The old man's tattoo had faded like the memory of the woman whose initials were at the center of the blotchy, gun-metal blue heart.

The sunlight slowly faded from the courtroom as the jury continued to deliberate in the next room and the guards and attorneys traded stories of a simpler time.

When Smith's creative juices stopped flowing, he quit writing for good and took up boxing, which as it turned out, he was even less suited for.

The fear that haunted Sean that morning slowly burned off, like the fog from the hillsides he passed on the way to his next hit.

The desolation hung in the air like the smell of stale beer and garbage on a Sunday morning.

She exuded innocence, but her eyes were those of a killer—nothing behind them but a cold darkness.

"My pants stopped fitting me years ago, but they're in good condition, so why stop wearin' em'," said Peanuts McAllister in reference to his incredibly tight slacks that seemed to pain him whenever he moved and gave him a somewhat purple complexion.