<span style="font-family:Happy Monkey">Diana was a teacher. She was lonely in her relationship. It had become empty and sad, and the fear of sitting in it any longer made her grimace. She looked at the students. In her 28 years she had never felt old or out of place, but in the face of all these young full of life students she felt ancient. She felt she may just run out cryingn in fear of growing old. It wasnt right. But it was slowly becoming her life. <br/>
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She talked openly about the books they would be doing in the class. Classic tales of romancee and loss, and how every week in october they would be reading a Penny dreadful short story and write their own. "Writing is going to be a major part of this class." She said pusing up her round glasses over her small button nose with bright brown eyes and a pale skin tone. She looked at them and pushed a stray bun hair out of her face. "i want you all to think of writing as a second nature when you are finshed with this class. Because when you are finished it will be... Every day for thirty minuets either before you leave or when you frist come in, that choice is yours." <br/>
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"So how about we start with a paper on you."</span>