By the time she was twenty-two, Harmony had tried nearly every drug that crossed her path. She loved altered consciousness, and drugs were her way of dealing with stress. They were always easy to get, too, and usually nearby. Her friend Belinda’s father was a coke kingpin in Boulder, so sometimes at late-night gatherings, lines of coke would take up the length of Harmony’s six-foot coffee table. Since Harmony’s place
The Vicious Pixies began their last song of the night. Abby Simone prowled from one edge of the stage to the other, lost in the opening notes of an unhinged variant of “A Tisket A Tasket.” The keyboardist played a sparkly sequence of notes on a xylophone while a backup singer ran her fingers across a row of chimes in steady intervals. The drummer worked the brushes, and the bass
Alan finished the last of his smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, turned to Monica, and said, “Let’s take a walk on the beach.” “The open air would be nice,” she said. The waitress arrived with the bill, and Alan said, “Wonderful service. And our compliments to the chef for a superb breakfast.” “And thank you for visiting Cuchulainn’s Pub, sir,” she said. “It’s nice to take care of courteous Americans.
Brian Shepard woke from a dream in the still of the night and sat up in bed. He had been standing alone on the top of a hill, pleading for someone to come to him, take him by the hand, and guide him safely down the hill, but he remained alone no matter how much he pleaded, his words lost in the wind. His dreams had intensified now that he
Sam Fox peered over his shoulder into the darkness. For a second he thought he saw a movement. A light perhaps, shining just beyond his line of sight. But staring produced no definite image just the grey glow of the blacktop. Afraid of stumbling, Sam returned his gaze to the road ahead. The steady slap of his Adidas shoes drowned out his uneasy feelings of being followed. His mind bathed
The sun crested the horizon and began to slowly burn the mist away from the water. Helen sat at her writing desk and stared out the window. The sea was calm and the waves were mild. She hadn’t missed her morning swim all summer. At seventy years old, she needed perfect conditions. Helen finished the letter she had been composing for the last hour, folded it carefully, and slipped it