Red - Pt. 1 (Introduction)

In a familiar but different world, with a horrible future…

            A familiar song signified a huge problem as it woke Taylor from her nap in the cool darkened apartment. Her hand fumbled on the wood of the bookshelf, feeling for her glowing phone as it rang. She couldn’t see it at first, unwilling to remove the pillow that covered her head that she had become so acquainted with. She didn’t have to look at the screen to see who was trying to video call her, she knew from the person’s personalized ringtone. Taylor needed to see the image of Paige’s face though to remind her why she didn’t want to answer the phone.

            Putting the phone back where she had found it, the only noise in the apartment now was the roaring of the old window-unit air conditioner. She brushed strands of red hair from her face and nestled back into the pillow while readjusting the blanket over her legs, just the way she liked it. The red glowing numbers of the clock had caught her eyes though just before they closed; 10:10 p.m. on a Thursday night. She could sleep, but there were also a lot of other things that she could be doing if she was going to ignore her best friend.

            Taylor threw the blanket from her and leapt up onto the hardwood floor from her low-sitting mattresses. The wood was cool on her feet, in a calming way that she let overtake her as she stretched and curled her toes, enjoying the feeling with a smile. She reached over to the desk and turned her laptop on. Bent over, checking her e-mail, she glanced back at the bookshelf across the room. Paige hadn’t tried calling back again, which meant she was probably crying right now because there was no one willing to pick up on the other end. Taylor tried not to think about that. She turned the volume as loud as it would go on her attached speakers and let the heavy bass fill her small apartment.

            Her hips began to move to the beat in the small black boy shorts she wore. Smiling, she pushed all of her problems to the side, as long as the music continued. She opened the bathroom door and took a glance in the mirror as she continued to move and even sing along with the music. Reaching over, she turned the shower on, barely missing a beat. The apartment building she lived in was old, so the water would need a minute to warm up. That was alright with Taylor, more time to dance. She reached down and pulled the checkered tank-top up over her head, thrashing her long red hair to each side as she sang, tossing her clothes on top of the pile. She finished her performance in the shower before thanking the imaginary audience and giving the encore while drying off with the towel.

            Taylor’s closet was large, one of the reasons why she didn’t mind her apartment being as small as it was. She browsed her clothes, trying to make a choice with her hair still wrapped up tightly in a second towel atop her head. Tapping her chin, genuinely perplexed by what to wear, she sifted through her underwear drawer after tossing one of several makeup bags onto her bed. She had decided on the black mini skirt with the gray top that she got last Christmas. It would go well with the black jacket with the hood she loved so much from her last trip to Atlanta.  

            Taylor was finishing up her makeup, sitting on the bed. Eyeing her phone for the third time in the past five minutes, she wondered if she should call Paige, her feelings were getting in the way. Nope. There was no reason to. Paige had opened this can of worms all by herself. She needed to stew on that while Taylor took some time to herself. Bestie or not, what had happened was not cool. Stepping back into her closet, she was looking for shoes when she heard the knock at her door. Taylor froze. If that was Paige, if she had come to her apartment unannounced, she would be furious. Maybe this would good though, now they could finally have it out. Paige wasn’t doing herself any favors or making it any easier doing it like this though.

            It was in that moment that she decided to wear the two inch black heels. Those were a gift, and she liked the way they looked on her. The knock came again, louder. She left the heels where they were and stepped out of the closet to the front door, glancing briefly again at the mirror that hung on the inside of the closet door, even if it was Paige.

            “I’m coming, hold on.”

            Stepping up to the door she un-latched the chain and turned the deadbolt that held her door closed. There was a smile, then the silver 9mm that was pulled on her. Taylor would have usually answered the door with the chain still latched if she didn’t know who it was, but she really had thought it was Paige and the frustration with the whole situation had caused her to be careless. It was lucky for her that the man who intended her harm outside the door didn’t seem on his best game either.

            With her hand still on the door, she slammed it on the gun barrel and moved out of the way as a shot fired, lodging breaking through the side panel of the cheaply made bookcase. Taylor cursed loudly, upset that she had not caught the man’s hand in the door as well, and that she would need a new bookcase. She let up on the door, not wanting him out in the hallway where he could shoot someone else. The assailant took her up on the offer, pushing in halfway, but she was ready. Launching herself almost off her feet, Taylor slammed her head into the older man’s face, breaking his nose.

            He grunted, raising the gun again as he tried to angle it. Her elbow kept it back as her free hand punched him in the throat. The door fell open and Taylor pulled him inside, slamming the door. She turned and brought her bare heel across his face with a kick that sent spit and blood flying.

            “You know I just cleaned!”

            His jacket fell open as he tried to reach for the gun again. He was an older man with a jumpsuit for some local business. The label said his name was Sanders, but that was probably not the case anymore. Taylor fell on him, straddling, her knees pressing his arms down so he couldn’t reach the gun, couldn’t hurt her or anyone else. She reached across with a precise lean to grab the pen from her desk.

            “Which one of them sent you,” she demanded. “Which one of them do you work for?”

            The thing beneath her looked back up with an almost blank stare. It struggled to push her off, but wasn’t strong enough. It wasn’t going to answer. It didn’t know anything.

            “Right, why did I even ask,” she questioned herself.

            Taylor raised the pen with her right arm as her left hand grabbed what hair was available on the man and held it still. The writing instrument came down into one of the glossy eyes, shattering it, and then in the other. For a brief moment Taylor’s small dimly lit apartment erupted into a bright blue light as Sanders’ body vanished from beneath her.

            “Really,” Taylor complained out loud to no one. “On top of everything else going on this week? I need a vacation.” 

Story of Wu - Pt. 1

            The pot in the corner of the room was used for many things. It had given life to food, good tea, and at times had been used as a waste disposal unit. There was not much else in the room that was as useful as the pot. A good container was really important to any prisoner who planned on staying for a lengthy time. Danny treasured that pot. It was important to his everyday life in the facility. He probably would have named the pot by the end of his eight year stint in the prison, as it was already a treasured item.

            “Hey!”

            Now though, Danny wasn’t a big fan of his small black pot with the broken handle and metal rim, because Wu was using it to bash his head in.

            “Stop it! Let him go or I will open fire!”

            The guard yelled past the bars as they waited for the electronic gate to open up. The green light above the railing had finally come on, meaning that the guards would rush in soon. It was too late though.

            Wu knew they wouldn’t shoot. The guards cared nothing for those they watched, but, even they would have to answer for each dead body that happened on their shift. However, if they simply allowed the animals to kill each other, that caused much less paperwork in the future.

            It didn’t matter though. Danny’s eye was already hanging loosely out of its socket and his lips were parted, the top one curled upward as blood splashed down his face. Even if Wu’s next strike wasn’t about to end the young prisoner’s life, he would have lived with brain damage from that moment on.

            The other prisoners cheered as the events unfolded. Some cheered from their cells, banging their cups and similar pots against the bars. Others, members of Wu’s gang and those who had just been unfortunate enough to be caught in the main corridor, they rooted for the violence as well. All of them were preparing for the guards to rush in and beat them into submission. They crouched to the ground, arms shielding their heads, prepared.

            It was Wu though that chose to hit Danny once more, even though he was sure the runt was dead. His arm rose. The leader’s darker skin was covered in blood that almost hid the numerous tattoos he had over his arms and chest. The last hard sound, thwack, sounded off as Wu’s hand struck. The pot carried another volley of blood and small bits of skull across the concrete white wall. That noise echoed with the alarm as it sounded, letting the other group of attackers in. Those safe in their cells still yelled and cheered at the brutality of the guards, even though they would not hesitate to do the same to them, were they down in the corridor.

            The guards beat Wu the worse, as he knew they would. He smiled though. It was all worth it. Everything had gone according to plan.

           

            Solitary was a blessing in some ways. It gave you quiet time, time to heal, time to think. The food in solitary was not necessarily worse. The guards just threw it in. Eating crap food off the floor didn’t really hurt the taste that much. The absence of light wasn’t as drastic of a change from the dimness of the prison interior.

            The only thing that Wu minded was not being able to track the passing of time. He wasn’t sure how long he had been in the hole. They kept changing their answer, whenever he asked how much longer he would remain there. Wu had attempted to measure the days by the meals delivered to him, but the guards began to forego that small luxury, denying him food or saying they had delivered it when it had ended up in the trash. Wu could hear them laughing sometimes, up the stone steps and outside the door.

            Wu had been left in the hole for twenty-three days—even though he was not aware it had been that long. At some point, the door was opened and he was sprayed down with a large hose as a make-shift shower, but there were still some flakes of dried blood in his short black hair. His bruises were mostly gone. Healing didn’t pass the time though. There were only so many push-ups and crunches that he could do before Wu was almost literally climbing the walls, just for activity. Wu wasn’t sure whether it was the food itself or the lack there of that had been making his stomach turn so much these last few days. He had been drinking from the toilet until it backed up.

            Now his throat was parched. He leaned against the cool wall in his dirtied wife-beater. The cool stone braced his shoulders now. He lacked the energy to do anything else until something changed. Wu was trying not to lose his smile though.

            It was close to an hour later when he heard the footsteps. They stopped outside of his door and spoke for a moment, but it was hard for Wu to make out in his current state. He thought they were arguing, perhaps it was meal time and they would decide not to give him the food and drink again today. Perhaps he would die from this. That couldn’t be though, that was not part of the plan.

            The keys hit the lock. Wu turned his head a bit surprised. If it was just a meal run they would have thrown it through the slot, accented with an insult. The iron door opened though with two guards standing in the doorway. Wu shielded his eyes at the bright light that flooded in to the solitary cell. He couldn’t open them at first, unaccustomed to the brightness. The smell of semi-fresh air was also a little jarring.

            “Get up,” one of the guards grunted.

            Wu was trying to stand, he was just too weak. The guards came over towards him, batons drawn. One of them put the baton to Wu’s throat while the other helped to pull him up.

            “Pick up your feet!”

            The guards pulled him out into the hallway, rushing him in a truly uncaring manner, perhaps more so than usual. Wu noticed the annoyed expressions on their faces. Something had angered them, perhaps he had been granted an early release from solitary confinement. Wu smiled. If the guards were having a bad day, his life couldn’t be that bad.

            “You boys are looking a little down.” Wu remarked to the guards, having to work to keep up with their pace. “I can talk to Tommy for you guys, have him hook you up. You two need to de-stress. You look upset. You know my boys can help you with that.”

            “Shut up, Wu,” one of the guards shot back.

            “Felix, he has the hook-up on pussy here. I figure you guys aren’t having much luck on the outside, but in here, we can make things happen.”

            The other officer was not responding to Wu’s taunts like the first guard. He struck the concrete wall with his baton, causing a loud noise to echo through the hallway.

            “For someone who thinks he runs this place, you are in for a world of hurt.”

            It was at that point that Wu realized they were not heading towards his cell. C block was the other direction from where they had just turned. Wu was so rarely surprised, but this moment had his mind racing. They wouldn’t be taking him to see the warden, no sport in that. Warden Morales didn’t like to get his hands dirty with the riffraff anyway. This was something else.

            “So, where we going? Someone finally fix the pool?”

            The smugger of the two guards now began to smile.

            “Your jokes are falling flat. Where is your smile now, asshole?”

            They took another turn in the long windowed hallway that lead to one of the oldest parts of the prison. Built in the 2140’s, Talcolo Prison was constructed on the island of Boca Raton, Florida, after the great depression. The prison was comprised of five different structures, each housing four blocks of prisoners except for the administration building. Each one stood three stories tall and had an accompanying guard tower and green Spanish tile roofs. There were two docks, the only ways on and off of the island were by boats that came twice a month, and could only land on one of these two points. The rest of the island was too dangerous to try to dock a boat on, for fear of being thrust into the rocks, or eaten.

            There was a permanent gray hue to the sky. Storms came frequently, raging without warning. Vicious—with lightning and electrical interference, flying anything into that area was almost a death sentence, another side-effect of the great destruction. The island prison was on the North end of Mother Nature’s constant anger, tropical storms, hurricanes, and lightning storms were typical, especially at night. Escape was not much of an option.

            Construction of the island facility took quite some time under these conditions. The administration building was erected first and was the largest in square feet. The old windowed bridge was raised between the two buildings with explosives placed at each of the struts to cut off the administration officials from the inmates if needed. It was also the place that, if you believe the rumors, more than one prisoner had been tossed out of to a gruesome death on the rocks.

            Wu had tensed up when they went through the hallway, just in case. There were only two of them, but he wasn’t in any shape to fight. It occurred to him though that if they had wanted to kill him, the easiest course of action would have been to leave him solitary.

            He had plenty of time to think about the possibilities of why he was being moved there. It didn’t fit the plan. Wu had work to do on the inside, important work. He had a prison to run.

            The administration building looked much better on the inside than any of the others. It was Spartan, but had actual carpet in a dull shaggy red. There were mirrors, which did not exist in the holding facilities, because the glass could be used as a weapon. The light fixtures were more ornate here, an older lost style that had been imported from the mainland. There wasn’t much else in the way of decorations other than a few portraits of past wardens.

            Hallways led way to strings of offices, past the infirmary and library to the steps that led down. In the basement of the administration building was the records room, armory, several holding cells and interrogation rooms that were all under heavy guard and security. The two guards leading Wu had to take him through three checkpoints and strip search him in one of the holding cells.

            Wu’s body was toned and muscular, a canvas for the collage of scar tissue and tattoos that covered his limbs. Each scar told a story of near-death or a lesson learned. Whether it was a lesson learned from his sparring partners or a plan gone wrong, he treasured each one of them, as much as he treasured the tattoos. Each piece of ink on his body was purposefully visible, because they were all representative of victories. The two black tears signified his first kills, the dragon his promotion, the kanji were for his brothers, and the bleeding eye for his revenge on his sister’s rapist. Those were just a few of the ones that lined his limbs, some he couldn’t even tell the story for, due to potential repercussions.

            Wu was just glad there were no cavity searches this time, since he was coming from solitary confinement, there was no need. He just wasn’t in the mood to be smugly violated today. Instead, they left him naked and dripping wet after his chemical bath in the holding cell. The room was freezing cold, his leg bounced and his hands rubbed his chest from time-to-time to try and keep him warm. Time was wasting and once again he found himself unable to keep track of it, life was too short not to be in the mix.

            The door opened again finally and the same two guards approached Wu, tossing him a change of clothes. He quickly threw on the sleeveless white t-shirt and grey pants, wishing they had brought some socks as well. When he was dressed they had one more piece for Wu, the grey magnetic shackles that bound his wrists together with a gentle hum. The guards tested the cuffs before standing him up.

            It was then that Wu realized that the new clothes and cuffs meant that he was about to be paraded in front of someone. It wasn’t his time for parole there, hell; would they even offer it to him? As far as the Warden was concerned, it was just a matter of waiting until one of the other prisoners slit Wu’s throat, one set of paperwork he would gladly handle himself. It was only a matter of time—an inevitability. Wu was actually pretty sure at least one of the guards had tried once, paying one of the other prisoners to do their work.

            This was different though, it felt strange and new. Wu was about to be ripped from the world that he controlled, but he was not sure how or why.

            

Rap and Poetry

Saturday morning I awoke to check my social media before doing some writing. On a friend’s page, she had questioned whether or not Tupac Shakur should be an acceptable answer as a favorite poet.

This sparked an interesting discussion about rap/hip-hop as poetry in the comments section, with most in agreement until one particular comment from someone who shall remain nameless in this discussion.

“If [T]upac is considered a poet it just shows how far society has fallen.”

This comment caused me pause. I’ve taken several poetry classes and had numerous conversations with different professors, most of whom I hold in high regard, about how rap and hip-hop are poets, and their writers are lyricists. Often, song as a whole is compared to poetry, especially in the last few decades. I retorted, stating that I simply disagreed and tried to tout the lyrical genius and poetic flow in the music that I had been shown, but this was the response I received.

“Hip Hop idealizes criminal behavior, the degradation of women, drug use, the murder of police officers, the art of being self centered and egotistical, robbing, stealing and fathering children out of wedlock. It represents the very worse part of our society, but due to political correctness, we are afraid to say so. Is it an art form, maybe, like a child coloring on a side walk. There is no real talent there, it's not even music. Music has three parts, Rhythm, harmony and Melody. Hip hop only has rhythm. Occasionally they add a Melody, but more often than not it's "sampled" from another song, so the Melody is ripped off and not original. In short, it's sad that people listen to it, let alone buy it. Just my .02.”

These comments really irked me. I typed out an initial response but had to delete it, arguing whether to leave in that I felt that some of the man’s comments came across as underlined racism, or at least ignorance. Instead I formed what I thought was a pretty well constructed argument to his comments. I managed to do so without picking on him directly, or any other particular musical group, but instead discussed the effects of media and how we as individuals are responsible for what we take from it.

I know that this is an arguable issue. Not everything is gold, in any genre. There is good, there is bad, there are things that are sexist and racist. I stand behind what I said though, it is important for individuals to be aware of what these things are and what they get out of the media they consume.

Someone came behind me though in this argument and did point out that she felt that these comments sounded like they were underlined racist. I was glad that someone had said, said it correctly, better than I could have. Someone close to me once said that people should be called out when they want to make statements like that. I agree, but the response that was given was not what I had expected.

“I can tell when someone has lost a logical argument, they break out accusations of racism, the catch all accusation for the intellectually weak.”

I suppose he had to try to defend himself in some way, but this was a bit disappointing. There really are some people that you can’t reason with. Nothing else I could have said would have changed this man’s opinion or convinced him to try and have an open mind about the subject. We are not all going to agree on what we like, what we think is good and worthwhile. I am not even arguing for the majority of rap/hip-hop, but there is a lot out there that deserves a chance, a chance to be heard for more than just a song.

Death of Poetry Article

 You can find the original article here.            

            The Washington Post ran an article by Alexandra Petri that asked, “is poetry dead,” but this sentiment seems to be in the minority.

            Petri’s article questioned the usefulness of poetry, asking if the medium was still relevant if it cannot change anything? This accusation comes on the heels of Poet Laureate Richard Blanco’s poem “One” at President Obama’s inauguration.

            Not everyone agrees with Petri’s statements and her judgment of Blanco’s poem.

            “I disagree,” said Dr. Kelly Whiddon, Associate Professor of English. “I think it can, but it isn’t needed for poetry to be worth while.” Whiddon said about poetry not being able to cause change. “She’s a journalist, so she ascribes the standards of journalism to poetry. [Journalism] has to be of mass appeal, but that isn’t needed for poetry.”

            Whiddon has recently published “The House Began to Pitch”. As a fellow poet, she defended Blanco’s poem. “That is the job of the poet laureate to encourage, make poetry more accessible to the general public.” Whiddon said, who teaches several of the poetry classes at Middle Georgia State College. Whiddon is not the only professional to disagree with Petri.

            “The reason journalism may be dead is because of hacks like her.” Dr. Kevin Cantwell, Interim Chair for the division of Media Culture and the Arts at Middle Georgia State College, disagreed strongly with Petri and continued by saying, “Journalists who write about poetry generally have that one claim they make, that poetry is dead. I would ask is journalism dead?”

            Part of Petri’s evidence to her claim is that she has been to several poetry readings where attendance was scarce and most of those present were students who were forced to attend.

            “I’ve been to hundreds of readings, some where there are thousands there,” Cantwell argued. “What students say is I didn’t think I’d like this but I did.” Both Cantwell and Whiddon argue that more and more students are enjoying poetry and that now is a good time for the medium. To this Cantwell noted the Seaborn Jones Poetry Contest that the school is sponsoring.

            The question is how popular does something have to be to still be an important medium?

            “There is something inherently wrong with the way we as a society look at value,” said Whiddon. “It doesn’t have to be a best seller to make it worthwhile.”

Textbook Inquisitor Article

            College is expensive, even though Middle Georgia State College has one of the lower tuition prices in the state, but one thing students fear are books; how much their text books cost and what is the best way to get them.

            Though there are other options for acquiring text books, there are new features that students may not be aware of in the college bookstore.

            “One thing students should keep in mind is that when they buy from their campus bookstore, that money stays on campus and helps the school and therefore the students in the future as well,” Dane Yoshida, the Course Materials Coordinator for the bookstore said.

            The bookstore attempts to keep the price of their products down, but several factors keep the prices up.

            “We can’t really help the prices from the publishers. That is an issue of supply and demand,” Yoshida said. “Hardcover books and those with full color spreads and multitudes of pictures have much higher prices.”

            Part of Yoshida’s job is to work with professors on making sure that all of the books that are needed for each of the classes will be available in the bookstore.

Whenever a professor decides to switch to a newer edition of a book or an older textbook is out of print, the course materials have to change. The school has to be careful about how they acquire their books, those that can not be returned cost the school more money.

            “Every semester we have more materials that are moving online.” The market is changing with e-books and new textbooks that come with both physical and electronic materials according to Yoshida. “The online shift isn’t for everyone. Many will still prefer a textbook in front of them. That works better for their learning process.”

With books like accounting and nursing having new editions every year, this can be expensive to keep up with according to Yoshida. The bookstore is adapting by selling more laptops and tablets as well as e-book codes to keep up with these changes.

Students who are concerned about the consolidation raising the price of text books should rest easy. Yoshida said that the added campuses won’t cause a price jump, but students are still concerned.

“I feel the cost of textbooks is too high,” said Kimberly Folsom, a senior at MGS who says that she still purchases her books from the campus bookstore, but thinks that they could be cheaper. “I know I can get books online, but financial aid is a deciding factor also.”

            “Now that we have the rental program students really seem to like it and take advantage of that, being the cheapest option we have,” Yoshida said, noting that the campus bookstore is still their best option. “Not every book is rentable, but it is the best option as long as you bring the books back before the due date.”

            For those students who can not take advantage of the rental program, the bookstore now offers book buy back year around now. Giving students options is important. Yoshida says the best advice he can give is to compare before you buy. 

Student Events Article

             Many students may not be aware of the Campus Activity Board or what they do for students, but the CAB is a group composed of five student executives and committee members on board (MOB) that determine activities for the student body to enjoy on campus; though overseen by Student Life Program Coordinator Amy Carter, the CAB is a mostly student run organization.

“The purpose of the CAB is a programming board under the umbrella of Student Life,” said Carter, who acts as advisor for the board, emphasizing the importance of student involvement. “Students make the decision of what they want to do and they are given a budget to decide what they want to see. Our tagline is programming for students, by students.”

CAB meets once a week and organizes events like movie nights, the Hunger Games week and co-sponsors the successful WRC Coffee House, establishing a presence on both Macon and Warner Robins’ campuses.

According to Danielle Edwards, a student executive on the board, CAB is an organization ran by the students, for the students.

“As an executive, we are here for you.” Edwards said.

According to Edwards they are there so much for the students that they even have office hours to meet with other students that have an interest in helping out or being on the committee for CAB. The eventual goal is to have the students primarily in charge of all of the CAB activities, with student life acting as a guiding hand.

“Students are important. They are our voice towards helping us spread the word about events,” Edwards commented, emphasizing the importance of student involvement.

CAB has focused on traditional and non-traditional students with a variety of events and family friendly outings like the Brave movie night.

“If a student says there is nothing to do on campus all they need to do is take a look around,” Carter advised. “There is stuff happening on campus every week, whether it is from CAB, student life, or other clubs and organizations. It’s not all geared for traditional or non-traditional students, we have something for everyone. If you need help getting connected come see us.”

Carter said that students should get involved, not just for student life but for their own benefit.

“Students who are more active on campus are more successful,” Carter urged, claiming that many of the reasons for getting involved in campus life isn’t just for college, but the connections you make for it and the future.  

The office for CAB is located in SLC 261. Any student can join the committee and interviews are held for executive chairs. 

Aura - Pt. 3

            The back office of Ragnarok was a disappointment to say the least. Plain white walls were stricken with age old advertisements for past performers to the club and brown stains that were about as attractive. The overhead fan was broken, the light flickered every now-and-then, and no one had changed out the coffee in the pot for a couple of days, which had generated an odd smell. An old metal desk and four filing cabinets were against the wall, surrounded by old booze boxes, now filled with paperwork, advertisements, and promotional materials for the club. On the back wall there was a large wooden sign that had the word ‘PURSUIT’ on it with dark blue, pink, and purple letters. Richtor thought about how much he hated this office as he adjusted his tie and waited for the first person to be sent in.

            No one could read Dwight Richtor’s notes except for him. The short hand wasn’t the problem, it was the fact that he seemed to ignore lines on the page and write over other notes that he thought needed to be grouped together. Sometimes there were doodles that made no sense but somehow triggered responses in his mind that were important for solving them. Back in ’99 when he had just transferred there was a cute and kind young secretary named Sara Hoffstead who had volunteered to transcribe Dwight’s notes for him. The detective knew this wasn’t a good idea, but she was so eager to please that he gave her the chance. Later that day when he was getting ready to leave, he heard Lilly crying at her desk, upset that she couldn’t make up or down of the fourteen pages he had handed her that morning. Since then Dwight did his own notes and barely bothered to type them up until the case was over.

            He was tapping his pen against the yellow pad when the door finally opened. Dwight sat with his back to the desk and another folding, much more uncomfortable chair, in front so that the person could face him.

            Hunter Stuart, the first bartender, entered slowly. The old wooden door was shut softly behind him. Richtor raised an eyebrow.

            “So you’re first?”

            “Callie didn’t want to go first,” Hunter responded with an uncomfortable look himself. “I think she is a little shaken up by all of this.”

            Dwight nodded, “and you’re protective over her?”

            “Well,” the bartender paused. “I guess. She’s a friend.”

            “Just friends?”

            Hunter was unsure what to say at first but he quickly nodded.

            “You get along with everyone here Hunter, are you guys like a family?”

            “Sure.”

            “No problems with anyone?”

            “No,” he paused again. “I mean, bosses are bosses I guess, but they are alright. The security guys kind of hang out on their own you know, even outside of the club but I don’t have any real problems with anyone.”

            Dwight nodded and wrote down two letters at the top left of the page and then underlined them individually.

            “So tell me about Aura Johnson.”

            “She’s,” Hunter stretched the word out as he questioned himself, “a friend.”

            Detective Richtor raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t even have to say the words.

            “We were involved off and on…sexually, but she was my friend.”

            “I see.” He paused to make a small symbol that could have been the letter S. “Is that why you reported her missing after going over to her apartment?”

            “Yeah,” Hunter said, exhaling.

            “Why were you heading over there, or was that routine?”

            “No, she had asked me to come over. I hadn’t seen her in a few days but she made it sound like she wanted to hang out.” He shook his head. “With Aura though, that could have meant anything from having sex to her asking me philosophical questions while I hung picture frames for her.”

            “When you two did have sex, was it over at her place most of the time?”

            Hunter nodded and looked off at the wall to one of the old posters.

            “Yeah, I have an annoying roommate.”

            Dwight made a few more notes up near the corner, underlining everything he had written so far. He eyed Hunter, keeping him under his watch for a bit before his next question.

            “Who all here at the club knew Aura, more than in passing I mean.”

            Hunter thought.

            “Katie knew her. I think they went out a couple of times, shopping or something. Callie and I knew her of course, we all hung out a few times and we probably saw her the most while she was in the club. She and I would give Aura free drinks sometimes.” Hunter sighed. “I don’t know how much she knew Chris and Josh, the security guys, but I know she and Rick dated. Don’t know how serious it got.”

            “Did that bother you?”

            “What?”

            “That she was Rick?”

            “No,” Hunter’s lip curled. “No I mean, I don’t think they-“

            “You know for sure?”

            “No, I don’t-“

            “So they could have?”

            “Yea, yeah I guess.”

            Dwight nodded and made another note, placing Hunter and Rick closer.

            “So when was the last time you saw her Saturday night?”

            Hunter took a deep breath before he began.

            “Like I told the police officer, she was dancing in the back room here.” He jerked his thumb towards that door that led to the secondary dance floor. “She told me she gets bothered less back here once the place gets going. I came back to ask her if she wanted to get food afterwards, since I knew she wanted to see me, but she just wanted me to come over and told me that if I got hungry she had food at her place.”

            “What was this conversation?”

            “2:30, maybe 2:20, I didn’t look at the time. The club was getting ready to close at 3:00 and I was trying to hurry.”

            “And then you went to her apartment at what time?” Dwight asked as he wrote down 2:30 a.m. on the pad.

            “Well no. I looked for her here first. She usually waits for me, but when she wasn’t there I thought maybe she had go home to make food or she was just really upset about something. She danced to get away from everything so I didn’t,” he trailed off.

            “What time did you make it to her apartment?”

            “Almost four in the morning, I buzzed, I called. I finally got a guy to let me in the building but nothing.”

            “Then you came back the next day.”

            “Yeah,” Hunter sighed. “I thought maybe she had just gone home with someone else, I don’t know.” He began to stay something but shook his head. “The building manager knows me. I got him to open the door but she wasn’t there, her phone was gone, it looked like she hadn’t even made it home.”

            Dwight nodded and wrote a few more notes, the top of his page looking more like an artist’s canvas now. Eyes rising, he searched for Hunter’s attention. The young man was obviously uncomfortable, concerned, and perhaps a little worried for his own safety, with reason.

            “We are going to want to speak to you again, Mr. Stuart.”

            “Alright,” he said weakly.

            “Just stay where we can reach you if you don’t mind.”

            Hunter stood up from the chair and looked towards the door. His eyes showed he wanted to ask something though. Dwight cocked his head to the side waiting.

            “You think she’s fine…I mean…you think you’ll find her?”

            After a pause, “I’m sure we will.”

            Hunter gave a slight nod before exiting. He wasn’t sure what to say, what to think. The door shut behind him though, giving a small bounce against the frame. Dwight looked back over his notes, drawing a short line from one set of letters to another scribbling. He waited for whomever Carter sent back next, his hand absently going to the Rubick’s cube in his pocket. He stopped himself though as he heard heels clicking across the floor.

            The other bartender Callie Wright entered. Hunter wasn’t wrong, she did look shaken up. She was shivering it seemed at first, thought it was summer and muggy. She sat down and crossed her legs before trying to force a semblance of a smile.

            “You can relax.”

            “Easy for you to say,” There was the soft smile finally.

            Dwight returned it. “Just tell me everything you know.”

            “Just about Aura, right?”

            Dwight nodded. “If I want anything more than that, I’ll ask.”

            “She was cool.”

            There was a pause as Callie’s hands clenched together in her lap and she looked down, trying to find her words.

            “Well, something a little more concrete than that.”

            “No, I know I just… you know we didn’t know each other that well but we had started hanging out more, talking. I met her last week to go shopping at the boutique a couple of blocks from here. She seemed so nice and laid back I just… “

            Dwight nodded.

            “She danced in the back room a lot. I was bartending back here until almost one. I saw her dancing for a while. When it isn’t super packed though we pack up the back bar early, I had gone back up front. I waved at her but I thought I’d see her when the club closed, I didn’t think to go talk to her.”

            “So you didn’t see her leave?”

            “No.”

            “Did you see her with anyone?”

            “No, I mean I’m sure she had some guys hitting on her, she usually does. I didn’t notice her dancing with anyone though, or talking with anyone at any real length, nothing out of the ordinary at all.”

            “You think she left out of the double doors by the office door back here?” He motioned to them with his pen.

            “That would make the most since. There isn’t an alarm on them or anything so she could have gotten out of here if she wanted to. She has never done that before though. She usually hangs around and grabs food with me or one of the guys.”

            “Which of the guys does she like to spend time with?”

            “Hunter mostly,” she thought. “Sometimes she will talk to Rick or Christ, but I don’t know. The only guy she’s really talked to me about is Hunter.”

            Dwight put a few notes down, more interested in the doors now as he looked to the wall, imagining them, imagining her walking through them. Callie watched him for a moment, his silence making her more uncomfortable.

            “Sir?”

            “Do you like working here, any problems?”

            Callie shook her head. “It’s not bad, they work around my school schedule.”

            Dwight nodded, his pen tapping the pad as he looked back down at it.

            “Have you been inside her apartment?”

            “No.”

            “What about the dance studio she works at?”

            “She showed me the outside one day when we were passing it.”

            “She talk about her job a lot?”

            “No, not really.”

            Dwight scratched the back of his head absently as he pondered her answers.

            “Hunter say anything to you about Aura on Saturday?”

            She thought for a long moment, frustration building. She didn’t want to get anything wrong. Her nervous gestures showed it. Dwight figured she didn’t know anything or she was a damn good actress. Callie was forming beads of sweat across her brow, just a bit. The office was a bit muggy though.

            “I asked him if he had plans, he mentioned possibly seeing her. He didn’t go into any details though, he often didn’t with her.”

            “Why is that?”

            “I think because she had a tendency to flake out on him some. I know at least once she was supposed to be with him but ended up hanging out with me instead.”

            Detective Richtor pursed his lip just a fraction as he wrote the new note and put a line through it.

            “We may want to talk to you again if we have further questions.”

            “Of course, sure, yeah,” she said standing. “Anything I can do to help.”

            Dwight nodded, allowing her dismissal. She couldn’t have made it out of the room any faster if she were trying to.