The rails and rail ties were long gone, having fallen victim to a newer/faster/better line that had been built about thirty miles to the east. But the one thing that remained was the trestle of the bridge that supported the now defunct rail line over Wanderer’s Creek. And he was resting on it now. He had his backpack off and his b
“So death comes to us all, even to the almighty Western Diamondback” he said to the bloody remains of the snake. He was standing near the edge of what appeared to be an infinitely long highway to nowhere and there wasn’t another living (or dead, except for the snake) creature in sight. He hitched his backpack up on his right sho
"Scatology" he remembered it was called. AKA the study of shit. He looked at the owl droppings that were in a loose pyramidal pile under one of the barn’s rafters and wondered how in the world anyone would want to study something’s shit. Yet here he was doing exactly that, he realized. But in his defense, what else was there to do? Ou
Shimmering. Now that was a word. He had been laying on his back shoeless and shirtless looking up into the canopy of the ancient tree that was sheilding him from the intense midday sun and the leaves were shimmering in the slight summer breeze. He sat up and after a short search of his backpack-slash-pillow, he found his ta
...using the small army surplus shovel that he carried strapped to his backpack, he pressed the struggling creature down as gently as he dared to restrain it without harm in the loose sand that had accumulated in small drifts beside the road. Vanity of vanities; all is vanity he remembered from once upon a time. He
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