Lt. Grady hated the weekends, those long nights when the amateurs were out.

Following the funeral the family was like vultures picking a carcass clean.

Before they realized it the night had disappeared to be replaced by hangovers and bleary-eyed regret.

Hickok hid just behind the curtain, his rifle raised.

Their names began to slip from his mind like sand from between the fingers of a cupped hand.

Tap dancing on the graves of his enemies was beginning to bore the warlord.

The parade passed by but she seemed not to notice, her thoughts hovering over the dead that would never proudly pass by the review stand.

"Doc, my dreams are always filled with meat — rare steaks, butterflied chops, grilled brats, fried turkey legs, bacon, lots of bacon, even ham hocks," the worried vegan told his physician.

His belief in the base nature of humanity was constantly being overturned by his children, who seemed to have the temperaments of the heavenly host.

They woke with the best of intentions, but never saw each other again.

"The ratcheting of cuffs is like no other sound on earth," Steve thought as the metal bit into his wrists once more.

No matter what the city council tried Turnerville remained in a perpetual state of entropy.

Professor Ross watched in horror as the paint from the previously unknown Cezanne began to flake and crumble before his eyes.

He banged on the piano until his fingers bled and still couldn't get the damn tune right.

Of all the noises that drifted through those thin walls it was the sound of laughter that Mickey most despised.

"Look, I don't give a crap whether you believe it or not because I know it's a heavenly miracle we ain't dead," Billy told him over drinks the night they returned stateside.

As a prosecutor Katherine knew there was a long, thin tightrope to be crossed between proving bad acts and guilty minds.

"From birth to death life is messy," said Doc as he handed me a plunger.

What began as a civilized lunch ended in a drunken brawl.

"I don't like the rough stuff," Bud said, handing the envelope and the file with his partner's picture in it to the man whose name he never learned.

Lying in the bath, holding him in the half-light of the milky dawn, Amanda allowed herself to believe that it would work out this time.

All Salty had was a bottle and a prayer and they were both nearing empty.

The clouds were heavy with anticipation.

The object, which floated a few feet above the ground and made a sound like a hive-full of bees, drew them closer.

Nothing remained but the door, still bolted from the inside.

Booking the rowdiest, most drug-addled rock band in the state for the annual AA fundraiser turned out to be a bad idea.

Her radio show "Pity Party," matched up sappy songs with local sad sacks.

There was a place where both worlds met and you could, under the right conditions, make out the fuzzy outlines of unknown possibility.

Hearing the songs of their youth only made them realize how far they had strayed from their dreams.

With the heat came the sirens.