Tom Moses

The pain never showed on the horses faces as they hoofed through the fresh fallen snow.  Though it kicked up like a dust cloud from a desert wasteland, they continued to push the animals harder than ought to be necessary lest it found them again.  The wounded man slumped over his saddle, uttering no sound with exception to the gurgling breath that oozed from his mouth along with oxygenated bubbles of blood.  The boy that kept pace caring for him tried for miles to get the rest of the party to slow their pace, but the pack leader would not hear of it, his wounds may get the best of him but at least they will return his corpse to a grieving widow.

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There it was, once upon a time, a young man of twenty years who sat bored in his second round of American Literature classes.  Almost nodding off to the monotone voice that rebound and echoed in his brain, just before the words of a graduate student sat in for the real instructor he paid tuition in order to listen to seeped out of his brain and were lost to the airwaves forever.  He heard the muffled sound of emo rock bands screaming about their god-awful lives in the ear-buds of the student behind him. read more »

It is only eighty degrees out, the sun is blocked by most of the buildings and there’s not much in the way of direct shine to blind people. Yet, nearly everyone wears sunglasses anyway. It’s not so much of the UV protection from burning out their retinas or even drying their eyes, but there’s that “hey aren’t I fucking cool” mystique that drives an individual to spend more than ten dollars on some aluminum and dark plastic eye shields. It’s that “hey look at me syndrome” where people are sporting their Oakley’s to the person next to them hoping they thing “damn, those are so cool I want a pair.” And it’s those sorts of people that keep this economy running.

Everyone has to keep up the Jones’ these days.

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The train hissed to a halt and the masses exit like cattle led to their deaths. A slow death unfit for cattle, these men and women moved through their terminals and their turn styles, counting for the census bureau and giving job meaning to a useless endeavor. The stairs were dirty, a homeless man sat to one side and routinely kicked. He didn’t seem to mind.

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When a fire burns so bright that it becomes invisible to the human eye, it is almost too hot to imagine. Such a while hot flame sears the flesh before the fires come near, the pain starts immediately, the burning heat. The extremities are the first to cry out, but they cannot do it through words, only boils and blisters that will quickly rupture. He can’t cry out, what words would there to be said? It’s all over for him now, nothing left but to watch as everyone he knows is burned asunder.

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