The Black Wing is an epic, high, fantasy, dark, and sci-fi series with romantic encounters and unexpected turns.
It's the year 2200 - Awaiting the birth of her first child, Lola is adjusting to her new life near a small town in Washington State. But instead of baby showers, the memories of her ruthless mother and abusive husband follow her from the big city of California. From the deep regions of the Okanogan Forest, she meets a silver-haired woman named Avalon, but Lola is unaware she has committed a crime.
Since ancient times Elites have served the people of Osois by offering protection, but under the Emperor's rule, they only serve his will and that of his advisors. Now that Avalon has fled Osois to protect her only daughter, one was sent to eliminate her.
“Lola, are you listening?” Dr. Graham lowers his head. His lenses drop to better look at me, his gray eyebrows lift, wrinkling his forehead. I revert from his blue eyes and focus on his white coat — bleached to the point of causing a migraine. The polished wood of his burgundy desk reflects a gloss on each corner. I can imagine the trouble of moving this high-quality lumber through the waiting room, past the narrow hall, and through my obstetrician’s office. This desk would look better in the office of a CEO, but destiny can be cruel. Although Dr. Graham keeps it tidy, it collects dust on the corners, and I see a chip on one of the legs. I can never afford a desk like his, it may have cost him a fortune — I blink out my thoughts. Dr. Graham is no longer frustrated, he appears to be on the next level — furious. His eyelids shut as he withdraws a deep breath. “If the first snow hits in November, it will cover the town and roads with twenty-two inches for the year. But your area will get over thirty inches. Do you understand the challenge of your commute?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Yes?” he repeats, “Yes — what?”
“That it will snow.”
“I understand Californians in the south don’t need to worry about snow, but you’re in Washington State. The temperature will drop next month, the rain will be heavy, and the fog here will cover your precious forest like ticks in the summer. A pregnant woman such as yourself should live in town, not three hours from an emergency center. What will happen if you go into labor in that cabin of yours? Don’t tell me you’ll be driving yourself, Lola? Lola — you are not listening to me!” Dr. Graham swipes his glasses off and places them on his desk. He rubs his temple like the mere sight of me led him to grow a headache. The tension between us has worsened, so I look at the new carpet beneath my feet, golden weaves trail around the Persian rug, and surrounds a pouncing roaring lion.
My doctor is not amused because my mouth is locked and secure like the vault of a bank. He knows I’m not going to give him any feedback, I clear my throat as I am unable to challenge his well-opinionated observations. They’re uninvited observations I have no appreciation for, Dr. Graham looks away in defeat and flips through my medical chart.
I can admit I’m coming off as rude, but this is the only way I can avoid telling the truth. What Dr. Graham sees on the surface is a stubborn woman, but underneath I am insecure, and I don’t have a resilient attribute in my portfolio. I’m more like a virus that infects positivity with a shade of pessimism. There is nothing good to say after my name, and sharing anything beyond that are followed by nervous replies, sweaty palms, and stutters. I left California two months ago, and still, my memories of that sunny state light like a new flame on my mind. Now my palms are sweating, and the walls in Dr. Graham’s office are closing in — it’s coming back. My throat tightens to block the airway into my lungs. The patterns on the Persian rug below are spiraling. Dews of sweat gather on each hair follicle on my head. I need to talk to my obstetrician before he notices my jittery teeth. I clear my throat to remedy the tension of having a brain that runs like an engine but can’t say more than two words.