The old man sat the boy down and explained to him that he would never have the same opportunities in life afforded his elders.

The drummer looked too stoned to keep on time, but somehow managed to keep the rest of the band, possibly more stoned, from disintegrating completely.

He drove across the arid West Texas landscape thinking only of revenge.

They slipped into the dark house undetected, their knives raised conspiratorially.

Dale heard the noise again, a low wail that seemed to be coming from the closet.

They spent their days in each other's arms and their nights drinking alone.

The cat settled onto his leg and went to sleep, while he pondered the inner workings of the feline mind, feeling that the animal was a true gauge of his self worth since it only tolerated him every once in awhile.

I drank with a man named Bill who smiled a lot until he told me about losing his wife in a car accident only hours before.

They had marched across an entire continent only to die face-down in the swamp.

The people he ran past seemed oblivious to the fact that he was desperately running for his life.

Paul and Colette sat staring at each other over their glasses of wine with nothing left to say.

The old man waddled up the hill towards his small house unaware that passersby often laughed at him.

Standing in the shower the next morning she thought about her run-in with her ex-boyfriend and realized she still had feelings for him.

The people hurried home from work, driving past the abandoned building near the road, unaware of what was going on inside.

He knew his chances in life were growing slimmer and slimmer and this helped push him towards the door and the promises within.

The heat rose up in waves and as they sat on the porch he watched the beads of sweat fall from his wife's forehead.

As he grew older he became more emotional and would often cry while reading the newspaper.

The hotel room started to sway and Christine began to hear screams, shouting and the sound of breaking glass and bending metal.

It was a clear spring day and the mountains stood out in stark relief against the crystal-blue sky, but for David the memories of the last few days clouded his vision to the extent that it might as well have been darkest winter.

John slid the paintbrush across the canvas leaving a long red streak like a new scar and then stood back to survey his work, thinking he had just ruined the best painting he had ever done.

He had always lived with the illogical fear that he would one day go to prison for a crime he didn't commit and then it came to pass.

The man and the dog walked up the hill and into the woods, both understanding that this would be the last time.

She walked into the room, eyes narrowed, hatred coming off of every pore, moved towards him and without a word fell into his arms.

The sky hung close to the ground, the wind carried the smell of decay and the days became shorter and shorter.

The dawn came quickly, like a match flare in the dark, surprising Michael as he continued to wait for her to come home.

He dug his hands into the earth and pulled them out again, feeling the cold dampness sift through his fingers and thinking that he was finally free.

He stumbled down the cobble-stoned street, the sound of his singing bouncing off the ancient walls.

They made love like it was the last time the sun would set.

"For the last time," he stammered, "I wasn't there and I don't know who killed her."

Jim woke up with the vague and gnawing feeling that he had forgotten something—not work or home related—something important from years before.