O Wind 

How you dance the day through without a care in the world

No boundaries to trap you

No patterns to rule you

O Wind

All the stories you tell from your travels

The people you see

The places you experience

O Wind 

Why do you not stay longer

How my ears wish to hear you whistle longer

As my soul imagines us running away together

O Wind

May I have this last dance

Before the time comes

And I fear I may never see you again

Hey, Prosers, 

The Bookstore launch is only bloody tomorrow!! 

We are anxious, nervous, excited, and a bunch of noises that portray all of them. 

Today's giveaway is a big one. It's the last one. One of you will get 2000 coins to spend in the Bookstore. Watch out wordporn, this winner is going to devour you! 

So, how do you get your mitts on the coins? Share this post as many times as possible on all social platforms, then come and comment (again, on this post) and tell us how many times you've shared it. Don't go telling us porky pies (lies) though, we will find out. 

All winners will be announced tomorrow! 

Over the lifetime of Prose, we've always tried to pinpoint exactly what it is that makes Prose unique. It's taken us a long-ass time, but we think we've nailed it now, and we'd like to share it with you. 

There are a couple of things that we know will make Prose even more unique, (if that's possible), but we can't share those with you just yet, because they're coming soon, and top secret. We like to build a little suspense - what story doesn't? 

1) Bookstore 

Launching tomorrow, our Bookstore is set to flip the publishing world the right-side up. The author-side up. Taking the greed out of the industry and kicking it in the books. (No, not balls, books.) 

Our royalties will be the fairest in the whole industry, and we offer the flexibility to sell your content your way. Whether you want to sell short stories, books per chapter, or whole books, Prose will support you. You set your own prices and you'll never be penalised. Want to offer your book as a freebie? No sweat, do it. 

2) Copyright 

Your copyright always remains your own with Prose. Which, in turn, gives you the freedom to distribute your words wherever you choose. We don't bind you in with exclusivity contracts or penalise you when you share your words elsewhere. 

3) No Censorship 

We've always made this very clear to everyone. We do not, nor will we ever, censor your words. Words are there for us to use, and it'd be a shame to leave some of the more colourful ones out, right? You want to cuss? Do it. We aren't stopping you. Want to write something really mature? Go for it. The world needs your words, warts and all. 

4) Challenge Stream

Okay, some of you may say, "it's just a challenge stream," but it's a place of collaboration. A place where people from all across the world inspire each other. And to us, there isn't anything quite as unique as that. 

5) Letters from Prison

Prose made a promise that we would take on philanthropic endeavours to use the power of words to improve lives. We've fulfilled that promise by taking Prose into prison. Each week we set the residents tasks, and then post their poems and stories in the Letters from Prison Portal. You guys have been commenting on those posts and we've then taken those comments back to the prison for the residents to read. The results we have seen are outstanding. The power of their words, and your words, have had a profound affect on the residents. Boosting confidences, reducing anxiety, and anger. We are giving these people a voice with a non-judgemental ear to listen. 

6) Portals

Talking of Portals, we think all of our Portals are pretty unique. If you're a reader, and haikus are your thing, there's a Portal for that. We've a huge amount of Portals for writers to fill and readers to devour.

7) Unique content

Not only do we have the unique content from the residents in prison, but we have unique content being written on Prose, everyday. If you are a voracious reader like we are on the Prose team, you will never, ever run out of fresh and unique content to read. It is, hands down, some of the best content we have ever read, period. 

8) The community /social integration

We have saved the best till last. It should come as no shock to you that you, our wonderful community, are the best and most unique thing about Prose. When you think about social media, a lot of you will think about trolls, unnecessary comments made by a bunch of keyboard warriors. Judgemental minds and unsupportive groups. Not here. Not on Prose. This community is the best and most unique community we have ever seen. Without you all of the other unique things wouldn't be possible. Without you, there would be no Prose. Keep doing what you're doing. There are no words to thank you enough for being here. 

Tomorrow we launch a new chapter of our story, and we are taking you all along for the ride. Our partnership with each and every one of you will continue, and we promise to always put you all in the forefront of our minds for every decision we make. 

Until tomorrow, our launch, Prosers, 

Prose.   

"So what exactly are you saying, Mr. S?" I asked, annoyed. First, my math teacher said I had to meet him after school, then the man made wait an hour before he decided to show up. Everyone had gone home, and I was stuck in school having a chat with this middle-aged tightass.

At this rate I was going to be late to Maegan's party.

Mr. Matthew Steele pushed up his glasses and flipped through my exam paper. "What I'm saying, Ms. Halliwell," he said, looking up at me. "Is that I'm going to have to give you a C on your test. Unfortunately, that will bring your grade this semester down to a B+."

"You can't be serious," I said. "I've never had anything lower than an A on anything."

"Unfortunately, there is a first time for everything and -"

"That's bull," I said.

He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

I rolled my eyes. "The whole 'there's a first time for everything' is silly, don't you think? I mean, how many people do you know have run the bulls in Pamplona in their lifetime? Gone to war? Knitted a sweater?"

Mr. Steele sighed. "That's just an expression, Ms. Halliwell."

"Fine. Whatever. Just tell me how I can make it up."

"You can't."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"That was the final test. There aren't any other exams you can take to get your grade back to an A."

"That is unacceptable." I got up from my seat and put my hands on top of his desk, facing him with the most outraged expression I could muster. "My father never accepted failure in his life, and neither will I."

"That's enough of the histrionics, Ms. Halliwell," he said, leaning back on his chair. His eyes gravitated involuntarily to my cleavage before he realized what he was doing and looked away.

I smirked inwardly. My outfit today had a pretty low neckline, I admit. I've been getting filthy stares from every boy I ran into all day. Even old Mr. Evers from Chemistry class nearly scorched his shirt sleeve on the bunsen burner, so engrossed with ogling my chest. All things considered, getting ogled by Matthew Steele wasn't so bad. The man was forty, but still hot. Maegan said he goes to her nanny's gym. I could imagine him being pretty ripped under those ugly tweed suits he wears.

However, hot or not, there was no way he was getting away with giving me a B in Calculus.

"Oh, so if I'm a boy, I'm outraged, and if I'm a girl, it's histrionics? You're pretty sexist, Mr. S."

"I beg your pardon?" He leaned forward, hands on his desk. He looked angry.

"You heard me. I'm reporting you for sexist behavior towards me."

Mr. Steele stood up, fuming. "Go ahead! You spoiled Manhattan girls think you can get anything you want, don't you?"

"See?" I said. "You tell boys not to let anything get in the way of getting what they want, but when a girl does the same thing, she's spoiled? You're totally sexist. Admit it!"

"Men don't throw a fit when they don't get what you want," he said. "You're nothing but a spoiled brat who needs a good spanking."

"So what if I am?" I said, leaning forward. That's right, get a good look at my tits, you perv, I thought as I saw him glance at my cleavage again. "It's not like you have the balls to do anything about it." I smiled at him mockingly.

"Don't test me, Taylor," Mr. Steele said in a low voice. He was breathing heavily, and sweat had started to form his forehead.

"Or what? You'll hit me?" I laughed and rolled my eyes. My family had been donating a ton of money to Haliston Academy for years - ever since I was in pre-school. Its library was named after my Grandfather. I could get away with anything in this school.

He didn't speak for a long time, and I just stood there, leaning on his desk. My eyes dared him to do something he'd regret.

Then he took his jacket off. I could see his biceps bulge under the tight shirt he was wearing under it. His chest looked pretty good too.

"I warned you," he growled. To my surprise, he grabbed both my wrists and dragged me towards him over his desk.

"Hey!" I cried out, more shocked than hurt. My chest slammed down hard on his desk, but before I could react, he'd yanked my arms behind me and pinned my wrists down against my back with one hand.

"Get off me you freak!" I screamed, struggling as hard as I could.

Mr. Steele said nothing.

I felt the skirt of dress roughly pulled up above my waist. His hand rested on my ass for a moment, his palm rubbing against my butt cheeks. Then he hooked his finger on the waistband of my thong and slowly pulled my underwear down my thighs.

"Stop it!" I yelled. "I'll have you arrested for this, you sick fuck!"

Whack. His hand came down hard on my ass.

It hurt like hell.

"No!" Tears of anger welled in my eyes. He can't do this to me, I thought. I'm Taylor Halliwell. No one hits-

Whack.

I felt my ass explode with red hot pain. I chocked back a sob.

"Now will you promise to behave?" Mr. Steele said, his voice cold.

"Fuck you," I snarled.

"Is that another challenge, Taylor?"

My eyes grew wide when I realized what he meant.

"No!" I screamed.

Like I was nothing more than a limp doll, he turned me around and pulled me toward the edge of his desk until my legs dangled over it.

I struggled harder against his grip, but he twisted my arms until I screamed in pain.

"I'm going to let go of your arms now, Taylor," he said calmly. "But if you move from that position, I'll make sure to break something next time. Do you understand?"

I bit my lip, trying not to cry.

He grabbed my hair and yanked it back hard. "Yes! Yes!" I screamed. "I understand!"

He let go of my hair, and soon, he let go of my wrists as well, positioning them to lay on the desk above my head.

I tried not to move as I stood there bent over his desk, my naked ass in the air. Even when I heard him unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, I kept still, afraid of what he would do to me if I disobeyed him.

"Do you like Gilbert and Sullivan, Ms. Halliwell?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Then you've heard that song they wrote about letting the punishment fit the crime, haven't you?"

I gulped. "Yes, sir."

"You, my dear, have not been properly punished for your bad behavior," he said. "As your teacher, I would be remiss in my duty if I did not discipline you." He rubbed my naked behind languidly with both his hands. "Do you agree?"

"But Mr. S- Ahhh!" I yelped as he inserted two fingers into my pussy.

"I said: Do you agree?" He stroked my insides with his fingers so hard I had to bite back a moan.

"Yessir!"

"Good... good..." he murmured. "If you accept your punishment without complaints, perhaps I'll go easy on you."

"T-t-thank you, sir."

Whack.

His leather belt connected with my butt with a sharp sound. It hurt so much, I screamed louder than ever before.

"Shhhh," he whispered. "I really don't enjoy hurting you, Taylor. I don't. But you have to be taught a lesson. So I'll give you a choice." He rubbed my ass cheeks tenderly.

"Y-y-yes?"

"Pleasure or pain?"

"I don't understand," I whimpered.

"It's simple, my dear." He thumbed my clit roughly. "I'm giving you the simple choice to either let me fuck you or let me spank you."

Cinnamon.

The smell of spice lingered long after she had left the elevator. It was oddly mesmerizing, breathing in her scent as she stood close to him in the elevator. Sebastian could still picture the lights glinting on her dark red hair as she walked away. His gaze had lingered on the pale skin on the back of her neck, making him wonder what it would be like to touch it.

"Sir, don't forget your check," Frank said, pulling him out of his reverie. His assistant took out a cream-colored envelope from a folder he carried. "It's the one you signed yesterday, made out to the children's foundation. I know you hate bringing your checkbook with you."

"Thank you Frank," Sebastian said, putting the envelope in his jacket pocket. The elevator doors opened and they stepped out into the basement parking lot where a large grey limousine was waiting for them. "I suppose I can't just drop this off at the reception, can I?"

"You could. But if people see you getting chummy with the hospital board and personally handing them a check, they're more likely to give a donation of their own. You'll have plenty of time after your meeting to get to the fundraiser. Are you sure you don't want me at the meeting?"

"It's really more of an informal chat with the British ambassador, Frank. I'll need you here to help Callie prep for the meeting next week for the Beijing deal. Her new assistant can barely keep up with her."

"Yes, sir."

One of Sebastian's bodyguards, Selene, opened the limousine door for him. "Mr. Chase," she greeted him as he got inside.

"How is your mother, Selene?" he said as she sat down across from him.

"She's fine, sir. Thank you."

They rode in silence, and Sebastian's mind went to the impromptu interview with the latest applicant for the tutoring job. It was a pity Ms. Slade did not pass muster. Her resume wasn't bad. Cum laude graduate of English at a respectable university. A master's degree in Comparative Literature. Bylines in the local papers. Nothing too grand, but her essays were thoughtful and sharp. He had read an article of hers published two years ago titled "Are we raising our sons to be boys or men?" and this was what prompted him to shortlist her among the applicants for the job. In the piece, she described how society has been teaching toxic values of masculinity, producing boys unprepared for a modern, more progressive age of gender equality.

He'd been raised that way, and he hated it. His father, a patriarch — in every sense of the word — of an old Texas banking dynasty did his best to mold Sebastian into his image.

Benson deserved better.

When Benson's father — Sebastian's brother Eric — passed away five years ago, and his mother permitted Sebastian to adopt the boy, Sebastian swore he would do good by his nephew. He had made sure to raise him with better values than what he himself had been forced to live by growing up.

Now his adopted son was ten years old, and while he seemed happy and healthy, Sebastian worried about the lack of a female role model in his life. Sebastian had no other siblings, and doubted he would be getting married any day soon. He thought the best solution was to hire a female tutor and companion for him. His son was enrolled in the best private school, and the curriculum was challenging enough that most of their students had tutors.

There was no question about whether or not to hire Ms. Slade. He could never abide by tardiness. When a person acted with discipline, it was a reflection of a disciplined mind. Which was what he needed in a tutor for his son Benson.

Sebastian had three other interviews lined up for the job. He was sure Ms. Slade would find a position elsewhere that would make the most of her talents, but for now that position wasn't that of tutor to his son.

"You seem to care for your son very much. I hope you find what you're looking for."

He felt an emotion nearly overwhelm him, and he realized it was regret.

It was something he hadn't felt for a very long time.

***

"Tell me again why you aren't trying acting? Lots of aspiring screenwriters try to get a break that way," Victoria said. "I mean, look how well it worked for Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. And Sylvester Stallone."

Her best friend and roommate Nicolette rolled her eyes delicately, in a way that very few girls are able to. "Are you kidding me? Can you imagine the really horrible lines I'd have to work with until I get to work in a decent production?"

"Most actors just have to go through it at the start, I think."

"Most actors have the patience for it," said Nicolette.

She had a point, Victoria thought. Nicolette wasn't the kind of person to do anything she wasn't crazy about. She was either all in or not at all. This explained much of her career trajectory: make mad money working as an escort while (in her words) her ass was still pointed the right way, until she got her scripts on theater screens across the country.

She and Nicolette were hanging out in Nicolette's bedroom watching movies. It was their favorite thing to do together. They didn't get a lot of time together because Nicolette worked mostly at night and Victoria worked during the day, so on the rare occasions they were both free, they made sure to schedule some quality girl-bonding time. Tonight, they were having quiche from the corner bakery, and watching Old Boy, one of Nicolette's all-time favorite films. As they'd already seen it together about fifty times, they were having a light discussion about Nicolette's writing career.

"Plus," Nicolette added, "do you know how my clients like to talk about their lives?"

"Yeah, you mentioned that." Victoria laughed, recalling the stories Nicolette would tell her about the men she'd go out with at her job, ranging from hilarious to creepy to just plain sad. One of them had her over to cook him Thanksgiving dinner because he couldn't celebrate it with his ex-wife and estranged children. A terrible cook who prided herself in this particular non-talent, Nicolette ended up serving burnt turkey and soggy mashed potatoes, but the 45-year-old investment banker was so happy he cried.

"I get a glimpse into the lives of the rich, powerful, and sometimes sad men and women of L.A.," said Nicolette. "It's the stuff great movies are made of."

"I love that I get to talk to you about these things," Victoria said. "I never get to meet anyone rich and powerful. Well, hardly ever." She suddenly remembered blue eyes and dark hair. "Hey, actually I did meet someone like that today."

"At the coffee shop?"

Victoria shook her head. "Job interview."

"I didn't know you had a job interview today. How did it go?"

"Not well. Disastrous." Victoria sighed.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Nicolette said. "I'm sure you'll find something soon. So, this guy interviewed you?"

"Yeah. Some big brass over at Mattheson Bank downtown, the corporate office. I was late."

Nicolette frowned. "Must have been really big brass — a VP or CEO or something — if he gets to interview his kid's tutor at work."

"I'm pretty sure his tie costs more than what I make in a year. Anyway, I had to practically run after him and try to convince him he should hire me." She winced. "That was probably not the best move."

"You didn't try to sit on his lap, did you?"

"What? No!" Victoria laughed. "I jumped in his private elevator with him. The receptionist looked like he was about to get a heart attack."

"That's not something I would ever imagine you'd do, Vic." Nicolette eyed her suspiciously. "Was he hot?"

Victoria bit her lip and nodded. "Oh my God, is that why I ran after him?"

Nicolette burst out laughing. Victoria groaned, fell backwards on the bed and covered her face with a pillow.

"You know, if you find yourself running down hot bankers in hallways, it may be a sign you really need to get laid. Like, soon," Nicolette said.

"I know!" Victoria's voice was muffled from the pillow over her face.

"It's been two months, babe." Nicolette grabbed the pillow and her face hovered over Victoria's. "You're not still hung up over Jason, are you?"

"What? No!" Victoria tried to grab the pillow from Nicolette, who pulled it away from her reach.

"Oh really? Have you seen anyone since then?"

Victoria gave up trying to get the pillow back. "I've been busy. I'm job-hunting, remember?"

"Fine," Nicolette said. "But once you get a proper job, I'm setting you up with some guys I know."

"I thought you said a girl doesn't need a boyfriend."

"What is this, the 19th century? I didn't say anything about a boyfriend. All I'm saying is sex will do you some good."

"Is that why you're always so bright and cheerful?" Victoria teased. She picked up a mushroom and artichoke quiche. "Because of all the sex you're having?" She grinned evilly.

"Damn right it is. And I'm going to make sure you're getting some soon, even if I have to pay for it."

Victoria nearly dropped the quiche she was in the process of biting into. "Really, you'd do that?"

"How about we see if anyone will do you for free first." Nicolette pretended to look her friend over with a critical eye.

"I don't know. I think I smell like doughnuts. Is that a thing men like?" Victoria sniffed the front of her shirt. When she first started work at the Foxhole, she enjoyed the aroma of coffee and pastries. After a couple of weeks, however, it started to get old. And stick to her clothes and hair.

Nicolette sighed. "You seriously need a new job."

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Vic," said Mabel Jones. She was flushed and a little sweaty as she tied her apron on, having just rushed over five blocks.

"Don't worry about it, Bel. I'm happy to do it," said Victoria Slade. She began to untie her own apron, the same brown one that had the name of the coffee shop "The Foxhole" printed on it in white. Her eyes were soft with concern. "Is Jenni going to be okay?"

"Yes, she's better now. I'll have to take her back to the doctor tomorrow for another checkup, but at least her wheezing had stopped. Thanks so much for taking over my shift." Mabel gave Victoria a tight hug. "I've had too many absences this month, I'd probably have gotten fired if you hadn't covered for me."

Victoria could see the faintest sign of tears in her friend's eyes. Clearly her daughter Jenni's latest asthma attack had been pretty bad, and had left her shaken. "Are you sure you're going to be okay? Because I'm happy to work your whole shift if you need to be home."

"No, no, I'll be fine. You better get going, you have that job interview this afternoon. Oh dear, can you still make it?"

"I think so." Victoria looked up at the wall clock behind them. Three thirty. She had half an hour to her interview, which meant she had no time to go home and get dressed.

Five minutes later, in the locker room, she was trying to smooth the wrinkles on her grey skirt. Her black top was of a soft lightweight wool that didn't need pressing, however, it was old and a little shabby. Not the ideal attire to a job interview, but it would have to do. Her long wavy auburn hair hadn't been properly washed since yesterday, and it smelled like turnovers, so she had hurriedly tied it up in a bun. She still had a chance to make the interview, and for that she was thankful. When Mabel called her at noon to ask if she would take over her shift for a couple of hours, she didn't hesitate. Victoria needed to get the job she was interviewing for, but Mabel needed the café job even more. She had a sickly six-year-old daughter at home whom she was raising by herself: there was no one else to take her to to the hospital whenever she had one of her asthma attacks.

When she got to Third Street, Victoria's eyes scanned the high rise buildings above her. She wasn't familiar with L.A.'s financial district, and she would have looked up the map online if she had the time. She looked at her watch for the third time in the past minute: three fifty-five. She looked up again and after a moment, she finally spotted the address.

The Mattheson Building loomed tall and stately, all gleaming glass and steel in the L.A. sunshine. Victoria's misgivings about her clothes increased as soon as she walked into the elegant and richly appointed lobby. It was like stepping into a box of expensive French chocolates, except the place may have smelled even better. Her pace slowed down, every step an apology to the pale cream marble floor with gold flecks which her cheap flat shoes had no business touching.

As she pressed the elevator button for the 55th floor, it suddenly dawned on her that it had to be a mistake, this job interview. People who had offices on the 55th floor didn't hire tutors who advertised on community newspapers and questionable online ad websites, which was the only places she could afford to post ads for her services as a tutor. She did try an agency, but they wouldn't take her for her lack of experience. She was fresh out of graduate school, and trying to make ends meet with freelance magazine writing jobs and her stint at the coffee shop.

The 55th was even more luxurious than the lobby. A chandelier graced the high ceilings, and sofas in rich leather rested on thick-piled carpeting around the round receptionist desk where a man and a woman sat, both on the telephone, as she walked towards them. Whoever it was she was interviewing with, they could definitely afford her rates.

The man saw her approach, and she gave him a nervous smile. While he nodded in return, he continued his phone conversation.

Victoria waited, but a minute passed before the man finally hung up.

"Hi. I'm Victoria Slade," she said. "I have an interview for the tutor position at four." She grimaced. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

The man smiled pleasantly. "Unfortunately, Ms. Slade, it's ten minutes past four," he said. "Mr. Chase is no longer available to see you."

Her heart sank. "I can wait. Or perhaps we could reschedule? I'm willing to come back anytime that's convenient." Who did he say it was? "Anytime it's convenient for Mr. Chase," she added.

He smiled at her sympathetically. "I'll see what I can do. However, Mr. Chase is extremely busy, and I highly doubt he would be willing to schedule another appointment."

"Is that him?" She pointed to a tall man in a suit emerging from a door on their left. He was followed by a lanky, younger man carrying a briefcase and some folders.

"Yes, but—"

"Mr. Chase!" she called out, walking toward the man as fast as she could without running.

"Ms. Slade, please—" the receptionist started to say, but she didn't hear the rest of it.

When Chase met her gaze, Victoria nearly froze.

She had fully expected him to be some middle-aged man, since the job she had applied for was as a tutor for a fifth grader. So it was a bit of a shock to find a man who couldn't possibly be older than thirty-five or thirty-six.

Nothing prepared her for the intensity of his blue eyes or the perfection of the rest of his face. His light gray suit looked like it had been molded on to his trim figure by one of the renaissance sculptors. Michelangelo, maybe. Her knees turned to jelly under her, but something about him kept her moving inexorably forward. It was almost like gravity.

"Yes?" he said.

"I, uh," she stammered.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't break a stride.

"Hi, I'm Victoria Slade," she said, finding her voice. "Your four o'clock? I know I'm late but—"

"Punctuality doesn't seem to be a priority for you, Ms. Slade." He brushed past her.

"I apologize," she said, walking beside him. It was hard to keep up with him and his long legs, but she did the best she could. "I thought perhaps we could reschedule. I'll come back anytime—"

"Your resume says you work at a coffee shop," he said, interrupting her again. "Is that the best you could do with your masters degree?"

"No. I mean, I've stated in my resume that I also write for magazines."

As they walked past the reception desk, the man behind it gaped at her silently.

"You do freelance writing," Mr. Chase said. "And you don't make enough that you have to wait tables at a coffee shop, and now do tutoring work?"

"I have to make ends meet, Mr. Chase. Writers don't exactly get paid as much as hedge fund managers."

"No, but surely a woman of your intelligence and credentials should be able to manage her career and finances better."

"I don't understand. What does that have to do with the tutor position?"

They were walking toward an elevator. It had wider doors than the others, and was positioned farther away from the other. A personal lift, perhaps? His assistant rushed ahead of them and tapped a card on a panel on the side, and the doors opened silently.

"I'm looking for someone to entrust my child's educational care. I cannot give it to someone who can't seem to take care of their own financial well-being. Or," he said, looking at her pointedly, "can't seem to show up for a job interview on time."

She opened her mouth to argue, and realized she had nothing to say to that.

He got inside the elevator with his assistant, leaving her standing outside.

Victoria wasn't sure what possessed her, but in a moment of impulse, she dashed inside the elevator before the doors closed.

"Ms. Slade, what are you doing?"

I don't know, she thought. It was as though she was compelled by forces beyond her control.

"I, uh ..." she stammered. Great going, Slade. Really articulate. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Chase, I completely understand how you feel."

"Do you?" He nodded to his assistant. "Let's go, Frank."

His assistant pressed a button for one of the basement floors. The elevator doors closed and they began their descent.

"I'm not an economics or finance major," Victoria continued, seeing as he made no move to kick her out of the lift. "I'm pretty good with numbers but horrible with money. As a matter of fact, I only like money as much as it can pay for my groceries or my car insurance. But I don't think your child needs a financial advisor right now. What he needs is someone who believes in the importance of learning, someone well-rounded who can make him see how different areas of knowledge are connected. Help him see how education is relevant to real life."

Chase didn't look at her as she spoke. He kept his eyes on the doors of the elevator, his face expressionless. Was he bored? Was he even listening to her?

"I think you want this for him," she added. "This is why you asked me to come for this interview despite the fact that I've had no experience. The reason you considered hiring me was because of my educational background in English and Literature, and the fact that I write for science magazines."

She studied his face, waiting for a response. Nothing.

"You didn't hire an experienced tutor because he probably already goes to school run by highly paid teaching professionals," she said. "But you want him to acquire an imagination, which is why you want to hire me."

"Anything more, Ms. Slade?" he said, still not looking at her.

"Uhm, no. That's it."

"I see. Frank, we'll be dropping Ms. Slade off at the first floor."

"Yes, sir."

She watched Frank push the first floor button, and her heart sank.

"My apologies, Ms. Slade, if you were under the wrong impression about this job," Chase said. "I'm looking for someone to take responsibility for my son's education outside of school. His school demands much from him, and I want to make sure he is able to keep up with these demands. I don't believe you and he will make a good fit. Thank you for your time."

"Oh. I see." She had hoped he would at least tell her he would think about it and get back to her, but this was clearly a man who didn't like to waste time. Disappointment felt like a physical lump in her throat, but she straightened her back, looked him in the eye and forced herself to smile.

"I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Chase."

When the elevator opened at the first floor, she walked out. But a sudden thought made her stop and turn. "You seem to care for your son very much," she said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Victoria turned and walked away just as the elevator doors began to close.

Well, that was that. She did her best, at least. She was still surprised at how she had jumped into that elevator without a thought in her head. They could have thrown her out the building for that.

What were you thinking, Slade?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

To be continued.

Grimy eyes

Deceptive ways

When all that lives

Begins to fade

Creamy lies

Delicious taste

When all that breathes

Chases the bait

Failing to realize

The perfect disguise

The hidden pit

Fattens the skinny cat

Everyone thinks

He's royal blue

Out of the bag

Magic you

As black as the wood

Supportive fuel

They never knew

The pit

Made the changes

As spray polish

Does to shoes

Mummy and daddy,

are on a trip

Siblings are laughing

Glued to tv

You gently snick out

One cigar says, I do

Everyone thinks

You're whiter than snow

With feet of a kitten

Chameleons muse

Toothpaste to pepper mints

Encrypted news

Say you're a genius

Understood by few

Downgraded by your teachers

Parents include

Your theory can save

The atmosphere

From carbons misused

Everyone thinks

You're as dumb as a pig

The scales are not obvious

For you're Einstein renewed.

Many years ago, our fathers fought for a belief. The belief we longed enjoyed, before your arrival. You arrived on our planet with your stomach of violence and fist of slavery. You rob us of our priceless possession. The possession that gave us a great name amongst many other countries.

The very possession that empowers the flame of the Statue of Liberty. And also, kindles that same flame to shine through the cricks and cracks of darkness of these world. Exposing the ruthlessness and wickedness that man proclaims upon one another.

These same precious possession is the beacon of hope, when the world around us, falls apart.

These same possession milks the fire in our lungs. It sets the volatile gases of destruction that our fathers carried upon their shoulders to the thirteen British colonies, which erupted as a molten lava, and reduced to ashes, the opposition before them, into millions of nuclear warheads ready to be launched.

The possession, I speak about, is no other, than,"FREEDOM".

Our freedom to be independent.

Our freedom to live, not by cultural believes, but as free thinkers, and to do what we please.

Our freedom to rise to the top, by any means necessary.

That is what you take from us

We can sign you up for that freedom. All you need to do, is become a citizen, pledging to abide by the rules and regulations of the land. These will incubate and nullify every uprising that will spring up, in coming times. If you choose not to comply.

Let us go

United, we stand

Divided, we fall

Thank you.

I sigh with my

        Broken up breaths

I would endure the pain

       Of a thousand deaths

Just to feel your head lay

    Yet again on my chest

But together is how we

     No longer rest

Your whispering voice

    Left behind a choice echo

Mind tempering words

  "Please never let go"

Can't destroy the world

     You helped me create

My love for you is something

     I could never duplicate

I pace the house

    Never thinking what I should

Contemplating some things

   That I never understood

Like insisting our blanket

   Always to be upside down

Or making me fluff your pilllow

  So you can just beat it down

Perhaps one day you could

  Answer my questions

Or at least drop a hint

   And a passive suggestion

Morning still has a view

   Of coffee in your favorite mug

And plenty of attention towards

  Your beloved obnoxious pug

That hair you made fun of

  Is turning more grey

In fact spotted more

    In my beard today

The books you held dear

   I now constantly read

And the flowers you planted

  Finally sprung from the seeds

At dawn your favorite candle

  Still dances in flame

And the shadows on the wall

   Plays along all the same

Clock strikes midnight

   Upside down blanket

Fluffy pillow

  Staring at my empty chest

As you now rest

     Underneath the weeping willow

Daniel

  J

Dabney

          And

               My

                 Fucked

                            Up

                              Mind

    July 3rd 2016