Tragedy was a big social event, and everyone wanted in on it.

I looked down at the little pink face in the bundle. A newborn. The child had been alive only minutes but was already considered a criminal by the Soviets.

My breathing slowed. I shaded her thick chestnut hair resting in a smooth curve against her face, a large bruise blazing across her cheek. I paused, looking over my shoulder to make certain I was alone. I drew her eye makeup, smudged by tears. In her watery eyes I drew the reflection of the commander, standing in front of her, his fist clenched. I continued to sketch, exhaled, and shook out my hands.

Let me tell you something 'bout these rich Uptown folk," said Cokie. "They got everything that money can buy, their bank accounts are fat, but they ain't happy. They ain't ever gone be happy. You know why? They soul broke. And money can't fix that, no sir.

Sometimes we set off down a road thinkin' we're goin' one place and we end up another. But that's okay. The important thing is to start.

Charlie Marlowe never wrote horror, but somehow horror was writing Charlie Marlowe.

I planted a seed of hatred in my heart. I swore it would grow to be a massive tree whose roots would strangle them all.