The Season of Violent Winds meets its end in the coming days.  The gales become gusts, the gusts become breezes, and the breezes become mere puffs of air.  They provide no cooling, but just push the hot and still-humid air against our skin, as if we sit in the jaws of some tremendous panting...

Today, for the first time in far too many moons, the air is filling up with the ticking of wordmachine keys, and a piece of paper is filling up with words.  To anyone who’d been missing these missives, I give all apologies.  This old wordmachine busted worse than I could fix. But,...

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...

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...

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 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...

The Season of the Fire King begins.  As abruptly as they rose up, the fierce winds die down to an eerie and stifling stillness.  Clouds become a memory.  The sky is as iron in a fire, weighing heavily on everything beneath it, growing hotter by the moment until the glowing red of sunset...

It’s now the second moon of the Season of Violent Winds, one of the most volatile seasons in the Wastes, and the sands are blowing fiercely.  The wind does little to chill the air:  no matter how shady your shelter, the heat seems to snake in through even the smallest crack.  Yet...

  Greetings, Wastelanders!  Aposiopesis Fullstop here again with a new, revised edition of The Pulp, after an unpleasantly long absence due to a malfunctioning word-masheen.  One of the metal arm-dealies got caught on one of the thingamabobs, and prying that off managed to snap some...