Tincture, And The Devil Pulls Six-Guns

The tanker was always a curiosity for Rachel.

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.

She didn’t feel off-heels, but everything before her was disconcerting in ways she couldn’t quite understand.

To enjoy fishing, a body didn’t require much by way of supplies—but water was a good start.

I begin my day with calisthenics, then soon after, I start withdrawing my own blood. 

Marcus had always thought of gambling as a fool’s exercise, and this was his usual justification for losing at cards.

So much we don’t understand, so much we’re trying to quilt together, so much that we never will.

She'd arrived at dark, and it was the men with loaded rifles that cemented Rachel’s distaste for strangers.

The boy was long past making his decisions of fate.

Truth found little purchase in a barren sown with lies, and this went doubly so for the Devil.