"As dusk fell, the orange moon rose in the maroon sky. An eagle spread its wings and flew off into the horizon. Stars twinkled and one seemed to wink at me. Hardy and I kept moving until we grew weary of our long trek. I heard the trickle of water and steered my ride towards the direction of the sound. Sure enough, a small spring bubbled up out of the ground. I tethered Hardy and we made camp for the night. Over an open fire, I brewed a cup of coffee in my old tin pot. Hardy munched on clumps of brush and I chewed on some jerky Mentor had packed for me.  Visions of what a percopotomus looked like danced in my head and soon, to the tune of wild birds and stars blinking of wonders to come, I fell asleep."

"I am not sure how much time has passed, but I am crossing off the days by etching marks on my dungeon wall. It is dank and dark here."

"The sound of party horns tooted through the night air. Ham began to sob. All his dreams vanished in a puff of ashes. He would not be mayor, he would not ever find Mrs. Right, and his nose still dripped."

Growing up in Locust Point, just after WWII, along South Baltimore’s harbor, had some special memories for me. One of them was learning how to swim in the waters of the harbor. The foot of Hull Street, where the water was at least 32 feet deep, and murky as heck and full of chemicals, was where the local kids went swimming. For some, like myself, it was for the very first time.

One summer day after work, I stopped by my mother’s house. “Mother, I miss my boys so much. I have to be with them,” I said. I saw the color of her face change.