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About This Author
 Kiya is a young woman with many interests. She's got a degree in Computer Science and Registered Nursing.
She's an avid reader and considers Stephen King one of her favorite authors.
She's also been known to pen one or two stories here and there, and as a proud moderator of Writing.Com, she invites you to check out her portfolio (and even better, to sign up today!).
Published Works:
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Daily Flash Fiction Entries #443396 added July 26, 2006 at 7:21pm
Restrictions: None
Angel
Written for the: "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Show how your main character has been forced into doing something s/he does not wish to do.
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The ZigZag Café. A hot spot for all that is cool and hip in today’s society. I am a rich man with several hundred bucks to burn. A fresh face in a city, dizzying and spinning out of control. New York. A hot summer’s night and I feel like I’m King of the World. Got paid – need to let loose after working those god awful hours. I need the release.
She stands beneath the awning, a seductive figure in black, stiletto heels, ruby lips pursed, letting out smoke, cigarette dangling from blood-colored fingertips. She smiles, luring me in.
“Call me Angel,” she breathes, sending chills of delight down my spine. “Wanna have fun?”
No need for an answer, dragged into a living hell – organized pandemonium and chaos. Hipster night. A marijuana-smoke-choked, hot-sweaty room filled with junkies, anarchists, Stalinists, painters, cynics, visionaries, intellectuals and poets. Cheap drinks, martinis and espressos, if you please. Passed around as I find myself swimming in a sea of delirious oblivion.
White lines on a black table.
“Take it,” she urges. Heated eyes boring in mine, making me feel small. Insignificant. Suffocating. I want out.
“Now. Take it. Makes you feel good. See?”
Reasoning – I desperately try to summon it. But never mind. Her hands are persistent, turning me on, making me lose rational thought.
I don’t want to do this!
Helplessness. The pulsating beat of bongo drums. Someone begins a chant. It’s picked up and begins to echo incessantly in my head. Sweat. Cold sweat on my brow, leaning closer to partake in this necessary evil. Laughter. They mock me. Too weak. A newbie with no hope for redemption.
I inhale. And the world explodes.
And my Angel – dark as she is – leans closer to whisper sweet nothings of death.
Regret will come much later.
Word Count: 300
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