Marsha Loftis

The rain relentlessly drummed against the windshield of the black sedan as the Retriever, known simply as Kane, maneuvered through the city streets. The neon lights of storefronts and street signs flickered in the downpour, casting an eerie glow on the slick pavement. Kane’s face bore the wear of years of chasing runners – a perpetual scowl etched with lines that told stories of exhaustion and frustration.

His mid-thirties seemed to stretch beyond their years, the stress of his job accelerating the aging process. Two ulcers gnawed at his stomach lining, a constant reminder of the moral turmoil he wrestled with daily. He had spent the past decade hunting down runners, those brave or desperate enough to escape the clutches of the oppressive vocational education program.

The badge and gun on his belt granted him authority few questioned. Capturing runners, dead or alive, was his mandate – a quota-driven job that brooked no excuses. And this month, he was lagging behind. The pressure intensified, gnawing at him as he navigated the dimly lit streets.

The tracking device mounted on the dashboard emitted a feeble signal, indicating that the girl runner was somewhere nearby. Kane’s fingers rapped impatiently against the device, frustration evident on his face. He slammed the side of it a few times, as if physical force could coax better performance. A violent shake followed suit, a blend of anger and desperation.

Cursing under his breath, he decided to take a breather and pulled into a small diner’s parking lot. He needed a moment away from the relentless rain and the relentless pursuit. The glow of the diner’s fluorescent sign cut through the darkness, offering a brief sanctuary. Kane stepped out of the car, his black suit quickly soaked.

Inside the diner, the air was heavy with the scent of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee. The bell above the door chimed as he entered, drawing the attention of the waitress behind the counter.

With a practiced smile, Maggie approached the counter, knowing exactly where he would sit. They always chose the first seat. The Retriever settled onto the stool, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against his non-functioning tracking device. He was close to the girl runner, he could feel it. The signal was weak, but he trusted his gut instincts.

“What can I get you?” Maggie inquired, her tone polite yet tinged with weariness. “Toast and coffee,” the Kane replied, his eyes still on the malfunctioning device. Frustration danced across his face as he fiddled with it, wishing for a solution that budget cuts had denied him.

The girl runner was near, almost within his grasp. If not for the relentless cost-cutting measures, he would have had access to the latest equipment, ensuring a swift capture and elimination of this persistent thorn in his side. But bureaucracy and finances had conspired against him, leaving him at a disadvantage.

“You look like you could use a hearty meal,” Maggie remarked, her voice taking on a sympathetic tone. “The boy in the back makes a tasty breakfast platter. Let me serve that up for you.” Her hand came down with a friendly slap on the counter, her attempt to distract him subtly.

“It’s on the house!” Maggie added, her eyes holding a mixture of empathy and cunning. She knew how to manipulate a situation, and this was her chance to help the girl runner evade capture.

The Kane glanced up, a brief hesitation in his features as he considered the offer. Hunger gnawed at him, and he couldn’t deny the allure of a free meal. With a curt nod, he finally relented, “Alright, I’ll take the breakfast platter.”

As Maggie turned to relay the order, her gaze drifted to the diner’s rear entrance, where a quiet couple slipped away unnoticed. The girl runner and her boyfriend had seized the opportunity to escape, their departure concealed by the ruckus of the diner. Maggie’s heart raced with a mix of triumph and relief. She had played her part well.

Minutes later, a hearty breakfast platter was placed in front of the Kane, its aroma enticing. He stared at it for a moment, his mind elsewhere, still grappling with the malfunctioning tracker.

Stellar Harbor

The diner, nestled on the edge of a lonesome highway, became an oasis from the relentless downpour outside. A cozy booth, though weathered and drafty, offered a brief escape and a clear view of the rain-soaked road. In that dimly lit corner, a young couple found refuge, their clothes damp and clinging to their weary frames. Her unruly chestnut curls framed a tired face that rested on his strong shoulders. In the hushed ambiance, she whispered, “I love you.”

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with a lifetime of burdens etched in her eyes and heart, approached their table. She set down two glasses of water and a forlorn-looking, day-old cinnamon bun. Her gaze held a flicker of sympathy as she surveyed the bedraggled travelers. The young man, his face sporting a scruffy beard, offered a weary but thankful nod, though his pockets remained frustratingly empty.

Walking away, the waitress sighed, muttering to herself, “No tip from this table, I suppose.”

John had spent his entire life branded as a commodity, treated as property, until his 18th birthday arrived. That day marked the end of his oppressive tracking device, its malevolent control over his life finally ceasing. Months of anticipation led to this liberating moment when he could feel the device breaking down, leaving behind only a small scar as a haunting reminder of his forced servitude. True freedom lay ahead, a life no longer dictated by the crushing Vocational Education Program that had bound him to involuntary labor. The world stretched out before him, offering choices—travel, higher education, employment—all unfettered by the oppressive past, officially erased from records and sealed by the courts of justice.

John’s gaze shifted from his reflection in the rain-dappled window to the young woman beside him. The drizzle outside began to ease. They couldn’t linger here much longer.

“We need to move,” he said, gently urging the girl out of the booth.

Sarah, her wild chestnut curls defying every attempt to tame them, bore the scars of her turbulent upbringing. Born to a drug-addicted mother, her father remained an anonymous specter among countless men. Her life as a commodity had begun at the tender age of four, ensnared in a ruthless system. If the state’s intervention had come just a few years earlier, she might have found a chance at adoption, a loving home, and a future unmarred by the horrors of her past.

Days spent toiling in sun-scorched fields, harvesting vegetables, and enduring daily rituals were now a memory. She had reached an age where the church elders deemed her no longer useful for their purposes. In a cruel twist of fate, they had snapped her picture, slapped it onto a Commodity Trade show flyer, and labeled her a “reliable, diligent worker.” She had escaped that nightmarish existence, fleeing to be with the only person she could trust—the young man who stood beside her.

Yet, the shadows of her past continued to pursue her. A relentless retriever was closing in. Unlike John, her tracking device still functioned, marking her as a target to those who viewed her solely as a commodity, with no regard for whether she returned dead or alive.

Verse 1:
Rain beats down on the windowsill
We’re seeking refuge from the storm
The diner’s a temporary stop
But it’s keeping us warm

Chorus:
In this old booth made of worn wood
We’re safe from the pouring rain
With my head on your shoulder
I whisper again and again

I love you
I love you

Verse 2:
The road’s been long and weary
But you’re my guiding light
Through the darkest of days
You make everything feel alright

Chorus:
In this old booth made of worn wood
We’re safe from the pouring rain
With my head on your shoulder
I whisper again and again

I love you
I love you

Bridge:
We’ll keep on moving forward
With you by my side
Through the good and the bad
Our love will abide

Chorus:
In this old booth made of worn wood
We’re safe from the pouring rain
With my head on your shoulder
I whisper again and again

I love you
I love you

Outro:
The storm may rage on outside
But in this moment we’re free
With you here by my side
I know where I’m meant to be.

Here is the Orville quilt I am currently working on. I will start handquilting in a few weeks.