By Margery Hannah
As the sun kissed the top of Sacrca’s head while waiting on the sidewalk just outside the Dwight D. Eisenhower National Airport, validated were his dreams of a sparkling place with boundless opportunity. His first thought: The heartland. Though Saccra was far from it, the mid-afternoon gleam reminded him of the hot, peaceful courtship between sky, man, and savannah back home. With an exhale, his jet lag dissipated. Here, he would court a new life. “I like Ike,” he mumbled, recalling the presidential campaign slogan of the airport’s namesake. Though his pragmatic nature led him to computer science, he’d always carried an affinity for history, politics and literature. Americans prefer simple rhyme. Simple rhythm. Wheat blowing in the wind.
He doesn’t wait long; his friend, Malachi, pulls up honking and calling out. “Time to fly!”
“Eagle’s landed,” Saccra responded, tossing his luggage, one suitcase and one duffle bag, carelessly in the car trunk. Though he planned an extended stay, he’d packed light; his life would consist of all new things, including clothes.
He settled on selling insurance, having failed to land a position in his field of study. Ascension was quick, his success largely attributed to his voice, which reflected a variety of baritones with confidence and intelligence. His suave rhetoric never seemed manipulative, but rather honest. And he was honest—for the most part. He was honest with himself and his capabilities, while realizing preconceived societal ideals.
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Tracy Chiles McGhee 
Lisa D. Gray