Barnaby Lewis crouched down on the bank and cupped his hands into the sludgy pool at the bottom of the near-empty dam.
Stephen McDakeldy, sixty-five years old, lover of poetry and Jesus, was crouched on all fours between a eucalyptus tree and a hedge of gorse in the furthest corner of Waikumete Cemetery.
The agent, unlike the soldier, who has many friends, is surrounded by enemies, seen and unseen.
That was the order. Jack got it. Rijk van Delden—if that was his real name—was the only link between the Iron Syndicate and the nameless merc outfit the syndicate hired for their dirtiest hits.
BIGFOOT DESTROYS TOWN. That was the title of an article I received not long after the Mount Rainier eruption
Rusty Rutherford emerged from his apartment on a Monday morning, exactly one week after he got fired.
To speak about the meaning and value of life may seem more necessary today (1946) than ever; the question is only whether and how this is ‘possible’.
HERE ARE SOME BASIC FACTS: Women live longer than men. Women have stronger immune systems.
The frail old man wakes screaming, tangled in an American flag—the same one that draped the coffin of his slain son, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, three days after his November 22, 1963, assassination.
Once upon a time there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person . . . That’s me, by the way.
His name was Raymond Stirling, but to his family and friends he was known as ‘Curly’.
Drawing herself up from a deep tide of consciousness, Edith opened her eyes.
I had my first panic attack on a quiet sunny morning in Berlin. It was mid-summer.
Josie's start is unexpected. She lies afloat and asleep in a tank of nutrient broth, when one billion volts split the sky.
Like turning your hand over, things could go either way with the weather.
You have to wonder what goes through the mind of a man like Micah Mortimer.
Today is the first of September, the first day of spring, and it's been sixty four days since I last saw Sophie Abercrombie.
I start wearing the family dog, a mini-sheltie, a little Lassie, in an unbleached cotton baby sling across the front of my body like a messenger bag, a few weeks shy of fall.
Heat shimmered in waves across the Valley of the Kings as the merciless sun baked the desert sands into clay.
Cindy Thomas was tuned in to her police scanner as she drove through the Friday-morning rush to her job at the San Francisco Chronicle.