I was born in North Carolina, and lived all over the United States. From serving in the U.S. Navy to managing a bar, I’ve held a lot of interesting jobs and visited strange lands, from the Azores in the Atlantic Ocean to Djibouti, Africa.
Jerry’s room at the state hospital helped keep the darkness at bay. A white tile floor, four soothing pale green walls, a plain dark wooden door, and a bare white ceiling above him. The two small, high windows let in sunlight without the temptations of seeing the outside world. The simplicity of his white-painted bed, white sheets, and blankets, even his white painted bedside table, reassured him that his nightmares weren’t real.
Like tears from ten thousand angels, slow, heavy raindrops pattered off the top of the horse-drawn hearse as Al Buhrman crossed Rampart Street. Two black horses pulled the glass-sided hearse while the family and mourners followed in the warm summer rain. Despite its warmth, the water soaked through his dark suit coat and his good shirt with a chill that still rattled Al down to his lanky bones.