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His words hit me like a punch in the gut.

  • His words hit me like a punch in the gut. I fell to the ground gasping. Who knew such a traitor would come into my life?
  • "What the heck is wrong with you?!" I asked.
  • "its not me, its you!" she said to me.
  • "I'm not the one with a disease," I say, pointing towards the child crying on the floor.
  • The child's parent lay to one side, rigid. Mortification had set in, but they were beginning to stir. The child sat there, blubbering, within reach of these creaking claws.
  • It was in the eyes. The iris hardened, then emptied. There was nothing left but hunger, a confusing hunger, like a racist trucker at a Chinese buffet.
  • He had a hunger for 1920's jazz, so he jumped through the nearest window, "WHERE IS THE ALBUM?" he yelled at the
  • crowd gathered several floors beneath him. WHEREEE IIIS THE AAALBUM he kept screaming while falling. Before touching ground, the spirit of Miles Davis caught him midair and carried
  • him up into a kind of blue cloud. Jazz heaven was a smoky cellar. The doorman Pete wearing a "No Harps" button lifted his shades & gave Miles a once over. "Where ya been?
  • " "Miles away," he quipped as he placed his golden horn to his lips. And soon, they were all...miles...and miles...away.

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