Tony walked into the coffee shop. It was a local place, a hole in the wall kind with a furniture assortment of random chairs and different style tables for patrons to sit in. There was a small stage at one end of the room, in a back corner, presumably where poetry readings or live music could be staged, if anyone cared about those things anymore. Nobody's really cared about those things recently except for the college kids, and they were more worried about getting either drunk, laid, or stoned than poetry or music - unless they were using the poetry or music to get something else.

He glanced around the almost empty shop. Two in the afternoon was apparantly not a big time for coffee sales during July. Go figure. Sitting in the back corner opposite the stage was Catherine. She was watching him walk across the place, navigating through the array of chairs and tables like a sailor negotiating a rocky coastline. She smiled at him as he approached, and he gingerly returned the smile, still picking his way through the last of the tables.

"I trust you had no problems finding the place," she purred. He could barely see the red in her hair. Technically, she had told him once, I'm a brunette. Her hair was natural, just a darker, subtle shade of red. She was dressed in a pair of tennis shoes, jeans and a lavendar women's polo shirt. Her small-framed glasses, in better light would have also shown a hint of lavendar, seemed a little out of place on her otherwise perfect face.

"No, actually. I used to hang out here years ago when I was in college. The place was in better condition, then. It had more traffic, too."

"I can imagine," she replied, pulling an envelope onto the table. It was a manilla envelope, a standard letter mailer - the kind you would expect to get a letter in from a bill collector.

A small figure, a slender young woman in her early twenties had appeared next to their table. Tony had never heard her approach, so when she spoke, it initially startled him, his eyes opening in shock at the sound of her voice over his shoulder. "Sir, would you care for anything to drink?" She stood to his left, just behind his shoulder.

He turned towards her, "Just a water for now, please."

"Ma'am," she said, looking at Catherine. "Did you need a refill?"

"Not now, doll," Catherine rolled out. "Check back with us in a bit, though, we may need something a bit stronger than water." Catherine winked at the waitress.

As the waitress went to get the water, Catherine returned to business. She folder her fingers together, keeping her hands resting on the envelope. Catherine waited for the waitress to deliver the water and return to the kitchen again before continuing.

Catherine drew a slow, deep breath and focused on Tony. "If we have this conversation," she started, "it's going to end badly for you. Consider that a fair warning." She paused, waiting for Tony's response before continuing. When he nodded that he wanted to continue, Catherine unlocked her hands and turned the envelope over. She stared at the text, the flowing hand-written script on the envelope for a moment before sliding the envelope across to Tony.

Random Prompt

Brian thought back to their first date. He was attracted to her, and he always remembered her smile and the way her eyes seemed to dance in the candlelight, but it was something that she had said late in the conversation that stuck him. Now, two years later, he realized she had warned him, but he was to smitten to care.

"I'm going to disappoint you," Jamie had said. "But you knew that already." She said it so matter-of-factly, like the recounting a box score - Celts beat the Lakers, Cubs over the A's, Barbaro by a nose, and I'm going to disappoint you.

Brian remembered starting at her for a moment after that, caught in the awkward moment that the statement commanded. She smiled back, tilting her head slightly to her right. Her soft blonde hair shifted more onto her shoulder, a tuft of locks falling around her face. Brian couldn't help but tell her how beautiful she looked, the comment momentarily forgotten.

Photo Plot 1

Stephen leapt from the side of the tower. There were too many people that had seen his cast his spells that he knew he would be marked. Even if he could get away from the tower and into the crowds undetected, it would be almost impossible for him to make it out of the gates without being identified.

It was a deperate plan, he realized, but the only way he could find to escape. If it backfired, well, all he could do was hope for success.

* * * * *

It was near dusk the previous night when he had been captured. Stephen had been dining in a pub, the place boisterous and the alcohol flowing, when the place suddenly became silent. Stephen was still laughing loudly when he realized what was happening.

"Stephen, Minstrel of York, you are here-by under arrest for the crimes of conspiracy to commit treason, destruction of the king's property, and witchcraft," the deep voice sounded from the door. Stephen had been staring at the individual while she announced the charges. She was a beautiful blonde, with green eyes that Stephen could see from across the room. He knows the eyes well.

"Madam Catherine," he said, standing quickly as several armed guards began moving around the tables towards him. "We really should quit meeting like this."

"Watch his hands, " she yelled at the men. "Secure them well once you have him."

Stephen firmly grabbed the sides of the table and lifted, lurching the table forward as best he could before throwing his hands wildly about. Small flashes of light shot towards each of the armed men, stunning them where they stood. Stephen began moving towards a window and patrons, laughing with him a few moments earlier, were now shrieking and drawing away from him as he approached. Stephen grabbed a chair and threw it towards the large glass window. The chair hit the window with a thud before it scuttled to the floor.

Stephen ran towards the bar, and the door for the backroom, where the owner was standing in his way.

"Not in my establishment," the owner growled, holding a cleaver in his right hand.

Stephen focused on the metal and it began to glow. The owner yelped in pain as he dropped it, grabbing his hand as it became singed from the metal in the handle. Stephen pushed past him and into the kitchen, scrambling for the back door. He ran out, into the night, and into the arms of another group of guards.

"Last time I saw Joe, he was sitting at the table in the corner, over there," he said, pointing to the small, wooden table with two chairs on one side, and a bench seat against the wall. "He ordered his usual - a Newcastle Pale from the tap - and he sat over there most of the night nursing it. I hear he lost his best friend the other day, is that right? Poor guy... that would explain why he spent most of the night in the corner, though. He's usually a pretty upbeat guy, and sits up by the bar. I didn't get a chance to try and talk with him, though... as soon as I got done with my shift I had to beat it - I had a gig to get to across town. As it was, I got there about 10 minutes before we were supposed to start playing...
"Good luck looking for Joe... He was a great guy, once he got to know people."