What can YOU say in six sentences?
No killers on horses here in this town that had rooted in over his bones.
The paths, hard, wide, straight, pressing in on the earth. In the air odors which, were they stronger, might make him rush for the grave he'd come out of.
He'd taken the figure enshadowed in trees and stripped off its flesh and taken its brain and then spit it all out on the road.
He'd done it silently, yes--as only the dead who have punched up from death are allowed.
His rage and his talons, blessed by the witch those ages ago the moment he'd coughed up his last, here now to write a new chapter in screams...