THE HERD WAS STARVING. The drought that held the Serengeti in its thrall was decimating the wildebeests. Predators were growing fat and lazy on the glut of meals that wandered their way almost begging to be taken.

Instinct drove the dominant male to forge ahead. Greener pastures were always just ahead. Instinct drove the herd to follow. They could not know that the grass towards which they trekked hadn't sprouted from the caked earth, that the rains had shifted unseasonably east, and that only death awaited them at journey's end. Knowing was reserved for more rational creatures.

The sun, the engine of all weather, assaulted the herd mercilessly. Their tongues lolled. Their brains cooked in their cases. The mucus in their nostrils and sinuses dried. Only a few caught the scent of moist pastures wafting on an errant breeze from the east. These few lifted their heads in that direction and hesitated, but the lead male missed it, and they continued the march.

One male, a bachelor of just two years, skirting the edge of the herd caught the scent and looked in its direction. The heat, rising from the hard ground in waves, obscured everything beyond a few dozen yards. Not even the hyenas patrolling the flanks of the herd were visible. A cow following close behind bumped into the bull and shook its head in annoyance. The bull showed no sign of noticing.

Ted Kingsley was a popular writer once. To be clear, just one novel he penned was popular. Ted enjoyed some renown, but not of his own. He merely stood beside the piles of printed volumes as they were snatched up at bookstores. He signed a few for the fans. They weren't his fans. They were fans of the book. He never produced another of its kind.

Ted tried. He invested countless reams of paper in his printer and dispatched them to his agent. The agent suggested some improvements, but Ted rejected them. He was the writer. The agent was, well, just an agent. The agent dutifully passed a couple on to Ted's publisher who summarily rejected them, until they told the agent that they weren't interested in seeing any more of his work.

The agent shopped Ted's manuscripts around to a few other publishers. He felt that he owed Ted some consideration for all the commissions he had earned on that first book. After a while, he simpleyrefused to accept them. It didn't matter how much he earned from Ted's first novel, his credibility was suffering for representing him.

Ted made excuses. He continued hacking out manuscripts, sending them to agents and publishers without luck. There was something magnificent, admirable even, about Ted's perserverance, but he couldn't see his words.

THE WAR WAS OVER. The river flowed again. King William had led the army to a neighboring realm to tear down a dam that had cut off the life-giving water. Victory was announced when the flow resumed. A dust cloud rising from the feet of marching men announced the king's return a few days later. He brought with him the butcher's bill, the cost in lives and suffering for restoring peace. 

The people cheered as the King passed by dressed in shining armor and riding a magnificent charger. He was followed by his master-at-arms and a contingent of foot soldiers clad in mail and iron helms and armed with halberds. There followed the greater mass of armed peasants, farmers, and merchants, armored in leather and thick wool pads. First among these came the infantry carrying shields and short, Roman-style swords. They were followed by the spearmen, mostly younger men, and the archers. Last came the men of horse, their long lances tipped with pennants fluttering in the afternoon breeze. All the men wore tunics displaying the king's colors.

MOONLIGHT ILLUMINATED THE COVE  dimly and the anchor lights of the yacht club fleet shone like low hanging stars crowning each vessel. A fish rose to the surface. Its lips stirred a series of ripples that spread in widening concentric rings after it harvested an insect that had foolishly touched the glass-like surface of the water. A thin haze hovered over all, held in place by the weight of silence that ruled the anchorage.

The cocktail party and dinner dance ashore had ended two hours earlier, and the revelers were tucked in their berths, softly slumbering their way back to sobriety. 

Softly, as if at a great distance, the honk of a lone goose on the wing could be heard had anyone been awake and alert. Slowly, it drew louder as though approaching the sheltered harbor out of season. Sober heads began to stir as the goose's call was answered by its flock drawing nearer. Soon, the gossiping gaggle began to disturb the repose of the most recumbent and a cabin light came to life here and there among the fleet. In a moment, all crews were awake as the blast of a shotgun tore its way across the anchorage.

CALLS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT are always trouble. Even wrong numbers. If nothing else, they interrupt sleep with their jarring note, and the sleeper never fully recovers. However, calls that reach their intended recipient at two am are even worse. No news that can't wait for the morning is good news. These were the thoughts racing through Jeff Miller's mind as he reached for the cell phone chirping on his night stand.

“'Lo,” he mumbled into the device after he found the “Send” button.

“Jeff,” the voice from the airwaves began.

“Yeah,” Jeff responded. He recognized Jerry, his brother-in-law's voice.

“They're coming,” Jerry announced.

“Who's coming?” 

“The Feds,” Jerry replied.

“The Feds?”

The warm body next to Jeff flailed an arm to dislodge the blanket covering her head. “Who is it?” Mary, Jeff's wife, asked.

THE TWO WOMEN exchanged air kisses when they arrived at Starbucks and spoke of this 'n that until they sat at a table sipping their Espresso Machiatoes. After scanning the tables around them to see who they were seeing and who they were being seen by, the taller of the two, Debbie, leaned closer to her friend and whispered, “You've heard?”

“The Senator?” her friend, Barbara, responded.

“Yes.”

“Yes, she died last night.”

“I heard that there's a memorial service this Saturday.”

“A memorial service?”

“Yes, she's being cremated.”

“Cremated?”

“The family is afraid that someone will desecrate her grave if they bury her.”

“People are such animals.”

THE IRS AGENT continued shuffling papers for a quarter hour after Dean had been ushered into his office for the audit. Whenever he attempted to focus his attention on the forms spread out on the desk to see what was attracting the agent's interest, the man would catch his eye and tip the form so that Dean couldn't read it. Dean might have been embarrassed but he had already determined that all of the forms were part of his tax filing for the preceding year.

The agent furrowed his brow and issued a protracted “hmmm” every few minutes, then glanced up at Dean who attempted to maintain a look of innocence. 

When the agent finally looked up at Dean, he began without ceremony to interrogate him. “You've included income from all sources?” the agent asked.

“Yes.”

“What about interest from the savings account at...” the agent hesitated and consulted his notes before continuing, “...at Bank of America?”

Dean paused to consider his answer just as his brother-in-law advised the night before. “That account was closed during the preceding year,” he responded.

“You have a record of that?”

Dean shrugged. “No.”

The agent scribbled a note and muttered, almost to himself, “We'll come back to that later.”

Edna sat on her rocker on the front porch knitting, one eye on her neighbor, Martha, across the street, and her other on the house three doors down. She smiled when Martha dropped her knitting into a basket on the floor, rose and disappeared into her house. Wait for it – three, two, one...

The phone rang. Edna finished a row as it rang three more times, then calmly laid her handicraft aside and slowly made her way into the house to retrieve the wireless instrument sitting on the table beside her iced tea.

“Hello.”

“Edna?”

“Yes.”

“It's Martha.”

“Yes, dear. What can I do for you?”

“We need to talk.”

Edna smiled into the phone and thought to herself, “Here we go again.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I think it's time we called the sheriff.”

President Timothy Allen was perplexed when he entered the Oval Office that morning and found his Chief of Staff, Henry Morgan, sitting at the Resolute Desk. It was a breach of protocol that had occurred only once in recent history, when Chile's President Pinera sat there during a visit with then President Obama who was too perplexed to react. Then again, most everything seemed to perplex Obama. Allen was even more perplexed when Morgan merely glanced up and smiled, then returned to signing the copious papers that staff members were sliding under his pen.

After a few moments, Morgan waved to a chair as though indicating Allen should sit there. Allen hesitated until a Secret Service agent took him by the elbow and led him to the proffered seat. “What's going on here?” Allen demanded.

Morgan continued signing documents several moments before pausing to look up and smile again. He signed three more and then waved the staff off before answering. “There was a change in Administrations last night,” Morgan began. “Your term in office ended.”

“What?” 

Adam, luggage in hand, stood behind the doorman under the awning outside the hotel entrance. They were surrounded by a torrent that formed vertical walls on three sides. The only dry escape was the lobby to their rear, but that wasn't useful. Adam had to be at the airport within the hour to begin checking through security or he would miss his flight home to Chicago.

The two men watched the flotsam from the gutter being pushed closer to their feet as the water rose in the street and spilled over the curbs.

“Where's the shuttle?” Adam asked.

“It's parked about eight blocks north,” the doorman answered over his shoulder without making eye contact. “You'll have to walk to it.”

Adam couldn't argue. The only traffic he expected to see pass by on the street would be an Ark.

The doorman turned to offer his umbrella and hesitated, his attention drawn to someone exiting the hotel behind Adam. “I'm sorry,” he began as he held it up. “It's the last one.”