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rat-trap bones of his chest.
covered with the yellow dust that settled upon everything in this place.
Reminds me of the gunslinger
He knew also that fine cars and carriages, horses and guns, the gloss of their own pale skin, cursed the nobility with a false sense of well-being, of safety.
lethal grace,
“I’ve known some fearless men. Hunted lions with them. A few of those gents forgot that Mother Nature is more of a killer than we humans will ever be and wound up getting chomped. She wants our blood, our bones, our goddamned guts. Fear is healthy.”
one looked back far enough, all men issued from the same wellspring and every last one of them feared the dark
Luke Honey said with a steadiness born of staring down savage predators, of waiting to pull the trigger that would drop them at his feet, of facing certain death with a coldness of mind inherent to the borderline mad. The terror remained, ready to sweep him away.
The man reeked of murderous intent.
Unholy symbols were gouged into the trees; brands so old they’d fossilized.
It was a killing ground of antiquity
Its muzzle unhinged. The teeth closed and there was a sound like a ripe cabbage cracking apart.
Chaperone to a sardonic, provocative little wiseacre seemed a hollow reward for another tough year at the office.
Im not getting this from the niece so far it feels more like bernice resents her
tattooed the US flag on the small of her back to spite him.
Lmao WHAT
maybe that was why she resented poor Lourdes just a tiny bit—and
Well there you go
Bones? Undoubtedly, a reef of them exists somewhere in the deep.
insomuch as youth seemed to bounce back from anything short of bullet wounds.
That buffalo charges across the eternal prairie, mad black eye rolling at the photographer. The photographer is Old Scratch’s left hand man. Every few seconds the buffalo rumbles past the same tussock, the same tumbleweed, the same bleached skull of its brother or sister. That poor buffalo is Sisyphus without the stone, without the hill, without a larger sense of futility. The beast’s hooves are worn to bone. Blood foams at its muzzle. The dumb brute doesn’t understand where we are.
Dad was a short, wiry man from short wiry stock and he fitted the house accordingly.
she didn’t die, although that was a pity, considering the results. One of her eyes fell out later and she never talked right again. Life is just one long train wreck.
It was hideously spectacular.
Five minutes after I landed in France I was damned sorry for such a foolish impulse toward patriotism.
him nearly in half in a gout of black blood and smoke. What remained of him danced, baby, danced and flew backward and fell straight down, all ties to the here and now severed.
collapsed, folding into himself like a bug does when it dies.
all kept walking, violent forces drifting along the razor’s edge of an apocalyptic clash.
rugose
“Life is full of little conspiracies,”
revolutionaries live long enough they become the establishment. The reef incorporates all discrete elements.”
