Todd S. Engel woke up and gasped for air. He gently eased himself out of bed and walked over to where he had thrown his suitcase. There was still a rhythmic pattering of rain outside that calmed him. It was the dead of night.
Engel had been a member of the Fellowship, an avid one in fact. As a member he had gained power and wealth. However, when the October Massacre and other problems had started coming to light, he had bailed out, hoping to save his skin. And he had succeeded. He had moved away from Pennsylvania, because since it had been the strongest Fellowship state, witch hunts against former Fellows were common and turned up a lot of people. He didn't want to be caught, so he moved to Florida, which had less Fellows, and thus, less police chasing Fellows. With the bit of money he had managed to get away with, he had built a comfortable life.
He kept his small fortune in his suitcase. He didn't trust banks one bit. If he had deposited his money into a bank it would have been suspicious and he may well have been tracked down. So he just kept his wealth in a suitcase where he could carry it with him.
Now he pulled out his journal. He had kept it ever since he had been a child. On rare occasions he turned back to those first few pages, written in a ten year old's bulky printing. Nowadays he hardly ever wrote in it. Tonight, however, he had something to write.
Accosted after work today. An immigrant, a Cuban. Don't know what he wanted; he was shouting at me in Spanish. Just gripped my suitcase and ran off. Been thinking. Illegal aliens are a big problem in America today. I've often feared being mugged walking the streets when Cuban gangs are around. There are a lot of them. Can only imagine what would happen if one of them got my suitcase. We need some kind of organization to combat illegal immigration. The INS is too weak. Too limited. Need to make a better organization that's not afraid to take it to the streets. Aliens do not deserve the same freedoms as citizens – very important. Slept at motel tonight. Afraid police might come to my home. Just woke up with this thought. Wanted to write it down before I lost it.
Yawning, Todd closed the book and replaced the pen. He was glad he’d been able to turn the thought into paper before he had forgotten it. It would be something he’d have to work on. He crawled back into bed and slept much easier.
"Manuscripts don't burn"
- Mikhail Bulgakov
Hi, I'm horror and science fiction author Steve Kozeniewski (pronounced: "causin' ooze key.") Welcome to my blog! You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Amazon. You can e-mail me here, join my mailing list here, or request an e-autograph here. Free on this site you can listen to me recite one of my own short works, "The Thing Under the Bed."
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