It starts as a build-up of energy that rises up from the pads of your toes to fill the space behind your eyes.
An 18-wheeler carrying ten thousand kilos of watermelons had wrecked spectacularly, spilling its cargo from a height of two kilometers, near the peak of the Tu-Ashu mountain pass that looms over the cold northern provinces of Kyrgyzstan.
The beach bars were packed by eight o’clock with men drunk enough to not mind the $3.75 spent, even after we ditched them.
It was the fall of 1960, the smell of burning leaves was in the air, and Jack Kennedy was beginning to look like he might beat Richard Nixon.
A story begins with a woman sitting at her kitchen table at 7 a.m., having just received a call from the police.
Frankie Thomas was a kid we all knew, a kid we all picked on at recess because he was slow and fat and lousy at kickball.