She burned her bridges so thoroughly her ex-boyfriends never dared cross the gulf.

The figure that approached, backlit by the blazing sun and seeming to glow at its peripheries, remained unrecognizable to him.

The sunflowers hung their heads like mourners at a funeral.

The tears rolled down his cheeks, not for the numerous men he had killed in battle, but for the nameless comrades he had never even known.

Janey "Jugs" McCalister was tired of the world of burlesque and wanted to pursue her true passion—juggling—and felt her nickname might help in the career transition.

With the gambling house shut down the men of Forestrock Ridge were reduced to betting on the humdrum activities of the town, from how many times in an hour Mr. Kneedum would pick his nose to the length of a sidelong-glance bestowed on young Tom by old Mrs. Crumb.

McDougall sat in his foxhole wondering whether it wouldn't just be better to get picked off by a sniper rather than suffer through another night of malaria, trench foot and the annoyance of the million mosquitoes that were slowly draining him dry.