Semi-Daily Scribbles

“Thank you for the very nice turnout at this evening’s inaugural installment of The End of the Line’s Writers Series.” The soft-spoken behemoth shoved the hood back from his head, and Zoë’s breath caught in her throat. For all the muscular bulk that filled out the monkish robe, his face was youthful; his features fine and delicate. A warm glow radiated from the man's skin as though he were lit up from the inside like a Jack-o-Lantern. Apart from being bald, his Cupid’s bow and penciled-in brows reminded Zoë of a silent film goddess. Zoë had attended her share of book readings, and she knew in the first five minutes this one would change her life.