It’s hard to sum up the strangeness of the last few moons.  I’d have written it as it all happened, and tried – but coughing a gout of blood deep into the workings of a word-masheen makes it work a wee mite less than well.  But it’s clear of the blood at last, and...

Knowledge comes in bits and pieces, if it ever comes at all.   I’ve come by this news all out of order — talking a couple nights ago with Pan ((Pandorah Ashdene)), who saw it all end, and the day afterward with Tsu ((Tsukiko Dreamscape)), who saw what came before.  As for what...

This all happened some time back now, on the 51st day of the Season of Shelter. I’ve been trying to keep it secret from untrustworthy folk, and trying to make sense of it all.  But, way things spread, they probably know already. I was wandering around the east side of the Stygian crater...

No Pulp this week.  Only pulp happening here is the bloody masses I keep coughin’ up. Writing anyway.  Writing and drinking.  Takes my mind off the sick.  Can’t hardly keep focus to write, but it helps me anyway if nobody else.  Too sick n drunk to care. Don’t care if...

The Season of Revival seemed to seek nothing but punishment.  Late ice storms, snow storms, and general coldness keep scavengers bundled up, even as the Season of Violent Winds drew near.  The Buzzards still seem to be nesting, even though other food could be found again – but a brief...

Half a decade of existence is no small feat, no matter what it is.  For a Second Life estate — where regions and communities come and go so quickly that even dog years seem conservative by comparison — five years is even more significant.  To help recognize this milestone in The...

The Digger wrote up the basics of how all this started — the dead girl, the key, the stones, her weird tattoo, the Courier, and that old note from Madeye. None of us knew Madeye all too well; that time he was prancin’ about the Bazaar all crazylike was the first and only we’d...

Winter digs in the knife one last time.  Pellets of ice, hard and sharp and slick, pummel everything.  The business of scavenging and trade go on unabated while the sheets of ice and sleet cover our actions.  Wastelanders seem inspired by the foul weather.  We, too, harden ourselves and...

The nights grow a little bit shorter now.  The winds blow a little less bitter.  The arctic air threatening to slowly freeze your guts with every breath becomes a little less dry, a little less biting.  It always starts so slow, with only these small changes, but day by day Revival comes....

Shelter.  That’s all a body could want, this deep into the season.  Somewhere to hole up against the cold, when not clawing needful things from the unforgiving sand.   Some scrap of ground to claim for oneself, to make safe.   A refuge.  But refuge is never easy to come by in The...

The start of the Season of Shelter is always difficult.  Food is scarce, the air is bitterly cold and brutal, and it seems like the warmth will never return.  But about a moon after Giftmas, just when one’s high spirits are often beginning to falter, when the exhaustion and misery and...

The skies are the color of dark steel, and equally cold and cutting. Scavengers emerge from their hovels only rarely, bundled in whatever rags they’ve managed to find.   Many walk on wobbly legs, hoping in vain that this is the day they’ll find food – but even the wild...

The full Season of Hoarding has come and gone since I last forced an article out of this battered old word-masheen.  Food has become scarce, and whatever excess we scavengers had stocked up during the warm months has slowly been eaten away.  The Food Trader hasn’t been sighted in at...

The Season of the Fire King meets its second moon.  Buzzards wheel effortlessly in the burning sky, while the bipeds below do what scavenging they can before seeking an unattended shelter.   Those who can’t take the heat find their tempers rising with the temperatures.  Others find...