Tincture, And The Devil Pulls Six-Guns

Much has been mired in speculation of the burnouts, most of it the mealy speech of a drunkard, or on occasion your humble author.

This wasn’t the first time that something had tried to kill Abranyah. It was, however, the first attempt with a cannon.

Rachel could see her breath drift out in small puffs, but nothing else.

The wind had begun to pick up, and Marcus did not trust the horizon.

I met the most interesting man today. He sleeps at the fire while I write this, another few inches of bulk to my daily carry, but I find the exercise of keeping a journal cathartic. 

The day had started to stretch on, and there were always more questions.

With a shriek and a rumble, the black car awoke.

Unlike most in the barren, Barabbas was unconditional.

Most bodies who wander in and out of their day, they do it while accepting a relative amount of uncertainty.

Vagueness and the inevitable questions it created only frustrated Rachel, and she had decided that her current predicament was simply one spot too many.