Serge was a poet. Not the kind who wrote poetry, or wrote anything at all, but the kind who looked at the same world you and I do and saw something different. Where we saw trees and clouds and each other he saw oaken towers, silver linings, and all the things we pretend we’re…

“Oh, God,” Chris moaned, invoking a deity he didn’t believe in. He was distraught over his own stupidity. He’d done the thing that all fools do at some point: He hurt someone he loved. Chris didn’t like to think of himself as a fool but found the conclusion inescapable. He hadn’t often been a fool…