Joe Schreiber

The snow wasn't deep - in many places its crust was firm enough that they actually walked on top of it - but the wind was surgical, a precision instrument with needles for teeth, and it found even the tiniest exposed places on her skin, attacking them.

Hell had been his Vietnam. It had stamped its mark on him for all eternity, and no amount of denial or self-imposed ignorance was going to change it. Ever.

I was going into shock. The pain wasn__ getting any better, and I thought that I would probably black out before I found out how this was going to end. Just as well__ was never particularly good at finishing things.

Like crucifixions and pornography, it never got old.

It's like Sheriff Daniels sneezed, and they all caught the misinformation flu.

Human beings are like the screwed-up children of alcoholic parents in that way, picking up the pieces afterward and trying to make up reasons why. You could argue that__ what makes us interesting, and maybe it is to some alien race studying us from a million miles away. From where I sit it just seems pathetic and sad.