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

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.