My writing wasn’t working out,

and so

I decided to visit my guru

again.

He was Spanish, from a classical age

and he knew things

I could never fully comprehend.

“You have passion, Andre

and your skill is growing, but

you have not yet

learned

to master the s-word.”

“I don’t want to die,” I said.

“That’s why, you will.

If you want immortality,

I can show you how to kill

with s-words—enact your revenge—

live to tell the tale, so to speak.”

“How can I write that way, when I feel so much hate?”

“You hide it, with this.”

A mask fell out of his hand.

“Anonymity is your Ally.

It’ll be your friend,

when you write things down

that will offend.”

I took his mask

and put it on.

It was strange

that being invisible

made me invincible.

“Don’t cowards wear masks?” I asked.

“Yes. And ugly people too, but there are many who would proudly wear the mask of Zorro—Zorro—you can hear the name whispered on the lips of the oppressed. Zorro—it’s a name that rises up like the storm. Zorro—a name that will never die. Now, I’m tired and I am going back to bed. It’s your turn, son.”

My fingers folded around his mask and I put it in my pocket.

I was the fox, the devil, the writer.

I would never stop.