10

Pennsylvania's big piney belly

9

Entering New Orleans on a cloudy day

8

An entire week spent smoking exquisite blunts flavored Flavor was sort of like living in a delicate plastic, a brain floating above a court, a string of childhood foyers watched over by wiry, well-financed chandeliers fond of each other's light, something later to be compared to as submarine, purposefully done, and long, long gone.

7

They found it rewarding to treat these things affectionately.

6

At the Waterfront Village in Downtown Portland with News Channel 8

TV Reporter: Back here live at the Waterfront Village with my friend the zombie, Jonathan—you're looking good; Jonathan just got an awesome face paint job. Jonathan, what do you think?

Jonathan, the zombie: I like turtles.

TV Reporter: Alright, you're great... zombie, and—good times here at the Waterfront Village, open for the next eleven days.

5

The previous affairs of the mayor's wife had become common knowledge, often referenced to and remarked upon at dinner parties of even the most polite nature. On the subject of sexual intercourse, both pre-marital and marital alike, it was said that she had developed an intricate and inexcusable dialect of depravity. Four years prior, so the story goes, she had made love to a recently ordained priest in the parish sacristy before his inaugural mass. Accuracy of the affair was muddled. One version insisted that she had not only slept with the young priest but with the two red-haired altar boys who were thought to have called in sick with the mumps, while another revolved around a bizarre sequence of events involving the holy sacrament, several packets of incense, and the reckless spending of collection money gathered from the five o'clock service.

4

He walked towards the car, flipped a glance over his shoulder, spun around on his heels and bang bang, shot him with two fingers. Sigmund reeled around one and a half times and crumpled to the cobblestone street. “Ah, but you fall so easily, my friend,” the murderer said as he disassembled the weapon into his pockets. Satisfaction was easy to come by with Sig.

Sigmund lay on his stomach, face down, spread out and ridiculous, moaning on a three second interval. Small tracts of breath rose from the side of his head. Despite Albert's apparent disinterest, Sigmund had wanted some credit for a doubly preconceived murder; besides, he had the more theatrically rigirous half of the act. Sigmund continued to whimper and, keeping about with a believable trauma, began to push himself across the uneven street, his right shoulder hunched over as if it was lead weighted.

From the car: “It’s cold, Sig, let’s go. Get up.”