Fold here if you can't write.

Fold here if you can't write.

Write here. Write now. There is no other place I'd rather be.

Left there. Left alone. And I was loving it. Only one more day until the president's scheduled assassination, and I was sitting gleefully in my

usual spot, the corner booth at Ye Olde Coffee Shop, drawing out plans on a napkin. Black coffee brought out the devil in me, I swear. "Fresh donut?" Glenda, my favorite waitress

asked me. "No thanks Glenda dear! I've had far too much sugar already." The my napkin drawings were starting to spread onto the table, then the walls of my corner booth. I called h

ome and pretended like I wasn't in a Supernatural episode. Meanwhile, the ink stains crept closer, and I swatted a stray line that came too close, continuing my phone call.

The ink changed colour to a blue-green, nondescript. I once had a shirt in that colour! What happened to it, I don't know. It could have been part of my rug used by the director.

Not that I have any reservations of having it destroyed by sending it into the heart of a Son. Not THAT SON But just as important; a Son of a Seventh Sun. The children recited with

majesty in a cherubic chorus: "I'm sorry sir you cannot see the son of the seventh sun without a reservation." I was almost certain he accepted walk-ins, but you can't argue with a