The shotgun shells spilled onto the floor. With shaking hands, he bent down to grab a handful of them, shoving them into his coat pocket. The gun itself was so old and dusty that he wondered if it would fire at all, but he loaded it anyway, fumbling shells into the chamber.
Our forests are nothing more than silent wastelands. They were once alive with animals that scurried over the ground and birds that sang proudly of their treetop views. Now, the trees are rotted, victims of some unknown plague.
She cursed at having to park several houses down the street. They were supposed to keep everyone out until she got there. Now, half the nation’s news media was contaminating her scene.
The trades are never avoidable. We can dodge them. We can narrowly escape their grasp, but they always catch up to us at some point. It begins with one slip up.
Dust rolled off the roof of the cabin as a gust of wind blew across the plains. The sun was beating down just as mercilessly as it had been for the past two months. Moisture had been sucked out of every square inch of the land.