He steals with swift, simple hands in the yellow Roman sun. The crowds are bulging, swollen, and he bobs amongst them as silent as a jellyfish.

He felt it, this time. This would be different. On the screen was the registration form for Raijin Karate.

Doris knew exactly why she'd survived. Like her physicist mother and other members of the scientific, military and political elites, she'd been in an immersion tank when the bombs started falling.

“She’s in the mirror.” The man sitting in front of Detective West quavered. The whiskey on his breath danced around the room, leaving an unpleasant odor that disturbed the Detective.

For seven weeks, three days and some number of hours we’ve come here; nocturnal pilgrims looking for answers — holding vigil while she drifts further from our grasp.

It was him all right. Who else could it possibly be? It was Death himself, the Grim Reaper, cloaked all in black. He stood larger than life.

There was always something magical about the last day of school before the summer holidays. I am sure you remember the sensation yourself.

On April 3rd, 2019, I embarked on the longest walk known to the human race. This walk wasn’t measured by miles or steps, but by psychological trauma.

Why was he still Pilt the Scrummie and not Pilt the Bosun? Most days, he would have settled for just being Pilt the Sailor.

He was The Mouse. He wasn’t Mouse. That would have been a kind nickname. The Mouse was named in one of his many foster homes by one of his many not so nice foster brothers.

It was Zach's idea to start a Beatles cover band in high school. Zach, you see, was a dead ringer for Paul McCartney.

He had won tickets in a radio contest. A contest he didn’t apply to, on a station that apparently didn’t exist.

We made sure we both got Ms. Meyer’s homeroom class in fourth grade, because according to my older brother, she was the best teacher of the few you could choose.