It took a few minutes before Juan got up. This was a heavier night than usual. He continued his walk, for a brief stretch following Zeke”a shadow, but instead of taking a right into the alley, he turned left to continue down the storefronts.

  He ended up saying hi to a few folk, some coming back from work, others starting their evening shifts. He ended up getting a handful of candies and a Christian brochure from a few grandmothers waiting by the bus stop for their church shuttle. He tossed the brochure out of sight but did pop a candy into his mouth.

  Mhmm, Tamarindo.

  His trip to the Library Lounge took longer than expected, and he had missed the first story. He came into the shop and found that Maria had been expecting him, reserving one of the last full tops for him.

  He hung his coat up by the entrance and scooted into the booth. It was a phone free bar but he wanted to keep an eye out for anything from Zeke. Maria would understand it. He ordered a caipirinha from the bartender, who gestured towards the booth - he’d bring it over.

  Having sat down, a waitress came over and left a picture of water and a glass.

  “Just in time Juan, want the usual?”

  A nod sufficed for an answer. Juan turned the glass around in his hand, before pouring a smooth pour of water, careful not to let any ice cubes tip over the lip. He didn't want the clinking of the frozen water to break the ice. Story night was about to start.

  He looked over at the board, and read the lists of storytellers today. It was a good list. Maria wasn't very tall, so she either had a really tall ladder or a stick, because the list almost stretched from the very top to the very bottom. The sign up sheet must have been full. The first person, as tradition had it, was new. Her name was Farah, and her slot started at 9. They all had half an hour to settle in some more.

  His usual came in, an espresso martini with sweet Dominican rum instead of vodka. His Caribbean sensibilities meant he could not not combine the two glorious elixirs. A waitress joked that he had his upper, downer, and hydration at all times. He wasn't super sure what she had meant but got the general gist.

  The half hour went by fast. Juan did his fair share of people watching, watching people trickle in. It fun to speculate who was the storyteller and who was the audience. Which groups came to partake, which groups came as support.

  The dead giveaway was a small crib sheet - folded and unfolded many times before being tucked away into a pocket - that was opener energy. Tonight the opener, Farah, was a middle eastern woman - in her late 20s at most. She came with some friends who cheered her on.

  She walked on stage nervously, tapped the mic, and started.

  ??———————— A Car Wreck ————————-??

  So, I grew up in Rafah, Palestine, with my mother before coming to New Adelaide, and while many things have changed, some important, life threatening changes haven't - my mother's driving… I swear I’m shocked I’m alive.

  Farah’s voice was honey sweet and expressive - almost expressive as her hands that helped shape her works in the air. The gentle laughter in the room encouraged her.

  Earlier last week, I was waiting at a red light, where I suddenly was hearing the large, long drawn out honks. Sitting there confused, I watched as a car pulled up next to me in the turning lane, and low and behold, it was my mother. She waved enthusiastically at me, and somehow without looking, took off the moment the light turned green, sliding in front of me and zooming off. The woman should not be driving.

  Which is really what this story is about, my mother. Back when we were in Palestine, before we came as refugees. Many things were different about our lives back then, but one thing had stayed the same, her crazy, batshit driving.

  When I was in high school, my mom would help chauffeur me around, taking me to and from school. As would expect from my anecdote, she was, and still is, a reckless driver. One day, on our way to school, we were running late. Leaving the house in a rush, we literally left little dust clouds behind us. She took a turn way too fast. Somehow wreckless, until then.

  Skreech, Crash.

  The car flipped and rolled, crashing into a concrete barrier. I jerked around in my seat. Thankfully, I had my seat belt on and as the car bounced back to the right side, I ended up swinging back up-right.

  When you think about reckless drivers, what do you see?

  Yes…. No seatbelt.

  I turned around to see my mom passed out, bleeding from the top of her head.

  And I - Farah gestured at her body - all 5 foot 2, maybe a little concussed, had to open the door and drag my mother out of the car.

  Unfortunately, the police were just across the street. They were looking down at their devices, lifting their heads up scanning the situation from a distance.

  Please don't come. Please don't come. Please don't come.

  One of the policemen laughed and went back to his phone.

  Thank God.

  If you know, you know.

  You do not want the Israeli police to get involved. Sometimes, a car wreck isn't a car wreck to them, and I know people who have gotten shot because their “accident” seemed suspicious, or as a clear terror attack to them. It was easier to put a bullet between my eyes than face the risk of an IED and be the judge, jury, and executioner for a botched assassination attempt.

  Seeing them turn around gave me some peace, and my mind was finally able to catch up to the situation. I was covered in blood, mostly my mother's.

  “Help! Help! Help!” I screamed for help at the bystanders, the people on the street. A few middle aged men in a nearby restaurant got up and jogged over to us. And mind you, this is in the Middle East, when sometimes, a story isn't complete without some good old misogyny.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “This is what happens when we let women drive.” one of them yelled at his friend, as he lifted his leg over the concrete barricade.

  Something about the whole situation… made me snap. I screamed.

  “Go away”

  “Gooooo aaawwwaaaayyyy!!!!”

  I screamed.

  The man looked at me offended, and disgusted. He called his friends off and they went back to their table, throwing dirty looks over to us as they continued with their brunch.

  I looked down again at my bloody hands and across at my mother. I looked back at the nonplussed police and the misogynistic men. Somehow, I felt better off without either of their help.

  And I went back to yelling for help. It took a while, and it was a blur, but I remember the ambulance… the hospital… the concerned look on my father's face, my brother crying at the hospital bed. But I didn’t remember who helped us, and I don’t think it matters anymore, but as they say, the third time, the charm.

  But I do clearly remember my mom, the blood dripping down her forehead, staining both her clothes and the sand on the ground. I remember holding her hand, my fingers making out a weak pulse. The salty taste of my tears that flowed down my face.

  I was thinking about this story earlier today, as I was preparing for tonight, and my mother, once again, pulled up next to me again. Honked obnoxiously and yelled at me. I flipped her off.

  She looked at me, paused, mouth open in shock. It slowly curled into a smile, and she raised her hand, her middle finger unraveling out, and pulled off cackling.

  Blowing a red light. In a busy street. Not a care in the world. My mother, and we just live in her world.

  ??————————————————-??

  Appreciative applause went around the room, and Farah beamed as she walked off stage. Apparently, it was her first time telling the story outside some close friends, who got up to hug and kiss her in celebration.

  It would be a few minutes before the next one. The staff was going around the room taking orders and delivering food and drink. Before Juan was going to take the chance to take a quick smoke break - and got out of the booth. The whole thing was wasted on just one person. He stacked and collected the cups and brought it to the bar.

  He paid and tipped. He would be back, but wanted to close out before he took a step out to smoke. Two heavy stories were unleashed on him in short order, and he needed a nicotine break.

  He pulled out his phone, checking that no one had texted him. He was trying to keep an eye on Zeke. No new messages, no new calls. He decided to text Zeke to check if he was ok. As he fiddled with his phone in his hand, he raised his other to open the door.

  It swung in fast and hard, A woman fell backward through the door and into him, bowling him into the ground. As they got up, Juan made awkward eye contact with the younger woman - who looked to be in her early thirties.

  And that is how Juan met Juliette.

  Before her disastrous entrance into the library lounge, Jules was already having a chaotic day. Jules and her friends stepped out of the subway car and into the brisk November weather just a few minutes ago.

  The girlfriends had just moved to New Adelaide and made it a recurring habit each week to meet somewhere fun for dinner and go to the Library Lounge to listen to stories on Storyteller Nights every other week.

  This week, they had Thai food all the way in Little Thailand, which made the ride to the Library Lounge a longer than usual. Thankfully, Fairview station's main exit opened up a few storefronts away from Library Lounge.

  “Come on now!” Jules, “I want to get us a table!” She powered to the front of the group and exited the turnstile. Looking back to a few reassuring smiles

  The young women finished their bobas and fruit teas that they were sipping on and tossed them into a handy waste bin, following after Jules one after another. In their rush, one of the girls stepped in front of a hooded teen, who knocked her down on the floor. He apologized and helped her up before running off again.

  “The poor boy was almost in tears, he felt so bad…” she said afterwards, which was almost good enough for Jules, who was already in momma bear mode - she told her friend to check her pockets and purse - everything was still there.

  After dusting themselves off, they continued to make their way to Maria's at one point making a quick penguin walk as they shuffled towards the bar. Not wanting to expose her hands, Jules turned around, using her butt to push the doors behind her.

  The first door opened just fine, and the gaggle of girls crowded into the covered waiting area set up outside the restaurant. Noticing an empty booth near the front, Jules excitedly turned around to tell her friends, as she eagerly backed into the second door, which… fell out from behind her.

  “OUCH” she heard from behind her, from the random person who broke her fall.

  It was an older black man who had caught her fall.

  Are you alright?’ He had a distinct Trinidadian accent. She could smell a little rum on his breath though he seemed all there. Dressed in a shirt and jeans, he looked younger than he probably was - his scruffy beard gave that away.

  He lifted her off of his lap and onto the ground beside them. Another bar patron helped him up, and he in turn offered his hand to Jules.

  She reached up for his hand and grasped it. Pulled up onto her feet in a swift, yet gentle motion.

  Before she could say thanks, the building rumbled. A light murmur that made the lighting jingle and bottles of liquor jostled on the shelves - making ringing noises that bounced around the room.

  Everyone braced themselves - those who were standing rebalanced themselves. Jules, of course, fell down again. This time quickly getting back on her feet by herself, intuitively crouching down ever so slightly to lower her center of gravity.

  What was that? Someone from the back of the room yelled.

  Dozens of people brought out their phones, raising the bright blue lights to their faces. In a dark bar, it was as if each and everyone was shining a flashlight to their face.

  “It looks like there was a random earthquake, " one of the younger men yelled out. Nothing from the National Emergency Council - we should be fine. My discord is blowing up with people talking about it, so it's not just us.”

  As everyone processed the information, they were comforted by the almost non-stop buzzing from friends and family sharing that they were all right.

  Jules checked her phone, nothing. She was with all her friends and couldn't imagine anyone to…

  Bloop, bloop. Two messages came in after quick succession

  Mom: AN EARTHQUAKE IS DESTROYING OUR HOME, WE ALMOST DIED.

  Dad: All good hon, just a little shake. A few dishes fell onto the ground.

  Mom: ARE YOU SAFE?

  Normally, Jules would be annoyed, they were a quarter of a world away, why would they feel the same earthquake? But against all odds, her mother was right.

  Jules: With my friends outside, we are all good.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. Her friend pulled her out of the building, sternly holding a corner of her jacket,

  “Let's go.”

  They rushed out of the building, along with the majority of the other customers. They had to take a breath in order to process what just happened. It was a quick break, not longer than 5 or 6 minutes, but it was just long enough for the aftershock that rumbled the ground and shaked the buildings, knocking some of the people onto the ground.

  Alarms started to go off, it made Jules question how many loudhorns were installed in the city and where they were concealed.

  Standing outside in the Plaza, as far away from any building they could be, Jules, her friends looked up. She heard the chopping of a helicopter in the distance - the noise echoed through the city.

  “Let's go into the station!” Juliette yelled at her friends, they didn’t know what was going on, but Juliette felt oddly exposed in the open air. She'd rather live longer covered in rubble, than to be pelted to death by the rubble.