“His intensity, his commitment, his obscurity, his convictions. All these things render me no better than a masochistic moth, flying closer to the flame I know will consume my very body. True romantics, hopeless or not, cannot resist a man tragically devout to his passion. The hopeless ones wish to be the muse, the vortex of the chaos, the eye of the storm. Rarely is one a light that can sustain an artist for long. Begging to be inspiration is soliciting an eventual decay and burnout of identity.” (Little South of Ordinary by Zoie Fetzer)

“Violence seemed to be his natural state of being, at odds with his nimble movements. My scream bounced off the stone walls of my holding cell, layering over itself and reverberating back again as my body bowed away from the chair. Even the bloodthirsty rats scattered, no longer waiting in line for a bite. Hot tears marked my dirty face but I refused to sob, gritting my teeth until they felt like they would crack. My wrists instinctively strained at the unforgiving rope, damn near dislocating my shoulders from their sockets. He lowered himself, his mouth now at my ear, the new growth of his beard catching strands of my hair. I kept my jaw locked despite its protest, desperate to keep myself grounded.” (The Thief’s Penance by Zoie Fetzer)