She dug the old book out of the trash bin not giving a fig about the stares of the passersby who thought she was dumpster diving.

I walked out of the building, the paperwork sticking to my sweaty chest, wondering whether I'd be labeled a hero or a traitor.

While our choices seemed to be expanding infinitely in truth it was all the product of a few companies that owned everything and merely made a label change here and a shiny new cover there.

The feeling of being left on the outside looking in stayed with her no matter what she managed to achieve.

As they attached the microphone to his lapel and brushed a bit more powder onto his face Rudy wondered if selling his soul for a modicum of political traction was worth all the lies.

She threw the covers over her head and repeated over and over, "it's all in your head."

Empathy had become a dying art, replaced by a brutish clannishness that would inevitably end in barbarism and pestilence.