Los Angeles. 1928. Adam Bosch, a young millionaire obsessed with lifeâs greatest gifts: money, booze, and women, hurls down a rabbit hole one night when he meets a beautiful and intoxicating dame like no other, Antonia Seranov, as cold and hostile as the Russian winters of her homeland. With her, his charm and good looks prove useless. With her, doubt creeps in for the first time. With her, heâs no player but a pawn in a game he knows not how to play. And the further he falls, the more danger that awaits.
Thrust into the Underworld of LA, he bears witness a meeting filled withâŚ
The chief of police, an aggressive man with an aggressive appetite.
A teenage girl playing the detective in a world sheâs yet to fully understand.
And Antoniaâs twin brother, Alexei, as beautiful and intoxicating as she, and another advocate for lifeâs greatest gifts: money, booze and⌠men.
There, Adam witnesses the seeds that call for the end of one kingpin and the rise of another. A brilliant and bloody scheme that tangles all these characters and the one unknown variable.
Adam.
Los Angeles. 1928. Adam Bosch, a young millionaire obsessed with lifeâs greatest gifts: money, booze, and women, hurls down a rabbit hole one night when he meets a beautiful and intoxicating dame like no other, Antonia Seranov, as cold and hostile as the Russian winters of her homeland. With her, his charm and good looks prove useless. With her, doubt creeps in for the first time. With her, heâs no player but a pawn in a game he knows not how to play. And the further he falls, the more danger that awaits.
Thrust into the Underworld of LA, he bears witness a meeting filled withâŚ
The chief of police, an aggressive man with an aggressive appetite.
A teenage girl playing the detective in a world sheâs yet to fully understand.
And Antoniaâs twin brother, Alexei, as beautiful and intoxicating as she, and another advocate for lifeâs greatest gifts: money, booze and⌠men.
There, Adam witnesses the seeds that call for the end of one kingpin and the rise of another. A brilliant and bloody scheme that tangles all these characters and the one unknown variable.
Adam.
âWell, Adam...â Lucy whispers his name in a tone that in no way conceals her greatest desire. Him. She wants him. She needs him. All of him. Sheâs never felt this way before, giving in to her most primitive instinct: lust.
Thatâs not the type of girl she is. Was. Hailing from a small town in the Midwest, she was raised by a pastor and was taught right from wrong. This. This is wrong. Why then, does it feel so right? Itâs the city, Los Angeles, itâs the age, the Roaring Twenties; it shifts your demeanor, it alters your mindset, it makes you do things youâd never thought youâd do, turns you into someone youâd never thought youâd become. The city, it beat and vanquished the girl. The era, it gave birth to an independent woman that yearns for freedom and danger.
He embodies those very traits. Freedom. Danger.
She bites her upper lip and crosses her legs, squeezing her muscles together so she can feel that sensational pressure. Perhaps a bit too much pressure. She lets out the faintest of moans, thankfully obscured by the sound of smooth jazz taking hold of the cozy, speakeasy establishment; Nadiaâsâbeaming with patrons of the upper class, all dressed in their best, men in three-piece suits and women in skirts. Blushing, then running a rebellious strand of red hair behind her ear, she conceals her embarrassment with a sip of gin.
He doesnât notice.
He hasnât noticed. He takes another hungry puff of his second cigarette and washes it down with a chug of whiskey. Sitting on a black stool with his back to the bar, his eyes remain fixated on the Russian singer onstage that has captured his attention.
âHey.â The wealthy bachelor calls for the bartender in a dumbfounded state. âHey,â he repeats, snapping his fingers. The bartender, an intimidating man hailing from the singerâs homeland, approaches with his arms crossed.
âWhatâs her name?â the bachelor asks. The bartender doesnât answer, forcing the bachelor to huff with impatience. âDonât you speak English? You were able to take my drink order, werenât you? Her name, what is it?â Again, no answer.
At least not from him.
Fuming, Lucy, who sits next to the bachelor, clears her throat. She canât believe him. What is he doing? Why is he doing it? He approached her. He began the conversation. He made her feel likeâlike this! She declares all of this with a look and a huff. What are you doing?
His response?
He rolls his eyes and says, âYouâre still here?â
She could slap him. She should slap him. Her hand twitches as she contemplates the thought. She should have known better, she should have heeded all the negative rumors surrounding the young millionaire, Adam Bosch: pompous, ignorant, arrogant, disrespectful, a womanizer, a scumbag, a kind but deceiving smile, the list goes on and on; for every one good trait Adam has, ten bad ones always followed. But alas, they were all rumors. She should have known better. Surrendering with a sigh, she feels a flush of guilt and disgust for the lust that overtook her. Stomach churning, head spiraling, she leaves the establishment with her head lowered, ashamed for what she was about to do, ashamed for what the city has turned her into.
***
Adam watches her leave without a word, without a thought. She was pretty. Real pretty. Theyâve all been. But⌠theyâre distractions, brief pleasures, some last a day, some last a week, and only a select handful are able to ride the Bosch mobile for a good month. None more than that. It goes against who he is. True loveâs kiss? Thereâs no such thing. Someone to share a bed for the rest of his life? No, thank you. He may have a king-sized bed but thatâs only to accommodate the various⌠positions he undertakes with the dame of the day. The women he fancies vary according to his mood.
For the past hour, he was in the mood for the shy and silent type. The redheadâhe canât even remember her nameâLucy? Claudia? Lucy, heâll go with that. Lucy was the lucky dame of the hourâhis way of killing time while he waited for the Russian singer heâs been dying to see, the highlight of Nadiaâs. A risky move for Adam. Why? This place was owned by Samuel Dawson, the Al Capone of LA.
Adam had Lucy the moment he approached her at the bar. Heâs aware of the effect he has on the opposite sex and he loves it. Seducing them just might be his favorite part. Everyone has a different reaction; Lucyâs was biting her upper lip and crossing her legs. The more he talked and allured her, the more she did it. Charm her with a few words, she bit her upper lip. Graze the back of her neck and whisper in her ear, she crossed her legs. He continued until she was seconds away from taking him then and there. UntilâŚ
Her.
The Russian singer.
Taking a puff of his cigarette, he returns his attention to her as she begins her final song. The lights dim, the establishment grows as silent as the brutish bartender, and a single spotlight shines on her. Raven hair with curls that lure and entrap, eyes far more entrancing and snaring than the goddess of love, one emerald, one azure; she takes the microphone with a silk gloved hand, black, and awaits the first notes of the saxophone before she begins the highlight of her act, a slow melody about torched love.
Once upon a time
When I was six or maybe nine
I was told of love and all the beauty it bestowed
Love from then on out
Became a wonder to behold
A dream that cradled me until the age of twenty-three
He had me at first glance
Like a fool, I took the dance
And learned of love and all the beauty it bestowed
The taste was bittersweet
Not a wonder, not my dream
A dance much different than the one I was told
Loveâs a wicked beast
One that crumbles, one that bleeds
A dance much different than the one I was told
Learn to play the game
Learn its rules and all its schemes
For in this life, love, thereâs no such thing
For in this life, love, thereâs no such thing
When the song ends, she bows as she receives the warm praise, none of the patrons getting out of hand. In mid-bow, she tilts her head and catches Adamâs gaze. With a tantalizing smile, she makes an abrupt turn and exits stage right, the applause continuing long after sheâs gone.
âMy, oh, my, a dame like that, well, theyâre in short supply, arenât they, buddy boy?â asks a man with a high-pitched voice and a sharp tongue that causes more harm than good. Adam recognizes that voice instantly. The prince of Los Angelesâ biggest radio station, KMDM.
âDickie?â The man looks the way he sounds; small head, slim body, thin lips, narrow eyes, a receding hairline despite his young age, unattractive in every way possible. Were it not for his social and marketing skillsâno, more importantly, were it not for his father, he wouldnât have any luck with even the ugliest hen.
âDickie Rohan? What the hell are you doing here? If your father finds you here, heâll kill you, and me!â They exchange a handshake, Adam careful not to break the manâs weak grip.
âOh, for the love ofâenough about my old man, jeez, the man grinds my ass day in and day. Iâm my own man, you know?â
âI know.â
Cigarette in hand, Dickie leans against the bar and watches the stagehands at work. âI noticed the way you looked at her, you know?â
âWhatâs her name? They never announced it.â
Dickie inhales slowly. âThey never do. Word of warning, buddy boy, thatâs a rabbit hole you donât want to fall into, literally and figuratively.â
âYou know her?â
âI know of her.â
âAnd?â
âAnd nothing. Iâve said what I needed to say.â
âWhat do you know?â Adam presses, patience wearing thin.
Dickie clicks his tongue and smiles. âAdam, Iâm insulted. I thought you knew me? My answers arenât free, information comes at a priceâyou canât get something for nothing, itâs the way of the world, you know?â
With a frustrated grunt, Adam finishes his drink before he slams it on the counter. âWhat do you want?â
Biding his time, Dickie takes another puff. He lives for this, getting under peopleâs skin. âBuddy boy, you know what I want.â
âI canât.â
Dickie shrugs his shoulders. âThen I canât help you.â
âDickie, you know Iââ
âI know you want that fine piece of Russian meat, and I know youâre willing to do anything to get to her.â He puts out his cigarette, calls after the bartender, orders an Old Fashioned, and patiently waits for it to be served. Only after he takes that first sip does he continue. âLook around you,â he gestures with his drink, âlook at the people, the performers, what do you see?â
âRussians.â
âAnd lots of them. Buddy boy, this place ainât like the hole in the walls you visit.â
Growing defensive, Adam huffs. He prefers the general public not know about his night life, the speakeasies he visits. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
Dickie grows silent for a moment. âOf course, but you know whatâs really interesting about this place?â
âWhat?â
âSamuel Dawson doesnât own it. As a matter of fact, he makes sure to stay clear of the place. Thatâs something, ainât it? If the most dangerous crime lord of LA doesnât intervene, what does that tell you about this place? What does that tell you about her?â
âWho is she?â
âLike a moth to the flame! Thatâs why I like you! Iâll tell you, Adam, I want to tell youâI donât want to be the guy that gets in the way of true loveâbut, if Iâm going to help you, youâre going to need to help me. Itâs only fair, right?â
âYour father, heâllââ
âWhat about my father?â
âHeâll know it was me.â
âAh, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, Adam, Adam. No. How could you say something like that? You know what that says about me? It says that I donât care about my friends and that Iâll sell them out in a heartbeat.â
Adamâs gaze grows fierce. âYou will.â
Adam knows Dickie could choose to use that tongue of his, he could choose to deny such an allegation, but instead, Dickie chooses to scoff and reveal that notorious grin of his. âMaybe. Maybe not.â
Adam looks away and clenches his fist, his blood boiling. Dickie. A weasel capable of selling his mother for a dime and infuriating even the holiest of individuals. Jesus Christ, Buddha, put them in a room alone with Dickie for five minutes and theyâll have their hands around his throat in one. His father, Mickey, is just as difficult, but the thing about Mickey is that what you see is what you get. Dickie, he says one thing, and does another, he vouches for you one second, and stabs you in the back the next. Schemes. Lies. Thatâs the foundation which rules every aspect of his life.
Tired of living in his fatherâs shadow, not willing to take up the KMDM legacy, Dickie wishes to make a name for himself. How? By starting a radio station of his own. The issue then falls on one thing: money. The answer? Adam. Founder and engineer of the Bosch mobile, Adam has the means of launching Dickieâs business.
Mickey will know, Adam thinks as he runs a frazzled hand across his slicked black hair, picturing all the ways Dickieâs father would kill him.
âHe wonât have to know,â Dickie insists, as if he has the means of reading Adamâs mind. Dickie places a hand on Adamâs shoulder. âOld daddy-o will be mad at me, sure, heâll seek out the perpetrator that led his lamb astray, sure, but, and I say this for the first time in my life, I will keep your name out of it if you cooperate fully and if you support me whenever I need it.â
âI canât.â
Rolling his eyes, Dickie catches a glimpse of the Russian singer across Nadiaâs. Led by two bodyguards at her side, men from behind worshipping the floor her divine feet have touched, she sits at a red booth with a stranger, her cigarette lit the moment she retrieves one. She listens to her acquaintanceâs every word, but her eyes focus on whatâs ahead.
Adam.
Dickie pats him like an eager child. âAdam, look, look, look, look, sheâs set her eyes on you.â
Adam doesnât believe it. âShe has notâHoly shit, she has.â
âI told you.â
Adamâs palms begin to sweat, his mind begins to swirl. Though sheâs a great distance away, her presence, her gaze, makes him feel the same way heâs made so many women feel. Exposed. Vulnerable. The dance heâs about to take is one he will not lead.Â
Dickie leans in for a whisper. âQuite something, ainât she?â
Adamâs mouth grows dry. âYeah.â
âBeautiful.â
âYes.â
âElegant.â
âYes.â
âDangerous.â
Adam swallows his fear. âYes.â
âBut like Helen of Troy, sheâs worth the war that awaits.â
Adam gives in and asks, âWhat do I do?â
Grinning, Dickie wraps one arm around him like a brother. âHey, donât you worry about that now, buddy boy, youâve a dame to tame! Iâll contact you.â
âWhen?â
âDonât worry about it! In the meantime . . .â he takes out a doll from the pocket of his coat and hands it to Adam.
âWhatâs this?â he asks, studying the nesting doll, no bigger than a fist.
âItâs a Matryoshka doll. Itâs whatâll get you to her without having your skull bashed in.â
Adamâs heart skips a beat. âWhat?â
âAntoniaâs her name, sheâsââ The brutish bartender clears his throat, as if warning Dickie not to utter another word. He doesnât. Dickie flicks his eyes to where the bartender is making a show of polishing the glasses and lowers his voice. âYou have her name, you have your admission ticket, the rest is up to you, buddy boy.â Dickie sets his empty glass on the counter, pays his tab and Adamâs, and makes his departure. âDasvidaniya!â he calls out as he puts out his cigarette in an ashtray, disappearing into a dark hallway.
Were this any other woman, Adam would have rushed to her table without a second thought and worked his magic, but Antonia is not like any other woman. Whatâs wrong with me? he asks himself as he continues to study the Matryoshka doll. Half-German, half-Mexican, his mixed blood has made him a strong advocate for foreign affairs; heâs meddled and plundered the lands of nearly every country in the world. Every country but the cold and hostile terrain of Mother Russia. Unaware of their culture and customs, the only rumor that has stuck with him is of their women. Beautiful. Intelligent. Dangerous. Taking a deep breath, he rids himself of the mask that has taken hold of him, one of insecurity and weakness, and bears the confident and extraordinary one the world has come to know before he approaches Antoniaâs table, oblivious to what awaits him.
***
âTri dnya,â Antonia says in Russian to the man sitting opposite her, a blond priest with a Glasgow smile on his left cheek, as she exhales the vapor out her mouth. âYou have three days.â
âThree days?â objects the priest with a closed fist. About forty years old, Mikkel Petrov, the eldest and exiled son of a powerful family thatâs unwilling to change and unwilling to bow to Antoniaâs family, clenches his teeth. âThatâs not enough time, Antonia, you haveââ
âCall me Seranov.â She cuts him off with a deadly stare. âYouâve lost your right to call me by my first name.â
âMy right?!â He raises his voice and rises from his seat, slamming a fist on the table which gathers the attention of all the clubâs patrons and prompts her two bodyguards to ready themselves for the next strike. âRight? Do you know who I am? Do you know who youâre speaking to?â
Antonia does not bat an eye. âTwo days,â she checks the time on a golden antique watch. âDo you want to make it one?â
He grows silent and mutters. âNo. No, no, no, no, no. Iâll do as you said, but... how the hell am I going to get you what you need in two days? Thereâs hardly any in the world.â
She takes a deep breath in. âItâs right here, in the city.â
He takes a seat. âYouâre sure?â Dead silence. Antoniaâs not the type to say something without certainty. âWhere is it?â
Snapping her fingers, a bodyguard hands her a pocket-sized journal. âItâs all in here.â She offers it to him, and at the last second, snatches it away from his grasp. âTwo days. Succeed, your debt is cleared. FailâŚâ
âI wonât.â
She raises an eyebrow as a silence lingers between them. With one last puff, she hands him the journal, watches him stand and bid farewell, and allows him to take three steps away from the booth before she stops him. âMikkel.â He doesnât turn around. âMake another scene like that again and Iâll ruin you in ways you never thought possible.â
***
Leaning against a pillar, waiting his turn whilst denying the advances of many beautiful prospects, Adam approaches Antoniaâs booth when the priest walks away. Adam holds a fresh cigarette in one hand and his admission ticket in the other. As expected, the two bodyguards get in the way. Not to worry, thatâs what the Matryoshka doll is for, he thinks. When Adam presents it to them, the two guards mutter words in their language before they await a response from their leader.
Nothing. Not a word, not a glance, not even a gesture. After what seems like an eternity, Antonia stands, picks up the doll, brushes past the young millionaire as if he were nothing more than a bus boy, and commences towards a mahogany staircase. From there, she whispers to the bodyguard by the flight of steps, a woman the size of an adolescent boy with a shaved head, half her face burnt, and a scar on her left eye. With a bow, the bodyguard allows Antonia up the stairway.
Left dumbfounded and speechless, Adam questions what went wrong. What did sheâ Why did sheâDickie! He lied to me! The doll, it must have offended her, itâs an insult. Maybe, or maybe, maybe Iâve lost my touch. NO. No. Donât you dare start thinking like that. Think. What went wrong, what did I do? Am I overreacting?
The last woman that left him feeling this frantic and out of control was a girl heâd met in high school when he was fourteen. It was before he garnered the fame, glory and wealth he has today, back when the name Adam Bosch was unrecognized by the world. Ava, as beautiful as her name, able to get any boy to do anything she desired. Ava. Aside from the tragedy that struck him as a child, she was the force that prompted Adam to accomplish all he did. Tragedy affected his profession. Ava affected his relationships.
Dressed like a gentlemen by his father, prepped on love and girls by his mother, he burst out the front door with a huge smile on his face one morning because of the amazing news heâd received the previous day. He was going to the dance with Ava. It was going to be the day he was going to do what heâd been longing to. Confess. Confess his love for her. In the courtyard at lunch, a bouquet of flowers in hand, he never got the chance to do so. She never showed up. Two days later, he caught her with another boy, her next victim. Running home, chest crushing his lungs, mind swirling like a whirlwind with questions: Why did she do that? What did I do wrong? His heart bled with an agony he swore heâd never feel again.
Heâs feeling it again now.
Relieved from the prison within his mind, he spots multiple hand gestures from the bodyguard by the staircase. No, not hand gestures, sign language that he cannot understandâdirected at the Russian men beside him. âGo,â translates one of the Russian men. âFollow."
âWhat?â
His companion, with a stronger accent, repeats the word. âFOLLOW.â
Adam releases a breath of air, relieved that there is still more to this dance. Confidence back, he strides over to the staircase until the woman guardian it stops him and signals him to turn around and raise his hands.
When he does, she frisks him in a manner that would traumatize even the strongest of souls, hands invading every part of his flesh, gripping, tightening, squeezing. She starts from his chest and works her way down. Hand just above his crotch, she skips the main course, touches his heels, and works her way up, this time in a manner that ought to be shared with a lover.
âHey,â he objects, her hands almost at his crotch. âWait a minuteââ She slaps the back of his head with a force surprising for a woman her size, nearly ruining his slicked hair. Hands in between his thighs, he objects once more, heart pounding, palms sweating, losing hold of his cigarette as he repeats, âWait a minuteââ Heâs supposed to be the one in charge, heâs supposed to be the one making her feel like this.
She slaps him again, and with the speed and force of a Siberian tiger, pushes him against the wall and holds his left arm behind his back as she frisks his most sensitive areas, glutes, groin, squeezing, tightening. When she finishes, she lets go, retrieves a cigarette from her back pocket, and offers it to Adam, a slight smirk escaping. Always one to accept a smoke after strenuous sexual labor, he rejects his first then and there. Shrugging, she lights it for herself, and gestures him up the staircase.
She hates to see them go, but she loves to watch them leave, Adam thinks when he glimpses back at his molester, still smiling.
No time to rest. No time to react. Led through a door by another employee, he enters a hallway lit by tungsten lights and sees a black door ahead guarded by two men and a woman much different than the last. Not a Russian but an American with a small frame, black hair, and red lips. A woman with a poker face who looks like the identical twin of Lilian Gish, the actress responsible for turning film acting into an art form. She scans the young millionaire from head to toe and lets out a disappointed groan. When Adam tries to take a step forward, she stops him.
âStay,â she orders.
Like a good boy, he abides. Observing him as if he were up for auction, she rotates him once, twice, letting out more unsatisfied groans. âNo,â she mutters, disapproving of the grey three-piece suit he wears. âNo, this will not do.â She sighs. âTake it off.â
âWhat?â
âDid I stutter? Take. It. Off.â
Adam scoffs. âYou canât be serious.â
Her gaze lets him know otherwise, a gaze that would make any Russian proud. No wonder they accepted her as their own.
First the frisking and now this? He could leaveâhe should. Heâs the one who gives the orders, heâs the one to sit back and watch as his dame of the night undresses before him. But then again⌠heâs never been treated like this before, never been on the opposite end, never ventured deep into the dark side of LA. Too curious for his own good, too lustful to say no, he unfastens his tie and dress shirt, picturing him and Antonia at a hotel he owns, his best suite, his lips kissing hers, his hands grabbing hold of her full and voluptuous body, his mouth stripping her nude and working its way down. Sheâs worth the war that awaits.
When heâs down to his trousers and socks, the woman groans again. âAll of it.â
He blushes for a moment, not because of her, but because of the men. âButââ
She clears her throat. He has no say in the matter, no voice, her superior claimed his soul the second he walked into her establishment.
His trousers are first to go, followed swiftly by his socks. The two Russians exchange a glance, a laugh, and a few words. âI told you,â claims one. âAll bark, no bite.â
The second man scoffs. âAmericans.â
âZat-KNEES!â shouts Aubrey with a fluent Russian tongue, silencing the men as she inspects Adam one last time. She lays a hand on his bare chest. âForty, correct?â
âWhat?â
âChest measurement. Forty?â
âHow do youââ
âYes or no?â
âYes.â
Standing from behind, she grazes his neck. âFifteen?â He nods. Next are his shoulders, his sleeves, outseamâthe outer length of the pantsâand finally his waist. âThirty-two?â she asks, her lips much too close to his, her hands hovering above his crotch.Â
He exhales a breath of air, battering away any lustful thoughts of them together and replacing it with big, sweaty, Russian men. âYes.â
âPerfect. Dmitri.â The bodyguard opens the wardrobe in the hallway and fetches the custom-sized suit, a slim fit with a vest, all black except for the salmon-colored silk shirt, and hands her the pair of socks and undergarments.
She doesnât offer them to Adam.
Not yet.
âWhat you see will remain here,â she warns without averting her gaze. âWhat you hear will remain here, who you meet is not who you know, who you know is not who they are. Whisper any of this out there, she will know. If you wish to leave, this is your only chance to do so. Nod once and you may never return. But⌠if you wish to enter, thereâs no going back. Nod twice and you swear to become deaf, dumb, and blind.â
Like a moth to the flame.
He nods twice.Â
*Warning, this book contains both sexual content and mature/violent themes.*
To Tame A Dame is a fictional tale that takes us to Los Angeles, California during the Roaring 20s. This time period in history is famous for its drinking, dancing, music, and mystery, and author Diego Ornelas- Tapia gives us all of that and more. We are introduced immediately to the main protagonist, Adam Bosch and his would be obsession, Antonia Seranov. His infatuation with this woman leads him down a dark path and introduces him to the real underbelly of the mafia scene that ran the big cities during this time.Â
The characters in this novella were interesting in a few ways. One of the things I loved most was the diversity of ethnicities and the intertwining of cultures that the author incorporated. For example, Adam is of mixed descent ( German and Mexican) while his love interest, Antonia, and her twin brother Alexei are Russian. Other characters introduced later are from diverse backgrounds as well. I thought this was a nice way to help differentiate characters as well as give a more accurate portrayal of the cultural makeup of somewhere like LA.
As much as I liked the diversity of the characters, the way this novella was written was sometimes a bit hard to keep up with. For example, a handful of the characters have names that start with the same letter. Because this story also includes some abrupt location changes at certain points, remembering which character is which can take a little bit of practice. I also would have loved to see a bit more of the development of Adam and Antonia's characters as opposed to the others that were introduced.
In addition to the characters, the story could be a little bit hard to follow at times, as it jumps from place to place and some of those places are similar in nature. There are bars, clubs, and hotels mentioned so you have to keep them all straight to follow the story. Though it jumps around a bit, by the time you get to the end, you definitely will want to know what comes next.Â
The author clearly has a talent for storytelling and creating vivid imagery as you read. His ability to write characters that are so inclusive was also something that I was really happy to see. Though it was a bit short, as his first novella, I was impressed with both the diversity and creativity of the story.