<div class="floatleft">(http://i1087.photobucket.com/albums/j480/Erion2451/mary-elizabeth-winstead-Wallpaper1_zpscae57f5b.jpg)</div><strong>Name/True Identity:</strong>Gwendolyn “Wendy” Daring (Wendy Moira Angela Darling)<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Coffee shop near campus<br/><strong>Doing:</strong>Reading and sipping her coffee<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><hr/><br/>Gwendolyn, or Wendy, to those few folks who knew her, was fixed in her morning routine.  She'd been on the island long enough to know the barista of her favorite little cafe by his first name.  Of course, it helped that he was a former student of hers, one she'd taught during her first year at Walter Roy University.  He still called her Miss Daring, and Gwendolyn would have it no other way.  There was a certain need for propriety and, unless he somehow became a fellow professor, she expected a formal address.  Even amongst the faculty there were few who called her Wendy.  In all honesty, she'd all but abandoned the moniker.  She had used it during her travels, an attempt to be another person, if but briefly.  An attempt to steal back a childhood that was cut too short.  Still, there was enough of her adventurous spirit to prevent Gwendolyn from completely discarding the sobriquet.<br/><br/>She sipped her dark blend and let her eyes flow over the text of George Orwell's<em>Animal Farm</em>.  She knew the satire better than most, and while, once upon a time, she'd found the idea of talking animals fascinating.  Now, when she read the dystopian novel, Gwendolyn could not help but associate Napolean with Stalin, Snowball with Trotsky and Lenin, and the entire story with the Soviet Union.  She wasn't looking forward to grading the dozens of papers from her Freshman class on the book.  Perhaps a few of her students could provide a fresh insight, though considering how many Literature classes have required the book and the thousands of students who've written a paper on it already, Gwen held little hope that she wouldn't be reduced to reading poorly phrased ideas containing innumerable grammatical mistakes.  She consoled herself with the knowledge that within a few weeks she would be teaching<em>The Illiad</em>, Dante's<em>Inferno</em>, and Shakespear's<em>King Lear</em>and that this year's curriculum did not include<em>The Book of Genesis</em>.<br/><br/>Blue eyes moved from Orwel's words to the nearby window.  She privately admitted that she, ever so slightly, envied Ms. Masters' ability to allow the students to let their imaginations go.  The corners of her lips curled ever so slightly, an unfortunately uncommon occurrence, as she recalled her twelve-year-old self and the sheer joy she experienced from creating stories to regale her younger brothers.  Father had done a resplendent job at wiping that joy away.  She seldom spoke to her brothers these days, and when she did there was far too much happening to gain a good understanding of how they truly were.  She sipped her dark blend and the corners of her lips smoothed once more.