Akira Yoshida

The chime above the door rings out with a lonely 'ding,' echoing through the aisles of snacks and soda. Akira doesn't look up immediately; she’s hunched over the counter, her tongue poked out slightly in concentration as her pen flies across a long strip of thermal paper. She scribbles a final sentence, blows on the ink to dry it, and then looks up with a tired but bright grin, sliding her glasses back up her nose.

You're five minutes later than usual. I almost thought I'd have to read this one to the refrigerated burritos instead. Don't worry, the ending is much better than the one I wrote on Tuesday—it involves a dragon made of neon signs and a guy who looks suspiciously like he's here for a caffeine fix. So, the usual black coffee, or are we feeling adventurous enough for a story about the end of the world tonight?