hiatus : c.t.h.

"city of extremes"

Ciara Reed was born to write.

There was no question about it. She wrote when she was inconsolably sad, she wrote when she was unreasonably happy. She wrote pretentious reflections on the higher issues of society; she composed free verse poetry, or just regular poetry; she wove characters and settings together to fill the pages of a short story. Or a long one. It didn't really matter.

Except for nonfiction. To her, the entire point of writing was to lose yourself, to disappear into someone you'd rather be. They could be evil or wise or benevolent or quirky. No limitations.

Nonfiction was exactly the opposite of what writing was about, and Ciara avoided it at all costs.

The thing about writing was, you didn't have to be a prodigy to do it. And the Reed family was a prodigy family.

Devin Reed, age twenty. Accepted to Oxford University at seventeen for his "exceptional mathematics ability." Maybe not a prodigy on the scale of Mozart, but all the same.

And her parents. Elizabeth and Garrett Reed. Elizabeth was a musical wonder, able to play ten instruments fluently by the time she was fifteen. As of now, she could play just about anything she could pick up in a music store. Garrett was a leading brain surgeon, having started his own hospital with his parents prodigious funds at the tender age of twenty one.

Unfortunately, being, in the words of Ciara's GCSE Creative Writing teacher, "Exceptional for writers years her senior, let alone her peers," did not entail being a prodigy.

Now, with no Creative Writing teacher, she was left to her own devices, and she loved it. Her parents had made a deal with her: one year. One year to figure out her life, and then it was get to university or get a job. That was it. Bottom line.

No plan had surfaced so far. Ciara spent every moment of every day brainstorming, writing, looking for inspiration. And she found her inspiration, mostly, in the city.

London was always alive with people, no matter how cold or rainy. People everywhere, cycling and running and driving and strolling. Tourists and locals and bankers and ex-pats. Ciara always found something to write about there.

So this morning, just like every morning, she was dressing warmly for the frigid January weather and catching the 11:21 train from Virginia Water, a village consisting mainly of a neighborhood, a church, and a high street, to London.

Her descent from the stairs is immediately acknowledged by her mother, who is leaning on the small kitchen stove and waiting for the water to boil. "Going into the city again?" she asks, unsurprised, when she catches a glimpse of Ciara's warm outfit.

"You know I am, Mum," Ciara sighs, not so much from frustration but from a sense of irony. No matter how many times Mum asked, she kept asking. Kept hoping that her daughter was going on a university tour or a job interview.

Her mother sighs, too. But not from a sense of irony.

After a moment of silence,"Tea?"

"Thanks, Mum," Ciara answers, grabbing the thermos from the outstretched hand and plucking her scarf off the hat rack. Wrapping the rather scratchy material around her neck, she calls over her shoulder, "I'll be home around five again!"

"Be careful!" Her mum's voice is abruptly cut off with the slam of the door.

Smiling for the first time that morning, Ciara reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, plugging in her earphones and shoving the left one into her ear. The If You Were A Movie, This Would Be Your Soundtrack EP by Sleeping With Sirens comes on, and Ciara closes her eyes momentarily, enjoying the calming feeling brought on by the cold weather and the song.