Open Question: What do you think of my prologue?
Russell Miller waited in his hotel room, exhausted from his recent plane trip. He gazed out the window, observing the lighted night of Houston, Texas. The streets were busy with the white and red blurs from moving vehicles moving in a slow and steady line.
Russell was on edge and unsure. He made the trip to Houston for one reason, and for one reason only. That reason would either be a hit or miss, and it would also be the turning point in his journalism career.
He glanced at his watch. She’s five minutes late, he thought to himself as he rose from his chair and walked to the counter by the front door. He grabbed the container of coffee and removed the clear, plastic lid. The sharp aroma of the grounded grains wafted through his nostrils and lifted his sleepy eyes. He scooped the coffee into the filtered basket, filled the reservoir with water, and flipped the switch.
He peeked at the time again. I guess she changed her mind, he sighed. I don’t blame her. Impatient with the coffeemaker’s length of wait, he poured the little bit of brew gathering at the bottom of the pot into his mug, and took a bitter sip.
He walked back to the small table with two empty chairs, disappointed that the testimony for his documentary wasn’t going to arrive. and I thought I finally had it, the one witness account that every american journalist wanted.
He sighed as he picked up his video recorder and examined the amount of material he had so far, narrating the story in his head as he watched.
Once a quaint school, he recited as he reviewed the clip of the school’s large, brick buildings hidden under years of white paint, St. Maria’s Catholic School of Music and art was the desired destination of any aspiring art major. The screen changed to show the wide, white sidewalk shaded from the limbs of the even rows of trees planted parallel with the sidewalk. The school reformed their Catholics-only policy in the 60s, allowing students of different religious backgrounds to enroll. The shot of the geese wading into the campus pond flashed before him. The school had a great reputation, producing students who were successful in their fields. The night view of the school appeared. a first-time visitor may be awed by the youthful and beautiful appeal of the educational institution for the arts.
a lump grew in his throat when the shot of the vacated dorm building flashed before him, "… but this is what is seen from a naïve outsider… because the school remains tarnished from that fateful… what’s that word?"
He continued to watch his footage, completely stumped of words. On his camera were the front steps of the old girls’ dormitory, covered with small, but memorable mementos of pictures, notes, cards, and many other favors. But what stood out the most, was the memorial placed in front of the locked doors. The large, white cross made of marble with the inscription: In Memoriam followed by the list of all the victims’ names.
“Thirty four lives,” Russell whispered, “that could have been thirty-five.”
He jumped when a slight knock sounded on his door.
"Could it be?" He stopped the roll of the film, placed the camera on the table, and hurried to open the door.
a beautiful woman with long, reddish-blonde hair and brown eyes stood on the other side. She was petite in size and greatly swallowed by her tan overcoat.
“Ms. Jammons?” Russell asked, though he recognized her immediately.
She nodded.
He widened the door and closed it once she walked over the threshold.
Ms. Jammons glanced around the hotel room with a worried look, noticing that the young journalist who invited her hadn’t been a guest for long.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” Russell said as he stared at her small hands covered with black, leather gloves.
She noticed his gaze and promptly shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “I know I’m late,” Ms. Jammons said. “To be honest, I was standing outside the door for about ten minutes, trying to think of a reason not to do this.”
Russell grew nervous. “Ms. Jammons, whether you decide to do this or not, I am still thankful that you met with me tonight.”
She nodded as she looked around the room which became deafened by a disturbing silence.
The coffeepot’s gurgling growl interrupted the quiet and grabbed Russell’s attention. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Russell rubbed his callused hands together. “May I take your coat?”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
Russell grew uneasy with Ms. Jammons’ reluctance. I should have known this would be a mistake, he thought as he looked at her worried face.
“Would you like to have a seat?” He motioned towards the small table. She hesitantly nodded as she walked towards the table, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs. Russell sat in the other chair, and looked at the tortured woman across the table. He inhaled deeply, and exhaled. “Ms. Jammons? I understand how d
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