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I drifted for the next day or two, living out of hotel rooms and haunting the places I'd known growing up. They'd changed like everything changes, the world always hurrying us along, but I didn't know what else to do, where else to go. I couldn't leave Long Beach, not till I made things up with Gran, but something held me back. I felt ill at ease, restless. And then, as I fished through my wallet in a bar one afternoon, I saw a tiny slip of paper eddy to the floor. I knew what it was, of course, but I picked it up anyway. My fingers shook as I opened it up and stared at the message written there, Call me sometime , with the address and phone number printed neatly below.

I made it to Laguna Beach in fifty minutes. The address was a mile or so east of the water, a manicured duplex on a corner lot. She had moved no doubt—five years had passed—and if she hadn't moved she had married at the very least. But I left my car at the curb and walked up the sidewalk all the same.

I could hear the bell through an open window, footsteps approaching, soft music lilting from the back of the house. Then the door opened and she was there, wiping her hands on a towel. The house was small, but light, with wide windows in the kitchen overlooking a lush back lawn. A breeze slipped past the screens, infusing the kitchen with the scent of fresh-cut grass and the faraway smell of ocean. As she made coffee, I studied her, still freckled and faintly gamine, but not unchanged. Her eyes had a wary light in them, and fresh lines caged her thin upper lip.

When she sat across from me at the table, toying with her coffee cup, I noticed a faint pale circle around her finger where a ring might have been. Maybe I looked older too, for Gwen glanced up at me from beneath a fringe of streaky blonde bangs, her mouth arcing in a crooked smile. Gwen knew a fair bit of my story—my role in Burton's presidential campaign had bought me that much notoriety at least—and hers had a familiar ring to it.

Law school at UCLA, five or six years billing hours in one of the big LA firms before the cutthroat culture got to her and she threw it over for a job with the ACLU, trading long days and a handsome wage for still longer ones and almost no wage at all. Her marriage had come apart around the same time. She hesitated. Risk aversion. By this time, the sky beyond the windows had softened into twilight and our coffee had grown cold.

As shadows lengthened in the little kitchen, I caught Gwen glancing at the clock. She took my hand at the door, a simple handshake, that's all, but I felt something pass between us, an old connection close with a kind of electric spark. Maybe it wasn't there at all, maybe I only wanted to feel it—Gwen certainly seemed willing to let me walk out of her life once again—but a kind of desperation seized me. Call it nostalgia or loneliness.

Call it whatever you want. But suddenly the image of her wry glance from beneath the slant of hair leaped into mind. She paused a moment. The shadow of the door had fallen across her face. She laughed uncertainly, and when she spoke, her voice was husky and uncertain. That was a long time ago.

Like I said, I'm a little risk aversive these days. Lewis and I stood together as we waited for the ceremony to begin, looking out at the dead. They had been on the move for days, legions of them, gathering on the Mall as far as the eye could see. A cluster of the living, maybe a couple hundred strong, had been herded onto the lawn before the bandstand—a token crowd of warm bodies for the television cameras—but I couldn't help thinking that Burton's true constituency waited beyond the cordons, still and silent and unutterably patient, the melting pot made flesh: folk of every color, race, creed, and age, in every stage of decay that would allow them to stand upright.

Dana Maguire might be out there somewhere. She probably was. Privately, Lewis had told me that the dead had begun gathering elsewhere in the world, as well. Our satellites had confirmed it. In Cuba and North Korea, in Yugoslavia and Rwanda, the dead were on the move, implacable and slow, their purposes unknown and maybe unknowable.

It was the first time I had spoken of it aloud, and I felt a burden sliding from my shoulders as the words slipped out. I told him all of it: Gran's evasions and my reaction to Dana Maguire that day on CNN and the sense I'd had on Crossfire that something else, something vast and remote and impersonal, was speaking through me, calling them back from the grave. I told him about the police report, too, how the memories had come crashing back upon me as I sat at the scarred table, staring into a file nearly three decades old.

He lived alone, you know.

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He didn't have kids and he never thought about kids in the house. It was late. It must have been close to midnight by then. People were getting drunk and the music was loud and Alice didn't seem to want much to do with me. I was in my uncle's bedroom, just fooling around the way kids do, and the gun was in the drawer of his nightstand.

I paused, memory surging through me, and suddenly I was there again, a child in my uncle's upstairs bedroom. Music thumped downstairs, jazzy big band music. I knew the grown-ups would be dancing and my dad would be nuzzling Mom's neck, and that night when he kissed me good night, I'd be able to smell him, the exotic aromas of bourbon and tobacco, shot through with the faint floral essence of Mom's perfume. Then my eyes fell upon the gun in the drawer. The light from the hall summoned unsuspected depths from the blued barrel.

All I wanted to do was show Alice. I just wanted to show her. I never meant to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt Alice. I remember carrying the gun downstairs to the foyer, Mom and Dad dancing beyond the frame of the doorway, Alice standing there watching. I remember the music screeching to a halt, somebody dragging the needle across the record, my mother screaming. I remember Alice lying on the floor and the blood and the weight of the gun in my hand. But the weird thing is, the thing I remember best is the way I felt at that moment. A bullet had smashed the face of the clock, this big grandfather clock my uncle had in the foyer.

It was chiming over and over, as though the bullet had wrecked the mechanism. That's what I remember most. The clock. I was afraid my uncle was going to be mad about the clock. Lewis did something odd then. Reaching out, he clasped my shoulder—the first time he'd ever touched me, really touched me, I mean—and I realized how strange it was that this man, this scarred, bitter man, had somehow become the only friend I have.

I realized something else, too: how rarely I'd known the touch of another human hand, how much I hungered for it. Burton would have you back in a minute. He owes this election to you, he knows that. Come back. But now, staring out across the upturned faces of the dead as a cold January wind whipped across the Mall, I felt the lure and pull of the old life, sure as gravity. The game, Burton had called it, and it was a game, politics, the biggest Monopoly set in the world and I loved it and for the first time I understood why I loved it.

For the first time I understood something else, too: why I had waited years to ring Gwen's doorbell, why even then it had taken an active effort of will not to turn away. It was the same reason: Because it was a game, a game with clear winners and losers, with rules as complex and arcane as a cotillion, and most of all because it partook so little of the messy turmoil of real life.

The stakes seemed high, but they weren't. It was ritual, that's all—movement without action, a dance of spin and strategy designed to preserve the status quo. I fell in love with politics because it was safe. You get so involved in pushing your token around the board that you forget the ideals that brought you to the table in the first place. You forget to speak from the heart. Someday maybe, for the right reasons, I'd come back. But not yet. I just shook my head and gazed out over the handful of living people, stirring as the ceremony got underway.

The dead waited beyond them, rank upon rank of them with the earth of the grave under their nails and that cold shining in their eyes. A year has passed, and those words— justice, I suppose —still haunt me. I returned to D. Gwen came with me, and sometimes, as I lie wakeful in the shelter of her warmth, my mind turns to the past. It was Gran that brought me back. The cast had come off in February, and one afternoon in March, Gwen and I stopped by, surprised to see her on her feet. She looked frail, but her eyes glinted with determination as she toiled along the corridors behind her walker.

By the time she died in August, she'd moved from the walker to a cane. Another month, her case manager told me with admiration, and she might have relinquished even that. We buried her in the plot where we laid my grandfather to rest, but I never went back after the interment. I know what I would find. They shamble in silence through the cities of our world, their bodies slack and stinking of the grave, their eyes coldly ablaze. Baghdad fell in September, vanquished by battalions of revolutionaries, rallying behind a vanguard of the dead. State teems with similar rumors, and CNN is on the story.

Unrest in Pyongyang, turmoil in Belgrade. In some views, Burton's has been the most successful administration in history. All around the world, our enemies are falling. Yet more and more these days, I catch the president staring uneasily into the streets of Washington, aswarm with zombies. They demand nothing of us, after all.

They seek no end we can perceive or understand. Perhaps they are nothing more than what we make of them, or what they enable us to make of ourselves. And so we go on, mere lodgers in a world of unpeopled graves, subject ever to the remorseless scrutiny of the dead. David J. Schow is a bit of a legend in zombie circles. His most recent novel is Gun Work , a hard-boiled crime novel due out in November. Along the way it was decided that the incidental background of the story would address the notion of what it was like in the big cities two nights before the spread of the zombie virus made survival the overriding issue.

Just as each of us has an aberration, a hidden secret. Some might call it a perversion, though that's rather a rough word. Is it a perversion to do that thing you're best at, to enjoy your individual moment? Amelia nodded vaguely, watching the older man through her glass of Sauvignon Blanc. He was going to answer his own obtuse question, and the answer he had already decided upon was no.

It was the puffery that preceded the crunch—was she going to fuck him tonight, or not? She was positive he had already answered that one in his head as well. Dinner had run to ninety-five bucks, not counting the wine or the tip. Dessert had been high-priced, higher-caloried, chocolate, elegant. Cabs had been taken and token gifts dispensed. She had worked in loan approvals at Columbia Savings for nine months, riding the receptionist's desk.

Older men frequently asked her out. When Quinn invited her to dinner, a weekend date, she had pulled his file, consulted his figures, and said yes. All the girls in the office did it. He drove a Jaguar XJS and was into condo development. The dinner part had been completed two hours ago. Now it was his place. When your income hit the high six figures there was no such animal as date rape. Amelia had herpes. It was inactive tonight. Best to stay mum; it was like compensation.

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To her certain knowledge she had never bedded bisexuals or intravenous-drug users, and in truth she feared contracting AIDS in the same unfocused way she feared getting flattened in a crosswalk by a bus. It could happen. But probably not. There was no way in the world either of them could fit a condom over their mouths, so it was academic.

Quinn's watery gray eyes glinted as he rattled on about aberrations and special moments. Probably the wine. It had gotten to Amelia half an hour ago, a fuzzy vino cloud that put her afloat and permitted her to tune out Quinn's voice while staring past him, to nod and generate tiny noises of acknowledgment on a schedule that allowed him to believe she was actually listening. She had disconnected and felt just fine. She took a deep, languorous breath keeping him on the far side of her wine glass, and stifled the giggle that welled within her.

Oh my yes, she felt nice, adrift on a cumulus pillow of gasified brain cells. She would look past him, through him, in just this way when he was on top of her, grunting and sweating and believing he had seduced her. She rewound back to the last utterance she cared to remember and acted upon it. She added a glowing smile and toyed with a long curl of her copper hair.

Just adorable. His interest came full blast, too eager. She played him like a catfish on a hook. It's silly, really. Through the tabletop he watched her legs recross. The whisper of her stockings flushed his face with blood. His brain was giddy, already jumping forward in time, to the clinch. His voice was so cultured, his tone so paternal. He was losing control and she could smell it. She kept a childlike killer smile precisely targeted. So much bitterness, there beneath the manner and cosmetics. There was a tall vase of irises on an antique end table near the fireplace.

Firelight mellowed all the glass and Scandinavian chrome in the room and danced in the floor-to-ceiling wraparound windows of Quinn's eighth-floor eyrie. He kept his gaze on her. The fire was in his eyes as well. Every inch the coquette, Amelia bit off the delicate chiffon of the iris. And smiled. I like the flavor. I don't know. I used to think the flower's life added to mine. It became evident that his erection was making him blunder. Amelia's eyes dipped to notice, bemused, and she ate another flower. She had made a point of telling Quinn she liked lots of flowers, and he and his Gold Card had come through in rainbow colors.

All over the penthouse were long-stemmed roses, carnation bouquets, spring bunches, mums, more. Quinn found the sight of Amelia chewing the flowers throat-closingly erotic. His voice grew husky and repeated her name. It was time for him to lunge. Dear Amelia. My aberration. She had been tied up before. So far, no big deal. Quinn used silk scarves to secure her wrists and ankles to the mahogany poles of the four-poster bed.

With a long, curved, ebony-handled knife he halved the front of her dress. Into the vanilla highlands of her breasts he mumbled promises of more expensive replacement garments. His hands lost their sophistication and became thick-fingered, in a big masculine hurry, shredding her hose to the knees and groping to see if she was as moist as his fantasies. Then he was thrusting. Amelia rocked and pretended to orgasm. This would be done in a hurry.

No big deal. She expected him to go for the knife again, to stroke her nipples with its razor edge or tease her nerve endings with mock danger. Instead, he reached into a headboard compartment and brought out a rubber mask festooned with sewn leather and buckles and shiny gold zippers. It almost made her laugh.

She protested. The contraption engulfed her head like a thick, too-tight glove. She thought of getting stuck in a pullover sweater, only this material was definitely nonporous. Her lungs felt brief panic until the thing was fully seated and she could gulp air through the nose and mouth slits. Then Quinn resumed pushing himself into her, his prodding more urgent now. He broke rhythm only to zip the holes in the mask shut. Fear blossomed loud in her chest, becoming a fireball.

She pulled in a final huge draught of air before he zipped the nose shut, and wasted breath making incomprehensible mewling noises against the already-sealed mouth hole. She could not tell him now of her congenital lung problems, that respiration was sometimes a chore. When the weather was wrong, she had to resort to prescription medication just to breathe.

It had never come up, all through dinner. They had been too busy with aberrations and prime moments and eating flowers. All she could feel now was a slow explosion in her chest and the steady pounding down below, in and out. She began to buck and heave, thrashing. Quinn loved every second of it, battering her lustily despite her abrupt lack of lubrication. The friction vanished when he came inside her. Panting, he lumbered immediately to the bathroom. When he returned, Amelia had not changed position, and he finally noticed she was no longer breathing.

Sometimes it went down this way, he thought. The price of true passion, however aberrant. But she was still moist and poised at the ready, so he opted to have one more go. He huffed with surprise when she began to squirm beneath him again. He went aahhh and started stroking rigid and slippery in a fast tempo. That was it—she had fainted. Sometimes it went down that way as well—orgasm put them in the Zone for a while. She would awaken on high-burn and come her teeny secretary brains right out.

Her jaw wrenched around at a ridiculous angle and bit into the leather muzzle of the mask from within, shredding a hole. A drop of Quinn's sweat flew to mix with the blood staining her teeth and the vomit clogging her throat, and before Quinn could make sense out of what he thought he saw, Amelia bit his nose off. In the brief second before the pain hit, Quinn thought of that crazy shit on the news.

Cannibal attacks on the eastern seaboard. Some whackpot scientist had claimed that dead people were reviving and eating live people. It was all Big Apple ratshit. Yet it flashed through Quinn's mind right now because Amelia had bitten his nose off and was chewing it up and swallowing the pieces. His throat flooded with the foaming pink backwash of inhaled blood.


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He made a liquid gargling noise as he tried to recoil, to back out of her, to get the hell away from this fucking lunatic, but she had a deathgrip on him below-decks, as well. Then Quinn was able to yell, and he did because he could feel the ring of vaginal muscle increasing pressure, locking up beyond the circumference of his cock. The more he tried to pull out, the harder he got. He'd heard of men getting stuck in wine bottles the same way. You can't compress a liquid. Blood was a liquid. His panic erection was vised with no options.

He shoved wildly against the bed, blood pumping from the cavern in his face. He began hitting her with both fists, but she was beyond feeling a thing. When he felt the muscle sever his penis like a wire cutter, he began to scream hoarsely. None of his neighbors would pay any mind. Weird games, aberrations, were the standard menu at Quinn's. Suddenly freed, he sprawled backward. Blood gushed, ruining the carpet and sputtering from his crotch. He watched the stump of his still-stiff manhood vanish into the slick red chasm between Amelia's legs, overwhelmed by the sight of it being swallowed whole by the orifice that had bitten it off.

It took Amelia about half an hour to gnaw through her bonds. She spent another hour and a half eating Quinn. During her meal the life left his body, and the queer radiations mentioned on the news did their alien work. By then there was not enough left of his corpse to rise, or walk, or eat anyone else. The pieces lolled around on the floor, feeling the first pangs of a new hunger, unearthly and unsatisfiable.

Her savaged dress dropped away. Swaying side-to-side she found her way into the room where they had dined when they were alive. Sparks of remembered behavior capered through her dead brain matter, evaporating for the last time. She began eating the flowers in their vases, in no hurry to begin her nightwalk. The flowers were alive, but dying every moment. Their life might become hers. When she stopped, all the bouquets had been stripped. Eventually Amelia found her way to a door, and moved into the world to seek others of her newborn kind. Never again would she be as beautiful.

It was her moment, just as Quinn had said. She blended with the shadows, a striking, cream-skinned nude with flower petals drifting down from her mouth, ocher, mauve, bright red. Dick Award. In the nineties, Hoffman went through a summer where she read one serial killer biography after another. Part of my thinking in 'The Third Dead Body' was to give the victim a voice. There were so many victims. In this case, where the serial killer was the celebrity—as so often happens—I wanted to focus elsewhere.

I didn't even know Richie. I surely didn't want to love him. After he killed me, though, I found him irresistible. I opened my eyes and dirt fell into them. Having things fall into my eyes was one of my secret terrors, but now I blinked and shook my head and most of the dirt fell away and I felt all right.

So I knew something major had happened to me. With my eyes closed, I shoved dirt away from my face. While I was doing this I realized that the inside of my mouth felt different. I probed with my tongue, my trained and talented tongue, and soon discovered that where smooth teeth had been before there were only broken stumps.

What puzzled me about this and about the dirt in my eyes was that these things didn't hurt. They bothered me, but not on a pain level. I frowned and tried to figure out what I was feeling. Not a lot. Not scared or mad, not hot or cold. This was different too. I usually felt scared, standing on street corners waiting for strangers to pick me up, and cold, working evenings in skimpy clothes that showed off my best features.

Right now, I felt nothing. I sat up, dirt falling away from me, and bumped into branches that gridded my view of the sky. Some of them slid off me. The branches were loose and wilting, not attached to a bush or tree. I used my hands to push them out of the way and noticed that the backs of my fingers were blackened beyond my natural cocoa color. I looked at them, trying to remember what had happened before I fell asleep or whatever—had I dipped my fingers in ink?

But no; the skin was scorched. My fingerprints were gone. They would have told police that my name was Tawanda Foote, which was my street name. My teeth would have led police to call me Mary Jefferson, a name I hadn't used since two years before, when I moved out of my parents' house at fifteen. In my own mind, I was Sheila, a power name I had given myself no one could have discovered from any evidence about me. No teeth, no fingerprints; Richie really didn't want anybody to know who I was, not that anybody ever had.

With my scorched fingers I tried to take my pulse, though it was hard to find a vein among the rope burns at my wrists. With my eyes I watched my own naked chest. There were charred spots on my breasts where Richie had touched me with a burning cigarette. No pulse, but maybe that was because the nerves in my fingertips were dead.


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No breathing. No easy answer to that, so I chose the hard answer:. After I pushed aside the branches so I could see trees and sky, I sat in my own grave dirt and thought about this. My grannie would call this dirt goofer dust; any soil that's been piled on a corpse, whether the body's in a box or just loose like me, turns into goofer dust. Dirt next to dead folk gets a power in it, she used to say. She used to tell me all kinds of things.

She told me about the walking dead; but mostly she said they were just big scary dummies who obeyed orders. Maybe she can order 'em to come in here and turn off your light. I thought maybe if I left Louisiana I could get the curse off, but nobody I knew could uncross me and the curse followed me to Seattle. In the midst of what was now goofer dust, I was sitting next to something. I reached out and touched it.

It was another dead body. But she refused to move. So: no fingerprints, no teeth. I was dead, next to someone even deader, and off in some woods. I checked in with my body, an act I saved for special times when I could come out of the numb state I spent most of my life in, and found I wasn't hungry or thirsty. We know where to go. I looked around. At my back the slope led upward toward a place where sun broke through trees. At my feet it led down into darker woods.

To either side, more woods and bushes, plants Grannie had never named for me, foreign as another language. I moved my legs, bringing them up out of the goofer dust. All of me was naked; dirt caught in my curly hair below. I pulled myself to my feet and something fell out of my money pit, as my pimp Blake liked to call my pussy. I looked down at what had fallen from me. It was a rock flaked and shaped into a blade about the size of a flat hand, and it glistened in the dulled sunlight, wet and dark with what had come from inside me, and maybe with some of his juices too.

I put my hands to my neck and felt the deep grooves the rope had left there. Heat blossomed in my head and in my heart. I wanted to find the hands that had tightened the rope around my neck, wrists, and ankles. I wanted to find the eyes that had watched my skin sizzle under the kiss of the burning cigarette. I wanted to find the mind that had decided to plunge a crude blade into me like that. The compulsion set in along my bones, jetted into my muscles like adrenaline. I straightened, looked around. I had to find Richie. I knew which direction to look: something in my head was teasing me, nudging me—a fire behind my eyes, urging me back to the city.

I fought the urge and lifted more branches off the place where I had lain. If I was going to get to Seattle from here, wherever here was, I needed some clothes. I couldn't imagine anybody stopping to pick me up with me looking the way I did. I knew Richie had worked hard to get rid of all clues to who I was, but I thought maybe my companion in the grave might not be so naked of identity, so I brushed dirt off her, and found she was not alone.

There were two bodies in the dirt, with no sign of afterlife in them except maggots, and no trace of clothes. One was darker than me, with fewer marks on her but the same rope burns around her neck. The other one was very light, maybe white. She was really falling apart. They looked like they must smell pretty bad, but I couldn't smell them. I couldn't smell anything. I could see and hear, and my muscles did what I told them, but I didn't feel much except the gathering fire inside me that cried for Richie. I brushed dirt back over the other women and moved the branches to cover their resting place again.

Downslope the trees waited, making their own low-level night. Upslope, open sun: a road, probably. I scrambled up toward the light. The heat in my head and heart and belly burned hotter, and I churned up the hillside and stepped into the sun. A two-lane highway lay before me, its yellow dotted center stripe bright in the sun. Its edges tailed into the gravel I stood on. Crushed snack bags and Coke and beer cans lay scattered in the bushes beside the road; cellophane glinted.

I crossed the road and looked at the wooded hill on its far side, then down in the ditch. No clothes. Not even a plastic bag big enough to make into a bikini bottom. The heat inside me was like some big fat drunk who will not shut up, yelling for a beer. I started walking, knowing which direction would take me toward town without knowing how I knew. After a while a car came from behind me. Behind was probably my best side; my microbraids hung down to hide the marks on my neck, and Richie hadn't done any cigarette graffiti on my back that I could remember.

A lot of tricks had told me I had a nice ass and good legs; even my pimp had said it, and he never said anything nice unless he thought it was true or it would get him what he wanted. And he had everything he wanted from me. I could hear the car slowing, but I was afraid to look back. I knew my mouth must look funny because of the missing teeth, and I wasn't sure what the rest of my face looked like.

Since I couldn't feel pain, anything could have happened. I bent my head so the sun wasn't shining in my face. Oh, miss? The engine idled low as the car pulled up beside me. It was a red Volkswagen Rabbit. I crossed my arms over my chest, hiding the burn marks and tucking my rope-mark bracelets into the crooks of my elbows. A man might shed his shirt for me, but a woman, unless she was carrying a suitcase or something, might not have anything to offer. It was a big beefy white woman in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.

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She came toward me with a no-nonsense stride. She had short dark hair. She was wearing a man's khaki cloth hat with fishing flies stuck in the band, all different feathery colors. My tongue kept trying to touch the backs of teeth no longer there. It frustrated me that my speech was so messy. I thought maybe I could talk more normally if I touched my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I ducked my head and took the jacket. She gasped when I dropped my arms from my chest. I wrapped up in the jacket, which was roomy, but not long enough to cover my crotch.

Then again, from the outside, my crotch didn't look so bad. I turned the collar up to cover my neck and the lower part of my face. Her eyes were wide, her broad face pale under her tan. I have a first aid kit in the car. She sighed, her shoulders lowering. She walked around the car and opened the passenger side door, and I followed her. I looked at the seat. It was so clean, and I was still goofer dusted. Mirror's on the back of the visor. I slid in and folded down the visor, sighed with relief when I saw my face. Nothing really wrong with it, except my chin was nearer to my nose than it should be, and my lips looked too dark and puffy.

My eyes weren't blackened and my nose wasn't broken. I could pass. I gapped the collar just a little and winced at the angry dark rope marks around my neck, then clutched the collar closed. The woman climbed into the driver's seat. Still keeping the coat closed with my left hand, I extended my right, and she shook it. It was the first time I'd ever said it out loud.

Two words for woman put together. I smiled, then glanced quickly at the mirror, and saw that a smile was as bad as I'd thought. My mouth was a graveyard of broken teeth, brown with old blood. I hid my mouth with my hand again. My daughter lives in Renton. This has to be reported to the police. Who is he?

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Where does he live? She took a deep breath, let it out. I shook my head. The heat in my chest was scorching, urging me on. Once she got started, she was some ball-of-fire driver. Scared me—even though there wasn't anything I could think of that could hurt me. I'm on my way in to Renton to see my daughter. The burning in my chest raged up into my throat. That way. Actually the urge inside me was pulling from some direction between the two roads, but the smaller road aimed closer to where I had to go.

I closed my hand around her wrist and squeezed. She cried out. She let go of the steering wheel and tried to shake off my grip. I felt strange, totally strange, ordering a woman around the way a pimp would. I knew I was hurting her, too. I knew I could squeeze harder, break the bones in her arm, and I was ready to, but she pulled the car over to the shoulder and stamped on the brake.

I released her arm and climbed out of the car. You want the jacket back? She heaved a huge sigh. I'll take you where you want to go. I can't just leave you here. I wasn't sure exactly where we would end up. I would know when we arrived. I remembered the inside of Richie's apartment. But that was later.

First he had pulled up next to where I was standing by the highway, rolled down the passenger window of his big gold four-door Buick, said he'd like to party and that he knew a good place. Standard lines, except I usually told johns the place, down one of the side streets and in the driveway behind an abandoned house. I had asked him how high he was willing to go. My pimp had been offering me coke off and on but I'd managed not to get hooked, so I was still a little picky about who I went with; but Richie looked clean-cut and just plain clean, and his car was a couple years old but expensive; I thought he might have money.

He took me down off the ridge where the Sea-Tac Strip is to a place like the one where I usually took my tricks, behind one of the abandoned houses near the airport that are due to be razed someday. There's two or three neighborhoods of them handy. I asked him for money and he handed me a hundred, so I got in back with him, but then things went seriously wrong. That was the first time I saw and felt his rope, the first time I heard his voice cursing me, the first time I tasted one of his sweaty socks, not the worst thing I'd ever tasted, but close.

When he had me gagged and tied up and shoved down on the back seat floor, he drove somewhere else. I couldn't tell how long the drive was; it felt like two hours but was probably only fifteen or twenty minutes. I could tell when the car drove into a parking garage because the sounds changed. He put a shopping bag over my head and carried me into an elevator, again something I could tell by feel, and then along a hall to his apartment. That was where I learned more about him than I had ever wanted to know about anybody.

I didn't know his apartment's address, but I knew where Richie was. If he was at the apartment, I would direct Marti there even without a map. The fire inside me reached for Richie like a magnet lusting for a hammer. As soon as we were heading the way I wanted to go, the fire inside me cooled a little. I sat back and relaxed. We were driving toward the sun, which was going down. Glare had bothered me before my death, but now it was like dirt in my eyes, a minor annoyance. I blinked and considered this, then shrugged it off. Fire rose in my throat like vomit. I felt like I could breathe it out and it would feel good.

It felt good inside my belly already. I was drunk with it. She shook her head. You can choose something else. There are shelters for battered women. The government should offer you some protection. The police. Her voice got quieter. I know how hard it is to get away. But you are away, Sheila. You can start over. I'll help you. You can live in Kanaskat with me and he'll never find you. Or if you just want a bus ticket someplace—back home, wherever that is—I can do that for you, too.

I shook my braids back and opened the collar of the jacket, pulled down the lapels to bare my neck. I stared at her until she looked back. She screamed and drove across the center lane. Fortunately there was no other traffic. Still screaming, she fought with the steering wheel until she straightened out the car. Then she pulled over to the shoulder and jumped out of the car and ran away.

I shut off the car's engine, then climbed out. The car's all yours. I'm leaving. It's safe. Thanks for the jacket. I had gone about a quarter mile when she caught up with me again. The sun had set and twilight was deepening into night. Six cars had passed going my way, but I didn't hold out my thumb, and though some kid had yelled out a window at me, and somebody else had honked and swerved, nobody stopped.

I heard the Rabbit's sputter behind me and kept walking, not turning to look at her. But she slowed and kept pace with me. I stopped and looked toward her. I knew she was scared of me. I felt strong and strange, hearing her call me by a name I had given myself, as if I might once have had a chance to make up who I was instead of being shaped by what had happened to me. I couldn't see it being possible now, though, when I was only alive to do what the fire in me wanted. For half an hour we drove in silence. She crossed Interstate 5, paused when we hit 99, the Strip.

I pointed right. The fire was so hot in me now I felt like my fingertips might start smoking any second. She turned the car and we cruised north toward the Sea-Tac Airport, my old stomping grounds. We passed expensive hotels and cheap motels, convenience stores and fancy restaurants. Lighted buildings alternated with dark gaps. The roar of planes taking off and landing, lights rising and descending in the sky ahead of us, turned rapidly into background. We drove past the Goldilocks Motel, where Blake and I had a room we rented by the week, and I didn't feel anything.

But as we passed the intersection where the Red Lion sprawls on the corner of th Street and the Pacific Highway, fire flared under my skin. She stared at me and slowed the car. A mile further, past the airport, one of the little roads led down off the ridge to the left. I pointed. Marti got in the left-turn lane and made the turn, then pulled into a gas station on the corner and parked by the rest rooms. I could feel his presence in the near distance; all my wounds were resonating with his nearness now, all the places he had pressed himself into me with his rope and his cigarette and his sock and his flaked stone knife and his penis, imprinting me as his possession.

Surely as a knife slicing into a tree's bark, he had branded me with his heart. I held my hands out, open, palms up. The heat was so strong I felt like anything I touched would burst into flame. Have you got something to do it with? Is Christ just a name that you read in a book when you were in school? Well I've seen the truth, yes I've seen the light and I've changed my ways.

And I'll be prepared when you're lonely and scared at the end of our days The Aftermath By Iron Maiden. An anti-war song. In the mud and rain. What are we fighting for? Is it worth the pain? Is it worth dying for? Who will take the blame? Why did they make a war? Mix in the dirt of brother's blood Song is about the first bombing of a civilian target by an enemy aircraft. In the air there's plane headed for the heart of the Dolphin Human activity damaging the environment , "Look at mother nature on the run in the nineteen seventies After The Reign By Blackfoot.

About the displacement and relocation of Native American peoples in North America. Song is about the aftermath of the sinking of the luxury liner the Titanic on April , It told a sad new story, sixteen hundred had gone to rest. Captain Smith surely must have been a-drinking. Not knowing that he was doing wrong. He tried to raise a record and let the Titanic down You're just another number in military schemes. They marched you in a uniform, you wore against your will. With lies of hope and glory, they taught you how to kill After The War By Warlock. Song is about the environment on a battlefield after a major battle or war has taken place.

An endless battlefield. Overcrowded with death No singing of a bird, rustle of a tree War has ended A person has difficulty "letting go" and moving on from a relationship. But to wait for you, is all I can do and that's what I've got to face. Take a good look at me now, cos I'll still be standing here. And you coming back to me is against all odds. It's the chance I've gotta take Agent Orange By Sodom.

About agent orange , a herbicide that was used by the United States government during the Vietnam War. Many Vietnam vets have developed health complications or have died because of their exposure to this herbicide. Spray down the death. Agent Orange Cancer creeps into their innocent souls. Memorials of flesh and blood Poisoned 'til the end of their lives. Physical deformity About the health hazards of agent orange , a herbicide used in the Vietnam War.

This agent orange from Vietnam, we carry it with us still. It stays inside for years and years before it starts to kill. You might get cancer of the liver, you might get cancer of the skin. A complex song about many health issues. References made to risk taking, acquired immune deficiency syndrome, unprotected sex, low self esteem, and lack of respect for self and body.

‘i like it when you sleep…’: How The 1975 Started Living The Dream

She is looking for the kisses that she never got at home And if she ends up with some dirty hot disease. It's a small price she pays for the need to be pleased Our heroine like many others is now dead Yo, yo, now that millions is dead I'm considered widespread Number one on the top ten and considered a world wide threat H-I-V will progress to A-I-D-S And transform your warm blooded bones to dry flesh By stressing the immune system Promiscuous men and women trying to avoid getting the micro-organism in them from running up in it raw Ready and willing, a couple of minutes of a good feeling is what'll kill them Break ya body down in steps, breath for breath In the hospital wit less then a dozen T-cells left About devotion and the power of love over time, and across the miles.

No matter where you are, no matter how far. Just call my name, I'll be there in a hurry Although we are miles apart, if you ever need a helping hand, I'll be there on the double as fast as I can There ain't no mountain high enough , Ain't no valley low enough , Ain't no river wide enough.

To keep me from getting to you Song promotes abstinence, respecting yourself and your body and waiting to become sexually active. Ain't no safe way anymore. You got people with one, two, three, or four. Abstinence rules, playing is for fools. The one who abstains is the one who's cool About having a positive outlook on life, striving for your goals and not letting negative people influence your way of thinking. I know you know someone that has a negative vow Ask them where they are going, they don't know. But we won't let nothin' hold us back We're gonna polish up our act! Alainis Morissette By Wesley Willis.

A tongue-in-cheek song about Canadian musician Alainis Morissette. You are a rock legend to the max Alainis Morissette You are a rocking maniac. You are a singing hyena. About the Battle of the Alamo which began on February 23, in the state of Texas. Fought to save the Alamo, the battle twelve days long The last brave man fought to the end, the battle it was lost. Fought to save the Alamo, their lives was what it cost Remember the Alamo The Alamo By Johnny Cash.

Alcohol By Barenaked Ladies. Alcohol, a party time necessity. Alcohol, alternative to feeling like yourself. O alcohol, I still drink to your health To walk the fine line between self control and self abuse O alcohol, would you please forgive me? For while I cannot love myself I'll use something else Alcohol By The Kinks. A well respected and successful individual turns to alcohol to deal with life's stresses and ends up ruining his marriage and life. But the pressures at the office and his socialite engagements He'll drink anything as long as all his troubles disappear.

But he messed up his life and he beat up his wife Oh, demon alcohol, sad memories I cannot recall About the negative effects associated with abusing alcohol. References made to hangovers, violence, intoxication and driving while intoxicated. Bottles were breakin' and the windows too. All because someone drank too much brew Fight and shout and cause a brawl, when you're out drinkin' that alcohol Tomorrow mornin' I'll be sick as a dog The meanest trip is alcohol A man laments over his drinking problem and realizes that death is imminent if he doesn't overcome his addiction.

Sure, Lord's killing me If I don't quit drinking it every morning, sure gonna kill me dead Singers mentioned include Hank Williams Sr. They pulled poor old Hank Williams Sr. He ended up on alcohol and pills Elvis Presley, he came up from Jackson. Janis Joplin, she was wild and reckless The story just goes on and on About "unhealthy escapism", using substances in order to forget your problems. Some dead flowers and a bottle of vodka on the kitchen table. Flowers for the good times and booze for the bad Alcohol in the bloodstream, 'bout the best I can do 'til I forget about you An anti-alcohol song.

Alcohol is the root of all evil Every bad thing that happened to me would not have occured if alcohol wasn't involved A relationship is threatened as a person tries to deal with their partner's addiction to alcohol. Even though I threaten that I'm never coming back again The Alcoholik By Superjoint Ritual.

About substance abuse. Blow through the prime of life. Numb all the senses down Pitfalls of grief Tribute to legendary ruler, Alexander The Great. Was born a son to Philip of Macedon, the legend his name was Alexander Alex Chilton By The Repacements. Children by the million sing for Alex Chilton when he comes 'rond I never travel far without a little Big Star Alice's Restaurant By Arlo Guthrie. Inspired by actual events taking place in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Related topics include; the military draft, Vietnam War, protest movements, crime and punishment, pollution, Thanksgiving traditions.

Alimony By "Weird Al" Yankovic. About one of the many unpleasurable results of a divorce. Bleedin' me dry Work at three jobs just to stay in debt now. Well first she took my nest egg and then she took my nest. I'm in debt Alive By P. A song of acceptance, hope , and optimism. I'm thankful for every breath I take. I won't take it all for granted. So I learn from my mistakes. It's beyond my control Whatever happens in this lifetime Alive By Van Zant. Song is about making the most of your time here on Earth and being thankful for what you have. I can feel it rushing through me.

It's the miracle of life. Ain't it good to be alive Song is about growing old alone and being forgotten by your immediate family. But mostly, no one comes 'cept on the weekends. Ruby Wilson lives in where she spends most of her time Some days sure are lonely days and time can move too slow. When you're all dressed up with no where to go Allentown By Billy Joel. Song is about economic decline and downsizing of American industry. Focuses on closing of steel mills in Allentown, PA. Out in Bethlehem they're killing time filling out forms, standing in line Song is about environmental awareness and the serenity and beauty of nature.

Did you ever see the beauty of the hills of Carolina? Or the sweetness of the grass of Tennesee? Did you ever stop to think about the air you're breathin'? I can see the concrete slowly creepin'. Lord take me before they're gone Song was written in the 's after Wall Street crashed sending people to the poor house and sparking the Great Depression. Now this is the truth and it certainly exposes that Wall Street's proposition is not all roses. I put up my money to win some more. I lost it all and it left me sore This song is about living a healthy lifestyle, striving for goals, the importance of friendship and remaining drug and alcohol free.

And I feel proud of all my friends when I see them working for their dreams We intend to always stay drug free. It's the only way to be Song is about unhealthy risk taking, living life in the fast lane and suffering the consequences. According to the artist, " You never walked away When I needed you to stay Or made me feel I'm not the one There've been no broken vows And there reason we're here now Is all the things we've never done We've never grown apart You never broke my heart With secrets that you've kept me from We've never been untrue And I'm still here with you Through all the things we've never done.

Tribute song to John Lennon. All those years ago You were the one who imagined it all All those years ago. Deep in the darkest night I send out a prayer to you Now in the world of light Certain individuals have emerged from the crowd. Reminding us of how far a human being can go No one is holding you back but you. There is no excuse for not getting what you want A positive song about the power and importance of love. Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.

Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game All you need is love. Love is all you need A protest song recorded in the late 's during the hippie movement when long haired people were viewed as rebels. It happened just the other day I feel like letting my freak flag fly Alone By Blues Traveler.

This song is about the hurt of unrequited love and the pain of rejection. She began to cry. She said she needed a friend. I said I'll try I'd loved her always. She didn't know. I tried patience. Let a friendship grow. I tried to keep her, that's what made her go.. A love like hers ain't meant for guys like me Song was written in honor of artist's daughter, Emily. You were sent to me by angels up above, I'm certain Along came you to teach me about love You're here to show me what love can be Tribute to the Nile river.

Along the Nile The pyramids, Reminded us of ancestors And what they did. Along the Nile My people live Because of all The life it gives Already One By Neil Young. About shared parenting. A relationship or marriage has ended but the couple are still joined or bound by a common interest , their child.

I can't forget how love let me down Your laughing eyes. Your crazy smile. Every time I look in his face I can't believe how love lasts a while But we're already one. Already one. Now only time can come between us. Always By Bon Jovi. A person has a difficult time accepting or coming to terms with the end of a relationship.

He feels that his love for the other person will last forever. It's been raining since you left me, now I'm drowning in the flood. You see I've always been a fighter but without you I give up I'll be there till the stars don't shine. Till the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme. I know when I die you'll be on my mind. And I love you, always This song is about optimism and the power of positive thinking. From the Monty Python film "Life of Brian" this song stands out in stark contrast to the "heavy, political stuff" normally associated with the artist.

If life seems jolly rotten, there's something you've forgotten And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing When you're feeling in the dumps, don't be silly chumps Just purse your lips and whistle, that's the thing, and Always look on the bright side of life Always look on the bright side of life About regret, taking someone's love for granted, and trying to redeem yourself. And maybe I didn't treat you quite as good as I should have And I guess I never told you I'm so happy that you're mine.

Little things I should of said and done. I just never took the time Always the Cause By Al Stewart. Song is about the Spanish Civil War and the people who fought for the "Cause" of democracy. Still hope won't be denied. There was always the Cause. There was always the Cause Setbacks come at every turn. New ways are hard to learn. Tonight I saw Guernica burn Always Tomorrow By Gloria Estefan.

Song is about optimism, having a positive outlook on life and believing in yourself and others. Instead of just giving up, I use the power at my command I'll face whatever comes my way, savor each moment of the day. Love as many people as I can along the way That's why there's always tomorrow to start all over again This song is a tribute to Sir Thomas More , song deals with the rule of law , the legitimacy of authority, and staying true to your conscience or principles.

Henry Plantagenet still looks for someone to bring good news in his hour of doubt. While Thomas More waits in the Tower of London watching the sands running out. And measures the hours out from here to oblivion in actions that can't be undone So what if you reached the age of reason only to find there was no reprieve? Would you still be a man for all seasons or would you just disbelieve? Look What They've Done to You By Courtney. Inspired by actual events. On February 4, four NYC police officers fired 41 shots at unarmed Guinean immigrant Amadou Diallo striking him 19 times and killing him in the entrance way of his apartment.

John Wayne shooters rockin' hard dressed in blue. Abner Louima and now Amadou countless others paid the price for you Song By Phil Ochs. We will fight against disease when the money comes with ease. And when we get together we say hooray for A. If you can't afford my bill, don't tell me you're ill Every day we specialize more and more. But we really love to stitch the diseases of the rich.

We are sure there is a clinic for the poor Amazing By Aerosmith. Song is about the cycle of drug addiction, hitting "rock bottom", and then working towards recovery. When I lost my grip and I hit the floor. Yeah, I thought I could leave but couldn't get out the door. I was so sick and tired of livin' a lie. I was wishing that I would die. It's amazing.

With the blink of an eye you finally see the light When the moment arrives you know you'll be alright About Amelia Earhart , an American aviatrix who was one of the world's most celebrated and the first to fly alone over the Atlantic Ocean Amelia Earhart flying that sad day. With her partner Capt. Noonan on the second of July. Her plane fell in the ocean, far away Amen By Jewel. According to the artist I wrote this indirectly for Kurt Cobain, but more precisely for the angst he represented.

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But even more exactly for the hopelessness so many felt after his death. Where's my golden one? Where's my hope now that my heroes have gone? Pieces of us die everyday Song is about how the hopes, dreams and ideals of many American people have not been realized. New world, new people. New dreams for all of the children. Young country Back in the summer of ' I met a young girl, her heart was in flames War had changed her whole world. Her daddy died in Vietnam. She lost her husband in Lebanon And she saw hungry people in the streets.

Young mothers who could not eat And it all goes on. Yeah, the dreams go on America By Neil Diamond. Song is about immigration and how our country is seen as a melting pot. On the boats and on the planes. They're coming to America Freedom's light burning warm Everytime that flag's unfurled. America, America By L. About the displacement of Native Americans as the white man slowly took everything they had.

You conquered what you called a savage people. Drove them to their knees beneath pointed steeples. You stripped them of their great and noble spirit A politician or public figure , caught in the act. Then they caught you with the girl next door, people's money piled on the floor, accusations that you try to deny, revelations and rumours begin to fly Reporters crowd around your house.

Going through your garbage like a pack of hounds Song was written as an inspiration for our American people to never stop striving for peace and prosperity. Dream on children, dream on. Don't let anybody tell you the dream is gone. As long as there's a God Above.

Keep praying we never wake up. Keep on dreaming the American dream American Heroes By Adam Wyle. A response song to the September 11th tragedy in New York City. What a mistake they have made. Take for granted American people today. Within the scene you look around. All the love with both hands out American heroes This parody tours the human history of determining the value of pi.

Song is a tribute to the people and cultures who contributed to our understanding of pi. In the Hebrew Bible we do see the circle ratio appears as three The Chinese got it really keen: three-five-five over one thirteen! More joined the action with arctan series and continued fractions I can't remember if I cried When I read about his widowed bride But something touched me deep inside, The day the music died.

Inspired by actual events , this controversial song includes important political and social commentary dealing with race and the criminal justice system in America. Lena gets her son ready for school. She says now on these streets Charles you got to understand the rules. Promise me if an officer stops you'll always be polite. Never ever run away and promise mama you'll keep your hands in sight The secret my friend.

You can get killed just for living in your American skin American Triangle By Elton John. Song was written as a tribute to Matthew Shepard the victim of a brutal and vicious hate crime. Don't make no sense. I've seen a scarecrow wrapped in wire. Left to die on a high ridge fence It's a cold wind blowing.

This song is about excessive corporate sponsorships and the commercialization of baseball. There's the NBC Peacock right fielder He threw the Exxon's runner out in the dirt And you really can't tell Who's playing for Shell 'Cause they've all got different logos on their shirts It's the sport that built this country A great pitch by any other name and it won't take long to sell you on America's national game Bank America's national game". America's Unsung Heroes By L. Song is a tribute to Native Americans. References made to many Native American tribes. America's unsung heroes. The Cheyenne, Apache, Cherokee and Navaho Wanted to only live in peace.

For starvation and deprivation of their lands to cease A song of patriotism. Proceeds from the song will aid the Red Cross. America, the land of freedom. Still the home of the brave A song of patriotism and hope. Our flag is up, the stock markets are down. But we're all united from the county to the town. America will survive About achieving success in life and losing jealous friends because of it.

And it's so strange when you get just a little money. Your so called friends want to act just a little funny. They'll blame you He thinks you changed because of a dollar sign A man neglects his wife as he climbs the ladder of success. To gain the world and lose our love is too high a price to pay. A parody song of Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise". A satire of Amish culture , with numerous references to specific beliefs and practices. But that's just perfect for an Amish like me, Ya know, I shun fancy things like electricity At in the mornin' I'm milkin' cows If you come to visit, you'll be bored to tears We haven't even paid the phone bill in years Hitchin' up the buggy, churnin' lots of butter Raise a barn on Monday, soon I'll raise anutter Among The Living By Anthrax.

This song is said to be inspired by the Stephen King novel, The Stand. Spreading the disease. With some help from Captain Trips, he'll bring the world down to his knees. Power, yes Power! He'll show them all his power. It pulses through his ice cold blood, a whole world to devour! Amoreena By Elton John. From the "Dog Day Afternoon" soundtrack this song is about yearning and desire. Amphetamine Annie By Canned Heat. About the dangers associated with the use of the stimulant drug amphetamines.

References made to paranoia and the health consequences of drug use. They call her amphetamine Annie Your mind might think it's flying baby on those little pills. But you oughta know it's dyin' 'cause speed kills AM Radio By Everclear. Song is a flashback to the 's with references made to am radio, eight track tapes and popular culture of that era. Just picture yourself on a beautiful day.

With the big bell bottoms and groovy long hair You could hear the music on the am radio Amusement Parks U. By The Beach Boys. Song is a tribute to many of the fun packed amusement parks across the United States. You'll crash and burn in the bumper cars at Jersey's steel pier.

You'll crack'em up when you stand in front of all the crazy mirrors Disneyland and P. Let's take your car and mess around at the park all day Anagram for Mongo By Rush. A fun tribute to the anagram. The letters of one word in each line of the song are rearranged to form other words. Parade from paradise. End the need for Eden. Chase the dreams of merchandise. There is tic and toc in atomic. Leaders make a deal Miracles will have their claimers. More will bow to Rome Ana's Song By Silverchair.

Lead singer Daniel Johns wrote this song after being diagnosed with anorexia. Only a small percentage of anorexics are males. In my head the flesh seems thicker And you're my obsession I love you to the bones Like an anorexic life Song is about corruption of government and the justice system. Halls of Justice painted green, money talking Related topics: campaign financing , watergate. Angel Dust By Sodom. About the dangerous drug angel dust or as it is also called PCP.

References to drug addiction. Searching, hoping for the right connection coz I need it Angel dust. Need a shot to get me through the day About sacrifice, and the temporary, sometimes circumstantial nature of love. If you would not have fallen then I would not have found you And I patched up your broken wings And I knew someday that you would fly away So leave me if you need to.

I'd rather see you up than see you down Angel Of Death By Slayer. Known to have performed pseudo-medical and scientific experiments on many of the victims. Slow death, immense decay. Showers that cleanse you of your life Human mice, for the Angel of Death Sadistic surgeon of demise Destroying without mercy to benefit the Aryan race Song is about the sixteenth century prophet Nostradamus who was believed to have predicted many of the great catastrophies fires, earthquakes, weather disturbances that occured in the twentieth century.

In the sixteenth century there was a French philosopher by the name of Nostradamus. He prophesized that in the late twentieth century an angel of death shall waste this land Angel Of Harlem By U2. This song is a tribute to singer Billie Holiday. So long Angel of Harlem Blue light on the avenue God knows they got to you An empty glass, the lady sings Eyes swollen like a bee sting Blinded you lost your way Artist wrote this song from the point of view of Lynyrd Skynyrd members and what they may have been thinking right before their plane crashed.

These angels I see in the trees are waiting for me. The engines have stopped now. We all know we are going down Angels and fuselage Artist wrote this song for her two brothers, Alan and Shawn, who died from cystic fibrosis. They were angels in waiting. Waiting for wings to fly from this world. Away from their pain Sometimes the body is weaker than the soul This song is a tribute to Annie Jump Cannon the woman who developed the system for classifying stellar spectra.

She was a human computer at the Harvard College Observatory classifying stellar spectra she was the world's leading expert. She created the spectral class system we all love and use today! Annie's Anorexia By The Huntington's. About a "perfect" girl who seems to have everything going for her in life. In reality she is suffering from the eating disorder anorexia. The star of every young boy's dream. I surely would not have guessed she starved herself to fit that dress She never skipped class in her life but she skipped dinner everytime Annie's anorexic Annie's Song By John Denver.

Song was written by the artist as a tribute to his wife Annie. Come let me love you. Let me give my life to you Let me always be with with you A man with a drinking problem tries to remain sober but gives in to his cravings for alcohol. Everybody's having fun, so why be the one left out in the cold?

You said you'd never take another drop. Your craving's big, your liver's shot You've got to dry out But it's martini time Anorexic Beauty By Pulp. Song is about society's unhealthy obsession with weight and how many models have developed eating disorders. We don't need no thought control. No dark sarcasm in the classroom. All in all it's just another brick in the wall Song reveals a person's disregard for another who is less fortunate.

About the importance of community and social responsibility and compassion for the homeless. He walks on doesn't look back, he pretends he can't hear her. Starts to whistle as he crosses the street seems embarassed to be there Reference to using alcohol as a remedy for solving problems. A person in denial.


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