He savored every bite—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cherry pie. The guards watched silently. He licked his fingers, smiled. “Tastes like freedom,” he said. They didn’t reply. Later, the cell was empty, meal tray wiped clean. Only a note remained: “Thanks for the kindness. I forgave myself today.”
Barack Obama, former Choom Gang member, told ESPN’s Michael Wilbon that he wishes his daughters had his street cred. “They don’t hoop any more, they’ve got no roll in their stroll. Hell, they were into the Jonas Freaking Brothers. Some days I worry that they take after my white half.”
Daniel had spent months writing a self-help book on time management, preaching discipline and punctuality. On launch day, however, he overslept and arrived, breathless, an hour late for his own event. The audience laughed, thinking it was a gimmick; but Daniel suddenly realized that irony, like charity, begins at home.
Each morning Harold stood at the red mailbox in a gray suit, breath held like a final note. Thirty-two years ago she had promised him a letter. Neighbors whispered; time scoffed. Still he waited—suit coat in July. One day, that day arrived. His knees buckled. It was addressed “Beloved.”