He was like a scratchy old record whose tone managed to remain warm and deeply seductive.

The butterflies flitted around the flowers and life felt fine for a few minutes.

The chirping of crickets was the only sound heard after the echoes of gunfire died.

We grew our own terrorists aplenty.

All our secrets are for sale.

His muse was asleep at the wheel.

"I was the toast of the town until I became the punching bag of the press," said the old man sitting next to me at the bar that catered to day drinkers.