, she became a voracious reader. Anything she could find in a school library or the book-mobile that came once a month. Rebbecca learned the term “estrangement,” and thought that was what had been going on with her father most of her life. The dictionary became her best friend.  She was a good student, always at the top of her class. Her teachers praised her, even though she never truly felt it was deserved. The thing about being a foster is that no one really cares what she does, as long as she keeps quiet, does what she’s told and they keep getting their money every month to lavish on their “own” children. The other thing that she did quite well was swim. She was allowed to be on the swim team, excelled in the 300 medley, and gathering up first place ribbons that she hid inside a ratty old Converse shoe box. When he came again just before she turned 17, he had actually called the social worker and asked what I was like, what did I like to do or wear so he could try to get it right this time. The social worker told him that his daughter got high marks in school, loved to read, on the swim team, and was happy in t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. She was not into makeup, or girly-type things. So when he approached her at the latest foster home, he told her that he was proud of her. Those words made her feel sick, and she didn’t know why. It was a mix of butterflies in her stomach plus the urge to throw up. Rebbecca had always wanted to hear that from someone who knew her, or possibly loved her, but it could not be him. Love was an unfamiliar word, as was the feeling. She remembered she loved her Mom, but could not feel it. Her father came to see her every day for the next week, bringing her new books, new shirts, and new shoes. He watched her win another ribbon at a swim meet, and clapped louder than any other parent there. It was a peculiar feeling; not quite happiness, but not sadness, either. She wasn’t sure what she felt, but whatever it was, it started to spread throughout her chest to the tiny, closed-off heart. Rebbecca asked her father after the meet why he clapped. He told her again that he was very proud of her, and by the look of his soft gray eyes, he meant it. He had to leave again, and this time, the first time, her tiny heart ached. He said he would be back soon, that he had to finish doing a few things that he hoped would make her proud, too. She wanted to tell him she hoped so too, but the fear was too strong, so she kept silent. True to his word, her father did come back after a few months had gone by. He told the social worker that he bought a house that was close, and wanted to visit more. The social worker told him that it appeared as though he was finally getting it right, that finding roots and a meaningful relationship could only strengthen his appeal to the court in order to finally get his Rebbecca back. But being a longtime member of a club she never wanted to be in, the foster system, it was all she knew. She still had bad dreams, still could see the giant monster that was her father covered in her mother’s blood when she was that knobby-kneed little girl hiding in the closet. Could she ever trust him? A month later, before the judge in Family Court, Rebbecca’s father laid out all the things he has been doing for the last 5 years. Having a steady job with benefits, paying the State for his daughter’s care, and buying his first home. He wanted to give her stability and not have to worry where she would have laid her head down next. He had tears in his eyes, and told the judge that he had so many regrets in his life, that he was a changed man, and could give his girl all she needed. Rebbecca sat in the back row of the courtroom, listening and trying not to hold her breath. She was hearing things she had always wanted, but still had that deep seated fear down in her soul. The judge then looked at her and asked if she had anything to say. After taking several deep breathes, she stood and faced the man who had destroyed her entire world so long ago. She had a thousand questions swirling around in her head, and trying to grasp at the very one that meant the most.

As she started to speak, she stopped, remembering that word, “estrangement.” He had drifted in and out of her life like a firefly on the breeze. He had never written letters or sent birthday cards. She never knew when he would show up, or the reasons why each time he did. He never once said he was sorry for doing those horrific things to her and the terror he caused when he killed her mother.

All those feelings came rushing like a river overflowing the banks that kept it reigned in. She was three months from turning 18, had earned scholarships to an Ivy League school, and plans that didn’t have him in it. That tiny heart ached once more, squeezing tight as she trembled, and she said two words: “Why now?” She then turned and walked out of the courtroom, into the warmth of the golden sunshine, and came to the realization of estrangement. It’s a two-way street, and she’s left him at a dead end.


“With a mouth like yours, you better learn how to fight or run away,” is probably the second-best piece of advice I’ve ever received. I was given it by a big oaf that also happened to be my classmate. Can’t remember his name, but it starts with an A. Adam, Alex, Asshole? Yeah, that last one. He taught it to me while he was smashing my face in, his buddies cheering him on and watching out for teachers somewhere behind him. I couldn’t see them. Couldn’t see anything except the concrete towers stretching up to blot out the only sunlight this little slice of nature in the middle of the city got, and then even that was blocked out by the bottom of his boot. Then I stopped seeing much of anything for a while. I think that was the sum of my experience back then. Family packs up to move to the city and drags me along because I was too young to screw off somewhere elsewhere. And too old to fit in. Too many other things too. Didn’t know how to leave well enough alone, so I’d respond to insults about my family and where I was from in kind. Might’ve been tall, but I was too scrawny to fight back when I actually struck a nerve, and my gangly limbs couldn’t propel me anywhere at a considerable speed except into the ground, which I preferred to make people like Asshole waste their time doing for me. Another mark against me – apparently I had a chip on my shoulder. Whatever the hell that meant. As much as the principal, and my teachers, and even my parents and once in a while my siblings like to say that to me, nobody wanted to stop and ask why I was always ready to get my ass whooped. My fuse was so short because it was always burning. Sensory overload, I guess. The neon lights, the constant noise, everybody with a word to get in last and a laundry list of shit to get done for the day. Back in the rural town we came from, people would say there was so much to do in the city. But they never said there was so much going on. I guess most people would figure those to be the same, but it never really clicked for me until I was there. So I was always on edge, feeling like I was being bombarded because I was, and then Asshole comes along and calls me a sister-fucker because I’m from Virginia. So yeah, maybe I should’ve let it go instead of making some rude gestures…and maybe insinuating some incestuous happenings in his own family tree, given his general appearance which I would then go onto describe as- “The wrong end of a diseased cow.” That was when he punched me. He threw in some kicks, a kidney shot I really didn’t appreciate, and finally stomped me in the head and I blacked out. When I came to, I was still laid out in the grass of the city park. It was darker than I remembered it being when I was getting my ass kicked, though the time of day wasn’t my focus. I also wasn’t alone. “You look like shit,” that person said. Wasn’t Asshole or his goons, that much was clear since I wasn’t being kicked. Didn’t recognize the voice, must be some guy who found me afterward. “Feel worse,” I croaked. Jesus, was that my voice? Sounded like I was on my deathbed. “Yeah, I bet,” they chuckled. “Need a hand up?” “Need a doctor…but I’ll take what I can get.” I reached up, and they moved into my field of view. Yup, didn’t recognize them. He looked a little older than me, college-age, but like things were going much better in his life. He had a boyishly handsome face, dark eyes, and was dressed…I don’t know, athletically might be the word? Loose tee, shorts that were easy to move in, had a backpack on. His hands, though. That’s what really caught my attention. There were rough, callused, and covered in tiny scratches. Like if you slapped your hand against asphalt. Not enough to skin your palms or feel anything but a slight sting and leave a red mark. Later, when he took me back to his place to clean up so I didn’t have to go home looking like I was mugged, which I kinda was, I’d discover where those were from. Much, much later, this would be the man to give me the first-best piece of advice I’d ever receive. Max is what he went by. What he did was free-run. Also parkour, but he was quick to differentiate the two. “Art, man. If parkour’s a textbook, freerunning is like writing poetry.” I figured that was a pompous way to say he liked to do dangerous stunts in places he shouldn’t be. And, yeah, that was kinda true, if reductive. But when that was what he’d been coming back from doing when he found me in a heap in the park, and decided to stick around to make sure I wasn’t dead and nobody did anything to me, I couldn’t complain too much. No denying he was an odd duck, though. City-born and raised, so you know something wasn’t quite right in his head. The kind of thing that made him think running around and doing backflips off of twenty-story buildings was fun and not the sort of thing to make you shit yourself. But at least he was good at it, or must’ve been to make it this far without dying. Or to think it was something other people should do. When I told him about what happened, mentioning what Asshole said, he’d laughed. Then, when he was done enjoying my misery, he suggested I learn how to do parkour. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. But nobody pegged me as being smart. I was hooked the first time I jumped from the top of a building. Oh, I was terrible at it. I didn’t know how to bend my legs right, I nearly faceplanted, and I scratched up my hands so bad I thought I might need to go to the hospital. But it was exhilarating. The sense of having nothing below you as you sail through the air, briefly wondering if you’re going to make it or if this is where the falling begins… Max helped me up and he knew too that I was in. It was written all over my face in the stupid way I was grinning. It was only a matter of course from there. I stopped spending so much time at home and lied to my parents the few times they asked what I was doing, though I had to wonder if they’d even tried to stop me if they knew. School sucked same as always, that wasn’t going to magically change, but it’s incredible what having some release for your stress will do. I didn’t care that it was bad anymore. What I cared about was getting out as soon as I could and running over to Max’s. Should go without saying I wasn’t taking the normal route, either. That was part of my practice. He was a good teacher, too. A week in and I stopped shaking before a jump. A month in and I could take a decent fall without too much trouble. Later we’d start getting into the freerunning aspects and focus less on the parkour. He was right – it was poetry, or like music in motion. Parkour had been about getting from point A to point B, swift as possible. But this was new. It was the death of the ego that was me and the birth of something new that could only be expressed through fluid movement above the city. Far below everything continued on as normal, but it couldn’t reach up here. The noise was muted, the lights dim, the awkwardness I once felt in my own body moved to a world far away. Instead it was just Max and me, and the thuds of our footsteps, and the whistling air as we twisted, turned, rolled, pirouetted. It would rain and the concrete would become slick and dark, but we’d still run once I became better at it. The thrill of it was intoxicating, knowing that death could be so close and the only thing keeping it away was a steady sense of balance. A year passed. I hardly paid Asshole any mind when the new semester started, and didn’t have an issue in keeping away when he sought me out. My parents couldn’t care less I was never home because the school stopped calling them to complain. Things were going great between Max and me. We’d moved past being teacher and student, and were now more like partners as we leaped and bounded from the rooftops and slid down railings. But here’s where reality has to come back in, and I had to learn the best piece of advice I ever would…or at least it was the one I’d never forget, no matter how much I tried since. “Sometimes you need to let go.” Yeah, ironic. And I don’t think he meant it to be prophetic. ‘Course not, how could he? But that’s what Max told me the last day I’d ever see him. We met up same as usual and went out to eat some lunch before going on a run. I’d complained a bit about school – sure, things were going better, but nothing was perfect, and I wanted to vent about one of my teachers. Nothing was perfect. Right. Yeah. Should’ve been a normal day and a normal run. Done the path more times than I can count. Were we cocky? Nah, Max made sure I learned that lesson. Had something changed? Maybe. Maybe the ledge was worn a little too thin, didn’t offer enough traction. If I’d gone after him, it might’ve been me. But I landed and rolled forward, and he landed a moment after me and slipped backward. Then he was gone. He fell from our heaven above the city into the hell below. I didn’t really know what to do about it except look down and watch. Then when the cops and the ambulance showed up, I ran. Then I stopped running. Never started back up. I’m not really sure if it was out of fear or…or if it was my way of mourning, but I never did it again. Things moved on. Nobody knew I was connected to Max or that I’d been there, though I had the irrational fear the cops would show up to ask questions about what we’d been doing up there for a few weeks after. Nobody showed up. I just numbly shuffled through life for a while until the numbness faded. Went to college. Got a job and the city stopped feeling like this weird place I was trapped in until I worked up the courage to move on. Then I met a nice guy, fell in love. We married, then adopted. My youth started to feel like it happened to someone else, but that’s time’s trickery for you. Life continued as though nothing happened, but I carried the memory of Max with me. “Funny how things work out like that,” I said to myself. “Not even sure why I came back here today.” That wasn’t true, actually. I came back to say goodbye. There wasn’t anything to mark the spot where he had fallen, but why would there be? It’d happened over a decade ago. “I’m leaving, finally. We bought a quaint place out in the middle of nowhere.” “Wish we could’ve spent more time together.” “I’m sorry.” “I don’t know what else I can say.” “…” I started and stopped a dozen times, searching for the right words. Something to close this chapter of my life that I’d spent in this city, some way I could wrap a neat bow over it all. But there wasn’t any way I could do that. There was no closure to be found, only what I made for myself. And while it would never be sufficient, I had to make do. “Thank you,” I finally said and looked up the sky. “You taught me a lot more than how not to bust my ass, and I appreciate it.” For what it’s worth.


I don't know what brought it on, she just suddenly suggested it. We were watching tv, our favourite tv show. We were following the life of our favourite character, a secretary at day, a cold, hard thief by night. It was the latest season, the first episode of many to come. The previous season had ended with the character being placed under house arrest after being caught by her love interest who turned out to be a detective working on her case.

This season began with her being bored out of her mind, she decided she needed something to do, so she picked up painting. The episode soon came to a close as the character finds satisfaction in her new found hobby whilst helping her love interest solve a heist proving her worth to the police force, getting her placed on probation and off of house arrest.

“I want to do that” Cindy said as the closing credits rolled by, “What?” I asked, looking at her curiously, “Painting” she said as if I was stupid not to have known, and maybe I was. I looked at her, really looked and then I laughed, she blushed, pouting, “What, you don't think I can do it?” she asked, with fire in her eyes, daring me to say otherwise, I looked at her in amusement, I felt a slight smile come onto lips as I composed myself.“I haven't known for long ”I started, making sure I didn't sound snarky,“but for as long as I've been your friend, I have never; ever, seen you pick up a paint brush,” I said making sure to emphasize my point, she was stubborn though, she held her ground with,“So” she pushed back glaring as I looked over at her, “I can learn,” she said cutting me off before I even opened my mouth, I could tell she wasn't going to back down on this one, so I did the only thing I could do at the moment,I relented, “Ok.”

 Our first painting class was a blast, and the instructors were patient and helped know what to expect through our learning, and pretty soon, a week had past, I really liked the class and I thought Cindy did too, but the announcement of our favorite shows cancellation was hard on her and not another day passed, she decided dropped class, I couldn't talk her out of it. “Why?” I asked she was at my place tonight, I was washing the dishes as she helped me dry them, she never took her eyes of the glass she was drying to a shine, “Why what?” she asked innocently, “Why did you stop coming to painting class?” I pushed, she shrugged “It wasn't really my thing,” I couldn't believe this, but I didn't push any further. It was her family reunion and Cindy said I was family enough so she brought me along with her. “I'm so glad you came with me” she babbled, jumping with excitement, as she pulled me in yo her car.

Her parents house was fairly large, a two story Victorian style home, painted alabaster, with a pristine lawn and a flower bed for all to see. I felt under dressed, in my plain t-shirt and washed out skinny jeans but we were already at the the door when I decided turn back, it was too late. Cindy had rung the door bell, “Hello…” a woman answered, she could have passed for Cindy's twin if it weren't for age lines she bears on her face, her hair a honey brown, though peppered with grey, her eyes a golden amber, though you could see it shining with motherly warmth. She was clearly happy to see Cindy as ushered us inside, “How could I forget my manners?” the woman asked as if chastising herself, “I'm Mary, Cindy's mother,” she greeted when she noticed me, holding out her hand, “I'm Jane,” I introduced taking her offered hand, shaking it. “Oh,”she said except “your the Cindy met in college? She always talk about when we talk over phone” I nodded not having a clue what she was talking about, I could now see where Cindy got her cheerfulness from, Mary smiled gently “Well it's nice to finally meet you.” “Mom, where's dad?” asked Cindy “He's gone collect your grandma from the airport,” her mom answered,I tuned out the rest of the conversation, mindlessly looking around the living room seeing family portraits hanging on the walls and trophies in display cases in the corner along with bookshelves decorated bookends and books of sizes and genres. I wondered , what was Cindy like as a child or what was her high school years like? It was noon when Cindy's relatives arrived, an hour later and so did her father with her grandmother. The reunion was like any other, the grill was running the moms and dads dividing into their own little pack the kids played games or listened to grandma's story while the teenagers rolled their eyes dramatically as story was told. As Cindy helped her mother in the kitchen, I helped by bringing out the food to the spread that was set outside.

I had the pleasure of meeting Cindy's cousins, Judy, Mark, Benjamin and Linda, they were our age or in Mark's case just a year older. While talked with her grandma, I was left in their company, “So your telling me you and Cindy took painting class a week and she dropped it the very next week?” Linda asked, Mark snorted “sounds like something she'd do,” I looked at him confused “What do you mean?” they all looked at me, sharing looks as if deciding whether are not to answer my question. “Cindy was never one to stick to anything,” Mark sighed,“in preschool she wanted to be a ballerina,” “Yeah,” Judy chimed, “I remembered it was she could talk about, until her mom signed her up for lessons, she went one day and decided she didn't want to be a ballerina anymore,” “then their was middle school, she joined the community theatre group” “and in freshman high school she joined the school paper, that didn't last long at all,” “then summer before college she got into photography that lasted longer than the rest,” and it went on and on. “Hey, what's that?” I asked, Cindy and I were making our way to her car, she had a towel in her hand, wrapped around something wrong. She smiled softly “it's my grandmother's fencing sword,” she placed the sword gently on the backseat, and as we drove off, I couldn't help but think ‘oh boy, there she goes again. ’


"I can’t sleep," Dahlia lay restlessly in the dark confines of her bedroom, her plea for sleep falling on deaf ears. With desperation, she pulled her beloved orange flat-faced cat, Hamms, closer to her. In response, Hamms let out a shrill meow, expressing his indignation at being prematurely awakened from his slumber. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on Dahlia's mind. Having made the difficult decision to drop out of college, the consequences were now becoming starkly apparent. Her mother’s resolute stance on not renewing the apartment lease left Dahlia with a looming possibility: the prospect of reluctantly returning to live with her parents. "At least we can still afford food," she said scratching her kitty’s head. She gathered her unruly hair into a scrunchie, jumped from the bed in underwear and an oversized black T-shirt, and made her way to a cluttered desk, switched on the laptop, the blue light casting a glow on her face. With nimble fingers, she typed away, steadfastly searching for a job opportunity deep into the night. Just as the sun began to rise, she stumbled upon it, a job listing that read, 'No Experience Will Train.'  She swiftly submitted her application and within minutes, an email pinged her inbox, bearing detailed instructions on the venue and schedule for her evaluation for the position of, Assistance Technician.

Monday dawned; Dahlia steered her vehicle onto the grounds of Richmond College. She located the Medical Technologies building, parked, and paused to take in the picturesque campus. The brick buildings stood proudly among expansive, rolling green lawns, intersected by pathways sheltered by a canopy of trees. It was a scene that exuded an air of scholarly charm. Across from campus she noticed a crowd of protesters in front of a steel and glass building but paid the scene little attention.

Dahlia entered the building and stood in the bustling lobby with dozens of applicants, she wondered, are all these people here for the same job? The receptionist’s words cut through the chatter and answered her question. Her words carried a sense of purpose and direction. "If you are here for Nursing, take the corridor to room 108. Imaging Tech is in room 204, and Assistance Tech follows Mr. Jade to the elevators." The receptionist pointed to a tall thin man with a shaved head.

Dahlia and a small group followed Mr. Jade into the elevator and descended into the depths of the building. With a composed demeanor, Mr. Jade led each candidate to their individual rooms. Alone, Dahlia found herself immersed in a flurry of medical procedures and inquiries. The sterile environment buzzed with activity as lab-coated individuals probed and prodded, extracting samples and delving into the depths of her personal history. Each question felt like a tiny invasion, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

As the hours passed, time seemed to blur, merging into a haze of anticipation and fatigue. Dahlia glanced at the Band-Aid covered cotton ball on her arm, her thoughts swirling amidst a sea of uncertainty. The room held a lonely silence, broken only by the distant echoes of footfalls in the corridors beyond.

Mr. Jade entered the room. "Your group was the last we had time to screen before classes start, and you are the only one who made it." His words carrying a weight of significance. "Take this key," handing her an unusual, circular object adorned with bumps. "Next Monday, show the key to the receptionist. She will grant you entry. In the elevator, use this key to access B2. The button won't illuminate without it. I will meet you in the second basement at 5:00 AM. You did well."

"I’ll be here," she whispered, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions. The tears lingered at the edge of her eyes, but she willed them to retreat, refusing to let them betray her composure. Mr. Jade's words had ignited a spark within her, an ember of hope that whispered victory and achievement . It was as if she had stumbled upon a prize, a hidden treasure that only she had the privilege to claim. The elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar presence of Mr. Jade, who greeted her before she could cross the threshold the first day of class. His appearance offered a sense of familiarity. He guided her to an auditorium. "The real work starts today. Be seated."

Dahlia settled in, her eyes sweeping across the room. Sixty fellow students populated the auditorium, their ages and genders spanning a broad spectrum. Each face held its own story, a unique tapestry of life choices that had brought them to this moment. Mr. Jade climbed the stairs to the stage and took position behind a podium. "Assisted Suicide is legal as of 2031. The Death with Dignity Act, or DWD for short, has spawned a cottage industry for us Dark Angels to help the sick and dying with their passing." He looked out over the room. "It's not for everyone. Statistics show only ten percent of you will make it to graduation. My job is to try to get that number higher. I will push you hard, so when the day comes to bring your sickle down, your training, your mettle will be enough to show mercy."

Mr. Jade took a clicker from the dais, and a slide projected behind him titled ‘Process’, "It works like this: a person with a terminal illness can apply for assistance once their doctor signs off." He pressed the clicker, the screen now displaying an excerpt from the DWD act. "If an applicant is approved, they have Seventy-two hours to complete the end-of-life process; that is where you come in." "Suicide Inc., our employer, has partnered with Richmond College, to provide you with the necessary training to attend to your charges. Sidebar here. We know it's a terrible name. A couple of brothers started the company. They were bought out but were known for getting the job done, so the name stuck. We are working on a rebrand."

With a swift transition, Mr. Jade explained, "Within these boxes lay the tool that will soon become an extension of you." Assistants efficiently moved through the room and presented each recruit with a black box. "The box contains your sickle. Retrieve them. I will teach you how to calibrate it to your partner, load the sickle with the dose, and administer it." He paused. "It's not easy to swing that sickle." Mr. Jade admitted honestly, his voice tinged with a sense of weight.

Listening intently, Dahlia's eyes focused as she pulled the lid from the box, recognizing the gravity of its contents. The corners of her lips lurched up, as she beheld the tool within. The sickle boasted a sleek titanium handle, adorned with two triggers, and a few lights, but its most intriguing feature was a stainless-steel tentacle, culminating in a menacing stinger. They want me to kill people with this, she thought. Cautiously she tested the weight, appreciating the natural curve, she brought it close to her arm, and the tentacle sprang to life, wrapping tightly around her wrist. Startled she instinctively jerked back, her heart pounding within her chest.

"The little guys are quick," Mr. Jade smiled at her. Two other students raised their arms to show they were also entrapped with their own sickle’s. "Both triggers together to release." The smile now gone, "If you listen and try, I can get you Ninety-nine percent of the way there." He flipped to a slide of a horse chained to an old man. Three demons, their claws, dug into the man, trying to keep the horse from pulling him from his pain. "I look at it this way. Your Charge is ready to pass. A mighty horse is there pulling them to their rest, while the demons of ignorance, cruelty, and fear try to hold the Charge in the world of suffering. The horse is not strong enough to overcome the demons alone; that last one percent is you and your partner." "Do you always work with a partner?" Dahlia turned her gaze towards the source of the question, her head on a swivel, curious to hear Mr. Jade's response, her attention returned to her mentor.

"Yes," he replied. "Anyone know why?" A young woman with long black hair raised her hand, and Mr. Jade acknowledged her, "The two Dark Angels administer their sickles, each loaded with a dose from a packet of two. One real, one fake. That way, no one knows who the lethal dose came from." "Very good. The lethal and placebo doses can only be administered when both triggers are pulled. It is a fail-safe mechanism designed to ensure that both Dark Angels are fully committed to the action," Mr. Jade flipped to another screen.

The new slide displaying the cost to die per state. "Death with dignity is not cheap. Congress has set the tax on an assist at ten thousand dollars, and some states have added heavy local taxes to drive that price even higher, making death another luxury only the wealthy can afford. Luckily for us, private organizations often pay on behalf of the applicant once a request is approved. Groups like Angel Song, The BlueSky Union, and the Satanic Temple will cover some or all the cost to help the suffering pass." "What about resistance?" The young man from earlier asked. "Religious fanatics often camp out in front of the houses of people who have applied, and they may try to block your entry. You may have noticed them in front of the building across the street. Don't engage with them; don't touch them, even if they touch you."

Graduation Day. Richmond, Virginia, March 3, 2033, 3:33 PM. Dahlia stood with her eight remaining classmates, who crossed the stage when their name was called. A woman in full body armor passed each of them a sheepskin, pulled the black hoods of the graduation robes over their heads, and gave them their Dark Angel name. "You are reborn as Destiny,” she told Dahlia.

Once everyone returned to their seats Mr. Jade stood before the graduates, "Please rise, place your sickle over your heart." In unison, they recited the oath of the Dark Angels: "I am a bringer of Death. I do not pass judgment.

Mine is to wield the sickle of mercy. Relieve the suffering of my Charge. For I am now and forever a Dark Angel A hand of mercy, I am Death." After graduation, Destiny embarked on her first working day at Suicide Inc. The journey to the office involved navigating through the elevator to B2 and then traversing a tunnel beneath the street. At roll call, she met her partner. A seasoned veteran, almost a foot taller than her, whose Dark Angel name was SoulDust. SoulDust was waiting for her when she arrived at the offices, his tone made even deeper through the helmet’s voice modulator. "We already have a bounty, and need to leave, if you are fitted and your sickle calibrated, we should go."

"The armor is a little tight, but I am ready. How far are we from the Charge?" Destiny tried to adjust the pants of her armor. "About an hour. We have to beat the Thumpers there, or it will be a mess." SoulDust led Destiny to the garage level of the building and a matte-brown van with black trim. No company logo. They climbed in and passed through the security gate, where a group of protesters threw bottles of a yellow liquid that shattered on the van. "Don’t open the window, pretend it’s apple juice." When Destiny and SoulDust reached their destination in rural Virginia, they observed an eerie stillness surrounding the house. No signs of life or activity were visible from the outside. They approached the front door and rang the bell. Destiny stomach turned and her palms began to sweat. She took a deep breath; I need to manage my emotions.

"Turn your cams on," SoulDust pressed a button on his bracer, a piece of armor that ran from his wrist almost to his elbow, that housed a phone like screen.

"Is no one here?" she asked. Activating her helmet and primary camera. "They're here. The bounty is only a few hours old." SoulDust's attention was drawn to a gathering of dark clouds in the sky. A gentle rain began to fall as if responding to the somber atmosphere. A middle-aged man with red, puffy eyes answered the door wearing khakis and a blue sweater.

"We are here for the Applicant," SoulDust said. "I know what you are. Follow me. My father is this way." "Sir, sometimes fanatics will storm the property, could you lock the door?" Destiny asked. "Of course." the man said, locking the door and leading the two to a first-floor bedroom that faced the street. "He’s in here." There, they saw an old man propped up in a hospital bed.

"Do you need a minute?" Destiny asked.

"No," the bed ridden man spoke. "We have said our goodbyes. I love you son." "I love you too Dad." The son hugged the old man and kissed his head. As Destiny observed the tender moment, her resolve began to waver. Cracks began to form in the walls she had built, fortified by months of classes and conditioning to detach herself emotionally from her work. That one percent was feeling like a much wider gap with every moment.

Hidden beneath her helmet, tears streamed down Destiny's cheeks, her heart ached as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, adding to her sense of vulnerability and doubt. SoulDust processed the man's fingerprints and ran a DNA comparison, his actions were driven by the need to confirm the identity of the individual they were there to assist. Amid the emotional turmoil, the protocols and procedures of Suicide Inc. served as a grounding force, a reminder of the importance of ensuring accuracy and safeguarding the integrity of their mission.

Waiting for confirmation, SoulDust approached the window and pulled aside the curtain, a disheartening sight unfolded before him. A van adorned with a church logo came to a stop in front of the house, and a swarm of Thumpers, driven by their own convictions, poured out and hastened towards the front door determined to enforce their will upon the dying man and his heartfelt desire to bid farewell to his son one last time.

"We have Thumpers." The veteran Dark Angel crossed to the bedroom door, shut it, and locked it. "You should call the police now sir." The sound of the front door smashing open and the mob scurrying through the house reached the room.

The old man's resolve hardened his face, flickering with the memory of the strong person he had been in an earlier life. His tears stopped. "Do it now," he said to the Dark Angels.

Destiny’s and SoulDust’s bracers glowed with the affirmative for prints and DNA. SoulDust opened a case from his belt to reveal two identical vials. Destiny deftly loaded a dose into her sickle, while the two Dark Angels positioned themselves on opposite sides of the bed. With their sickles in one hand and gently holding the old man’s hand in the other, the tentacles of each wrapped securely around his wrist. Suspended menacingly the stingers hovered just an eighth of an inch above the man’s skin. Voices from the hall penetrated the room, and the bedroom door shattered into splinters, scattering debris throughout the room. Startled, Destiny was knocked off balance as two men and a woman forcefully burst into the room. She heard SoulDust in her helmet. "Destiny, now!" he yelled. The lights on his sickle indicate he was committed. Time slowed. She watched as the two men moved toward SoulDust. Destiny felt a hand pulling on her bracer. The woman was trying to pry her sickle from the Charge and struck Destiny with a book, the helmet easily taking the blow.

"You have no right!" the woman screamed. The son screamed at the Thumpers, "Get out of my house. We don’t want your thoughts and prayers! This is none of your business! Leave us alone!" He dropped his cell phone, the screen showing a completed call to nine-one-one. Destiny struggled to hold on to her sickle but hold she did. Despite her vulnerability, Destiny recognized that her emotions were not a sign of weakness. They were a testament to her humanity, her capacity for empathy and compassion. The image from class appeared in her mind. She saw the horse pulling with everything she had. SoulDust, his hands wrapped around a chain, straining to pull the old man through the veil. The Thumpers twisted into the demons: Fear, Ignorance and Cruelty, and Destiny knew what she had to do. She pulled her trigger, and both sickles flashed for a moment, and the old man was gone.

The son retrieved his phone, "We have had a break-in, send the police immediately."

The Thumpers screamed and spat at Destiny and SoulDust as the son ushered them out the door.

Once inside the van and the doors locked, “How are you holding up?” SoulDust started the van. "Those people are horrible. It was awful." She wept. The voice modulator made her sound like a crying demon. "You saved a man from enduring months if not years of suffering. You did what most cannot. In many ways, you are a hero; don’t forget that."

"Hero, huh?" She sniffled, still choking on her words. The numbness passed, running low on tears. She sat up and wondered, Should I return? Could I willingly feel like this again, even to help another? She watched the trees go by as the rain picked up, a single drop slowly running down the window, catching her eye like a tear from a cloud. Suddenly, she understood the oath. Today, she was Death, but could she be Death tomorrow?


Writing a story doesn't take experience, or guts, and while those things do come into play much later in one's life, it isn't as important as just writing is. To make something, you have to take the steps to actually start it. Ashley Folder, is an upcoming writer in highschool. She writes novels as a hobby and often wins in small contests. Her ginger hair is long and wavy, and compliments her turquoise eyes. She usually wears a black hoodie and rouge colored sweatpants. As a writer, Ashley enjoys the comfort of a quiet and peaceful atmosphere, although she doesn't shy away from the background noises. Ashley enjoys writing, as it makes her feel she is in a space within her mind, secluded from the world around her, making her feel free to do whatever it is that has her mind focused on. Lately, in the recent months, Ashley's quality of work began to decrease, and before long, no one was reading her books anymore. She didn't know why or what changed, but the readers just stopped reading. Ashley searched for the answer within by re-reading her works, but being a critic of her books failed as she couldn't find anything that stuck out to her. So she pondered who she could ask for advice. Chestnut Graze, said to be a golden child, has golden short hair and pretty blue eyes. He dressed in a salmon sweater vest and tacky jeans. He was known in his school as idealistic, and would turn his ideas into fantasy stories. He competed in many contests, and though he only won a few it never lessened his ego. Chestnut is Ashley's rival in the field of writing, so she surprises him when she comes to him for advice on how to improve her work. He was hesitant to share any ideas, but thinking this was his chance to get ahead of her, he took advantage of the opportunity. In telling her how to improve her work, she needed to get closer to her characters and story. He advised her to try walking in their footsteps to see just how different her perspective would be. Taking this into account, Ashley felt grateful and got to work right away. The two didn't see each other anymore after that. Weeks turned to months, and months turned into years. Ashley had taken Chestnut's advice to heart, but it had cost her. Following that advice, her health began to deteriorate as a result of adopting the bad habits of her characters in order to feel closer to them, their failures and successes. She would drink alcohol to try and capture the essence of what the characters felt and suffered. She would smoke to find out the reason why it drew people in, even after learning how dangerous it is for your health. She also would often cut to find out if it really could relieve mental pain. Her parents worried about her and had several doctors talk to her, but none of them could convince her that the route she was taking could lead to much heartache and even death. While in college, Ashley felt very alone and had no one she felt she could consult with. She didn't have contacts with Chestnut so she couldn't get in touch even if she wanted to. She felt despair. As a writer, Ashley felt she had a job to give the readers something to read that was interesting, but if she couldn't do that.. if she couldn't write anything that the readers felt worth reading, she felt her life was over. She felt a void, and her purpose and enjoyment for writing was fleeting. One day, Ashley was told that if she couldn't give her editors anything to read, she should take a break from writing for a while. This broke her heart, as she had taken Chestnut's advice and put everything she felt she could into writing, but for it to still not change anything, she felt her dream was crushed. Ashley was preparing to say goodbye to her career, when she got an invitation to a party that was being held at the college she went to. Figuring this would be her last chance to live a normal life before the end, she accepted the invitation and went. At the party, there were plenty of drinks and a variety of food  for everyone. She stood to the side as she watched everyone dance and chat among themselves. As she was going to get some fruit punch from the bowl a hand stops hers. Looking up she noticed an adult Chestnut standing beside her. His perfect golden hair stretched to his shoulders and was now a dirty blonde, his pretty blue eyes paler from time, and he wore a suit that was gray. Ashely felt surprised and filled with uncertainty because of the mixed feelings she had towards him. "I wouldn't drink that, it's probably been tampered with," Chestnut warned. "Why do you care?" Ashley said in a whisper. "It's probably what you want, right? For me to be ruined." "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Chestnut looked at her with confusion. That's when Ashley realizes he didn't remember her. He was tall and a hint muscular too. Nothing about Chestnut now said he was arrogant or egotistical. He was a humble man simply trying to help her from drinking anything with potential dangers to it. His eyes had a look of remorse, as if he had offended someone. Ashley's tears spill out in disbelief. He was a different man from when he was in highschool, while she felt she hadn't changed much in the way of growing up. She felt bitter and resentful for wasted years, and she took out a pack of sleeping pills from her purse. She had originally planned to use them when she returned to her dorm, but now she only wanted for the end to come as quickly as possible. It was then that she felt a warm embrace as Chestnut brought her into a hug. He kept her close despite her demands to be let go. He kept holding her till the desire to sleep forever left her. Ashley cried in his arms until she relaxed. Chestnut took the sleeping pills from her and pocketed them as he took her outside to sit and to just rest. He didn't know what to say to her for her to feel better, and figured whatever she was going through she needed to get off her chest. Ashley rested against his shoulder feeling a tad relieved. She felt her heart had lightened and her mind was less confused and cloudy for the moment. She found a strange comfort in the one who set her on that path of misery. Ashley had no words to speak to him as well, but for them they needn't have any words to say. It was then that Ashley understood that words can only tell part of any story. She had to have actions to serve as a foundation. She needed structure for a world made of words. Taking into consideration all she had undergone, she knew just what she needed to do. With Chestnut's help, Ashley started to get her life back in order. She took into account her health, she stopped trying to experience life through her characters, and she found that the characters should feel freer to flow more fluently, and not be forced. Ashley and Chestnut started seeing each other as well and began an unexpected relationship that blossomed into something more down the road. As bitter as things were in the beginning, that bitterness became something sweeter with time. The End.


*click clack, click clack, the sound of Katrina Miller's heals continued down the long stretch from her office to the exit. Co-workers glared trying not to get caught staring. Knowing this, Katrina held her nose in the air higher and a pleased grin drew across her face. Before she reached the exit of her office building, her assistant cut in front of her and began speaking immediately. "Donavon called." She pumped her eyebrows multiple times before giggling and continuing. "He wanted to see if you were available to talk? He's on line 1." She clenched her notepad to her chest excitedly. Katrina rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Ha, tell him I am not in the office and take a message." With a nod and a huff she walked toward the elevator and declined down to the parking deck. "Siri call Felicia." Katrina unpinned her hair, it dropped down to her shoulders and she shook it looser. Pulled her watermelon flavored lip gloss from her purse and reapplied a layer of gloss and glitter to her lips before popping them out at herself in the mirror. Aye girl wassup? The southern accent spoke loudly through the car. Katrina couldn't wait to fill her in on the whole Donavon fiasco. Katrina laughed and started: You are not going to believe who called me today at work. There was a slight pause for suspense or for Felicia to guess within that time, but when she didn't, Katrina continued; Donavon! Katrina could hear the sound of Felicia choking on whatever drink or smoke she was hitting at the time. Katrina looked at her phone in annoyance. "You are so extra, I'm pulling up now. The phone call ended as Katrina pulled into the driveway of her friend Felicia's house. She honked a couple times to let her know she was outside, then proceeded toward the door. Felicia opened the door and greeted her best friend with a hug. "So Don called?" Felicia announced again while dropping down on the couch smiling in Katrina's direction. Katrina flopped beside her friend and tossed a pillow in her face. "yes girl, Katrina started. I didn't take the call, I want to make him work for it you know?" She shrugged then looked at her friend for assurance that she was doing the right thing. Felicia raised her brow, "You like the guy, been filling my ears and head up for the past month, he finally calls and you blow him off?" Katrina clutched a pillow and looked nervous at what Felicia might say next. "You did AWESOME GIRL!" They simultaneously scream like school girls. "Now he's really gonna break a sweat and try harder." Just then Katrina got a text: got a sec? -D Katrina waited a few minutes before responding. They scheduled to meet Thursday night at Bel-air's, an upscale 4 star restaurant not too far from where she works. Katrina pulled up to Bel-air's at 7 on the dot, paid valet and walked inside. She wore a slender black dress that hugged her tight and didn't go an inch over her knees. Her neck sparkled with a pearl diamond necklace, with earrings to match. She decided to curl her hair to bring more attention to her beautiful big brown eyes. She approached the waiter checking people in; "Reservation ma'am?" He asked with a light smile. Katrina cleared her throat, "yes, I'm meeting a friend here, Donavon McDonald." He looked down the list on both sides of the reservation paper. "No, I'm sorry ma'am no Donavon McDonald." Feeling the heat rise from the tips of her toes up to her forehead, she tried to keep her cool. "How about Katrina Miller?" Again he searched, again no luck. To save herself from more embarrassment she stepped out of line and called Donavon. " Hey, it's the Don, you know what to do at the beep." "Um Donavon it's Katrina, I'm at Bel-air's I think you forgot the reservation, call me." She looked around and finally spotted Donavon. "Am I late or you're early?" Donavon called out as he approached her, he flashed a smile, that she did not return. Her arms were folded and her body said she may be upset. "You don't have a reservation?" Katrina questioned. "I do, actually." Katrina shot him a look that called him a liar. "Under what name?" Instead of answering, he grabbed her hand and led her inside the restaurant again. "Hello sir, madam, reservation?" Just like before he gave a light smile and spoke very kindly. Katrina looked to Donavon, who spoke rather cheesy. "Yes, reservation under Markel Manson." Katrina released his hand as the waiter walked them to a table that was candle lit and had musicians close-by playing a soft melody. Katrina had to admit she was impressed. He pulled her chair out so she could sit, a true gentleman Katrina thought. "So you're name is Markel, is it?" Katrina interrogated. She took a sip of her champagne and nearly spit it out. It tasted like an old boot, if she ever tasted one. "It's Markel Donavon Manson McDonald, I know it's long and crazy just like my parents who gave me the name. I hope that's not a deal breaker?" She smirked at her suspicions, "no, but this nasty drink might be." They both share a laugh. "Hey Huns you ready to order?" A red haired waitress with a Texas accent approached with her pen and paper ready. "I'll  have a bourbon taco steak with mashed potatoes, green beans and the cheddar rolls." Donavon licked his lips at his order before closing his menu and passing it onto the waitress. "And for you Ms. Lady?" She turned to Katrina. "I'll have the southwestern chilli bowl with jasmine rice and cornbread with a large side salad, oh and instead of this champagne, I'd like a sweet tea please." Satisfied with her order, she passed her menu, and the waitress went to deliver their order to the kitchen. Donavon's face grew serious and Katrina caught it. "You okay?" Katrina asked. "I uh, I thought you'd order a lil' salad or sum." She noticed that how he spoke also changed. "lil'? She repeated. Donavon grew impatient with her and came clean, "the reason why I was late, is because I may have been involved in a robbery wit' my lil cousin Jermaine. Katrina was speechless and worried. She stayed silent for a while and then spoke. "So, you're a thief AND a liar", she pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a loud exhale. "I don't date thugs, or any rutheless man for that matter, I'm sorry but I have to go." When she got up to leave Donavon grabbed her hand, with such grip force, he stared into her eyes; "look wench! I did this for you! so you gone sit down and eat, now sit, or the next place I rob will be this one. Wide eyed, and frightened she slowly sat down and so did he. The waitress came back with their food, Katrina didn't touch her food. When the waitress came back around after Donavon finished eating she inquired to Katrina; "Is there a problem with the food?" Donavon gave Katrina a warning look, that made her force a shaky smile. "No, nothing's wrong, I just got full off the drinks, may I have a to go container?" "Yes ma'am, I'll be right back." Katrina stopped her halfway, "Oh ma'am? I'm sorry, where's your ladies room?" "Right that way, first door on the left." Katrina quickly linked with the waitress, apologizing for her behavior while blaming the tea and champagne for her full bladder. She wasted no time by looking back, she prayed there would be a window in there. Luckily there was and she managed to crawl out of the small window. Her dressed ripped but she didn't care, she ran up to the valet and grabbed her keys so she could personally get her own car. "Siri call the police." Out of breath still trembling she told the police everything, including the fact that she may need protection. After hanging up she parked the car and cried, thankful that her date didn't go any worse than it did.