She did not like women, which would have been easier to deal with had she not been one of them.

He winced at the prostrate corpse.

And down she shrank so small.

He strode like a colossus.

There was no denying her authoritative tone.

He returned the next Sunday with $2.50 in hand and persuaded the pilot to take him aloft.

Like the trees that filtered the polluted air, she filtered the blackness of their woes so that light could exist.

He wished that he had his real gun, which was stashed in some bushes not too far away.

She pushed the boat away from the dock, grabbed the cord on the motor and pulled hard.

And when he finished the last stroke, the ocean rolled off the paper.

She experienced transient feelings of unreality and depersonalization, with a sense of disorientation in space.

An expensive suit hung uneasily on his frame, as if reluctant to get too close; his shirt was a disturbing mauve.

She noted the cost of chocolate syrup and white chocolate syrup at $54.00/gallon and $58.00/gallon.

He fell through the unguarded opening, striking a three-inch angle iron scaffold support and falling to his death in the Gulf of Mexico.

And her hands were restored to her, goodlier than before.

He licked the mossy floor but it tasted sharp and tangy, like the urine of a disease-ridden rodent and he retched and coughed and spluttered.

Things were revolving obscurely around her, like great dangerous machines in a darkened factory, and she was walking blindly among them...

Decades later he destroyed his own leg with a shotgun, an act which apparently liberated him from his tormenting obsession.

She felt as if she knew nothing and could do nothing correctly, and she felt quite alone.

So, ultimately he lost all the things he had so voraciously clung to.

She fell asleep just at the good part.

When he washed the ceiling the stucco melted onto the floor.

Even as she debated the answer to herself, she knew it was a moot point.

It reminded him of times when he had felt more alive and in control than God Himself could have felt.

The same voice that she grew to love; She too, in that same hour, died.

A surfer, he grew curious about hurricanes primarily because of the effect they had on waves.

By the age of six, she had learned that life wasn't anything like the fairy tales.

The dark night caressed him as he skittered like a black widow over girdered steel and mortared brick.

Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily hand.

When he recalled his adversity, he beat the fish head with a wooden hammer.

She buried the feelings deep within the inner recesses of her heart, and they had remained there.

After stumbling upon an obscure historical atrocity, he brought it to light as a novel.

She drew a broken heart torn right down the middle in a red jagged line.

He lied and lied and lied.

On moral grounds she decided not to kill it.