A Blur of Black. A Splash of Red.

I got home pretty late last night and tried to get this done last night, but kept falling asleep after a few paragraphs. Sorry for the tardy update...

The clouds parted, and the ghostly white eye of the night sky blazed ominously across the rain-soaked pavement. Sounds of dogs barking and howling could be heard.

I Hate This Gun...

Somewhere in the vast deserts of  the old west, there was a dusty, ragged and rugged old mining town. And in that old mining town-- just like so many others like it-- there was a saloon. The saloon was poorly lit, dirty, and smelled of alcohol with an aftertaste of blood and semen. Every creaking wooden nook was densely populated with shady characters, all of whom were a minimum of tipsy, and none of whom had bathed recently. There was yelling and fighting, gambling and vomiting, and of course the occasional gunshot. Everyone was having a perfectly perverse time.

Origin Stories

It was the beginning (though no one had realized it yet), and he was hungry. He sat there naked below the tree, thinking of ways to get at its fruit. It was a perfectly ordinary tree, and it grew perfectly ordinary fruit, it was not forbidden and it contained no knowledge. It simply existed-- or so he thought-- to fill the hole in his stomach.