In the late hours of a cold and lifeless cityscape only punctuated by casual bursts of yelling, dense smoke wafts over the hardwood tabletops of Phillies diner. Conversations are hushed and crowds thin out. From an outsider looking in one could almost mistake the place for empty if not for the fluorescent glare of its white piercing lights. Inside the diner, an eloquently dressed couple mutters exchanges of intimacy falling ignorant towards everything other than the reflections of each other's eyes. Yet again aren't all drunken fools of these hours the same way?

Sitting opposite them a thin pale man in his early twenties and covered in a light gray striped suit stares at a blank pad of paper completely lost. Blue ink lines begin to swerve before his eyes until he decides a collision with his head and the table would be quite fitting. Picking up his head from repeated impact on countertop the man takes another swig and continues to ponder.

“Ey Tony whatcha workin on?”

With a smirk of amusement the waiter, a stout poorly shaved man dressed in a tattered white and cyan striped uniform hobbles over toward the lost author cleaning up leftover glasses and rubbing them dry while henched on the counter-side waiting for a response.

“Just a little stuck on my project that's all”

“Wow couldn’t of guessed with all that bangin. What them college twits got ya busting ya back over this time?”

“I got to have a romance novel written by March”

“Ah a romance! Not to worry your cuz is an expert at laying it down easy. Pitch it to me and ill smooth er out for ya”

“You a Romance expert? I'd pay to see you not scare off a woman in a 500 ft radius of your lazy bum. Besides, I haven't even started writing yet. I have no idea what's going to happen.”

Leaning in to count on grease-stained fingers The waiter slowly begins to ramble off suggestions.

“Well lets see ya got ya lover boy all spiffed up and confident, then ya got ya chick hella hot and head over heels for the fella, and then ya got ya conflict or ya troubles or whatever the guys gotta fight off, and to win over the girl. Guy saves the girl, they kiss maybe a smidge more, the end it ain't get any harder than that.”

“It isn't that simple Paully. What about tone, characterization, and setting? The story has to come across as realistic and in-depth if I even want a shot at passing”

“All you flits gotta make everything so complicated. Setting yeesh, it's a love story for crying out loud. If I mess around with some chick up in Durkly or down by that fancy place on 63rd it don't make much difference. Ya just gotta lay it on smooth, and if that don't work buy em over like that chum over there. It don't matter how tight her knockers are it just matters how loose ya pocket is. Ain't that right sweetheart?”

“Huh?” turning her head in a half-drunken glaze the woman stares back utterly puzzled as to if someone said anything at all.

“I asked if you two lovebirds wanted another fill me up?”

“Oh, sure daddy’s got it covered don't ya Bill?”

Turning his wide jawed sack of a head the man mutters a consent pushing his wallet further up the counter then falling back into the woman half-conscious.

“You’re such a charmer”

Paully turns back to Tony with a smirk.

“I give em another hour till he runs dry, or drops dead. Now, where were we?”

“I don't know Paully, I just…I don't know my story yet, and the deadlines are coming up. It's super stressful and I'm struggling to even plan things out.”

“It can't be that bad. I'm sure ya bright enough to figure it out”

“Well, It's not like you would ever know how tough it actually is.”

From the corner the woman interjects.

“Hey, Petey ya mind fetching us another glass?”

“Sure thing mam” Paully smiles at her pouring a new cup, then turns back round to Tony.

“Aw shucks, how sweet of ya cuz. Remember who busted their butt to help uncle Darwin get you into Harvey in the first place only to catch ya makin out with the tweed jackets.”

“I'm trying my best! I bet you couldn't even read half the words on page one of our textbooks. It takes real passion Paully, not just a thoughtless jamming of pen and paper.”

“Oh Paully it's so hard! woe is me! I can't write a story! Two months in and you're already complaining! Picked up some unpleasant jobs just to fund your bull. Best stop your mopin less ya want me to serve up a knuckle sandwich from the back.”

screech!

The sudden sound of burning rubber squeaks through the air as a jet-black convertible turns a corner and passes the diner. Glass shatters and gunfire barrages the establishment forcing Paully and Tony to dive onto the ground. They wait a minute or so then stand up slowly taking in the damage dealt. The two lovers lay sprawled out on the tile floor drenched in a pool of red blood. Slowly Grabbing a mop, Paully begins cleaning while Tony shakes completely unnerved.

“Sh*t, Tony you wanted a Romance. Here's one right at ya feet just gushing with love.”

“What the hell just…”

Hushing his cousin and continuing to mop the tile completely blank-faced Paully thins the dark red pool below.

“Go home Tony, I'll clean up and get this all covered. Best not interfere with ya studies and all that.”

Later that night Tony lays stomach up in his apartment listening to the ticking of the clock. As the minute hand spins his eyes do not fall into so much as a tired haze. It could've been him. He can practically feel the bullet ripping through his skin through his skull and into his brain with warm blood oozing out onto the wretched tile floor below. He could've died with nothing to his name, complaining about his writing to his cousin, and washed up on cheap booze over a love story left unfinished. 

He jolts upward suddenly as his mind clicks into action, walks to his desk, pulls out some paper, and begins work. Writing away throughout the night he finishes his project in record time. Reading it over he looks at what he wrote so far; a simple story of two lovers going on a journey to the ends of the earth together. Gazing at the letters Tony can't help but realize the truth. His story is generic. It's bland and unrealistic. The characters are flat, barely showing any personality and hardly taking any risks for the pursuit of love. The challenges posed to the characters aren't challenges but merely minor hills one could mistake for even terrain. Does anyone get hurt on their journey? No. Does anyone have their beliefs significantly questioned? No. Does anyone feel rather than just do? No. but at least the piece is done. It’s due tomorrow he might as well settle and pray he’ll pass. 

Tossing the paper aside in disgust that he would ever write anything so fake Tony heads to bed head num, and ears ringing. The next day he reluctantly hands it to his professor, a stout pale man with long worn eyes. Walking back to his desk, Tony sits dreadful of the results. Time crawls slowly as students quietly watch the professor reading over their works. Every once in a while the old man will cough and sputter, drawing a stern expression over some pieces but for the most part, it's hard to tell what he's thinking. This process continues for some time until finally The professor looks up and dismisses the class.

The next day the professor tosses papers back into the seats of his students with a hefty scowl. All Tony wants is to pass. He has to pass. 

Looking over his right shoulder Tony spots one of his fellow students, a bright girl with large circle glasses and a yellow sweater knit by her grandmother. Tony always thought she was at the top of the class, always asking questions and constantly writing even during lectures. He looks closer. She's crying. On his desk, his paper sits facedown staring back at him. Slowly Tony musters the courage to turn the page. A+. This isn't right, did the professor mix up papers? Surely Tony should have failed or at least passed by a hair but never getting so much as an A. This has to be a mistake. Suddenly from the middle of the room, the professor announces.

“Upon reading your works closely This class has demonstrated a complete lack of common understanding in the composition of romance pieces as well as simple story structures for that matter. Piece after piece I grew more disappointed in your amateur techniques and ill-experienced writing styles. Everyone in this classroom except Tony Amato better prepare for a reckoning or leave my class. I expect a fresh stack of free write stories on my desk by next class, and they better be good. Class dismissed.”

Students silently flow out of the classroom with notebooks held firm over their hearts, off into the afternoon cityscape, Tony however waits approaching his professor after the majority has cleared out.

“Umm, sir I don't really think I deserve the grade you gave me.”

“No one likes a try-hard, Tony. If you think I'll loosen my grading for you from false modesty, think again. Your piece was excellent meaning I expect the same quality on the next. Now If you'll excuse me I have an appointment to catch. Good day.”

“I wasn't trying to be…'' Tony starts, then hesitates, allowing the professor to leave. Alone Tony grabs his papers, shuts off the light, and leaves the building.

Back at his apartment Tony sits back down in an all too familiar wooden chair hunched over yet another blank piece of paper. He wrote the best romance out of the whole class yet how come he isn't jumping with joy? The professor, a man of harsh criticisms, called his piece excellent, surely that's something to celebrate over. And yet here Tony is back at his desk, and angry at success. Why does he feel this way? Deep down Tony knows he's just hesitant to believe it. Hesitant to believe how pointlessness his complaints really were. Paully was right, love stories are just simple happily ever after’s, and the professor’s grading is all the supporting evidence needed to prove it. 

Ring! Ring!

Tony puts down his pen and turns away from the blank page.

“Hello, this is Tony Amato speaking.”

“Your cousin Paully’s dead. The funeral is this Sunday. Dress nice.”

Silence.

Tony grabs his stomach as it curls in on itself. His skin juts out in every direction. His eyes are shot and teary. Like a bear trap clamping down, hard reality bites his whole body until all is numb. While Paully was being nice Tony complained over letters and now that's the last moments Paully ever had with him. Screaming Tony grabs his paper, crunches it into a ball, and chucks it at the wall. He doesn't want to write. He doesn't want to write another flat pointless love story. He doesn't want to live a flat pointless story. Reality’s a b*tch filled with bullets, booze, and bloodshed; a violent rollercoaster of tests and tribulations, but without accepting it and struggling through words will never have meaning. He's been trapped dreaming for too long accepting half-hearted success and praise without true struggle. No longer. Tony realizes he must get to work.

Years pass and never again does Tony step foot into his classroom. He's too busy. Busy on his next novel; a realistic murder mystery set in modern-day deep within the crime-ridden city. Reading over the draft Tony’s editor criticizes him for never writing upbeat stories. Tony shrugs; he's not one for romanticized writing.