If you will,

On the Christian Day of the Dead in San Juan, Atitlan, a speeding bus runs over a gray-haired mongrel dog and severs its spine. The terrified animal drags its paralyzed lower body over heaped stones in a shallow gulch. Black-feathered vultures hop at a leisurely pace from rock to rock in pursuit of the doomed canine. They have no reason to hurry before commencement of the day's banquet.

Furthermore,

In time of war, one of a country's citizen defenders flies a blue and yellow kite above a wheat field. The sun is shining; birds are chirping; a steady breeze keeps the kite aloft. While passing on a narrow track that winds through the field, two soldiers from the invading army pause to watch. The kite soars, darts side to side, flutters, circles and describes a figure eight. For a while the soldiers are captivated by the display, but finally they lose interest, raise their rifles, aim and fire. The citizen defender drops onto the wheat field. His kite sails on for a hundred yards before it falls.

But some stories take longer to tell:

Bart Morgan must have found out about the abortion from the same girl who covered for me when I skedaddled. I made the mistake of phoning to let her know I was safe. I don't blame her for ratting; Bart probably threatened to beat her till she folded. Doesn't matter anyway what she said or what he did, because it's my fault, what happened. Bart blasted into our bedroom and commenced to beating on both of us with his cane until Frank was door-nail dead and I was unconscious with two broken legs. Bart did for me like he said he'd do and Frank ended up collateral damage. I take full responsibility for my part in his murder.