Those days of wine and roses were full of hangovers and thorns.

It was a single sentence typed out late one night that led to his death sentence early one morning.

The fat white flakes fell ceaselessly, quieting the bustling city in a patina of pristine whiteness.

We hid in the barn that night praying the men would not find us as the border was so tantalizingly near.

Bill believed there wasn't enough comfort food and booze in the world to get him through the next four years.

The more ways they invented for us to communicate with one another the more cut off we became.

Dark thoughts faded in the presence of the morning light glowing on the wet tree limbs outside the kitchen window.