Matthew D. Jordan
Tincture, A Weird West Trilogy
4 people rated this podcast
Matthew D. Jordan
Tincture, A Weird West TrilogyEpisodes
Matthew D. Jordan
Tincture, A Weird West Trilogy
4 people rated this podcast
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At sunset, the old gunslinger looked upon a fallen kingdom and found himself unimpressed. Music in Book 3, Chapter 19: Cullah - Please Bring Me Shelter (CC BY-SA 4.0) Crowander - Vanda’s Blues (CC BY-NC 4.0) Monolog Rockstars - Two Years (C
The moment cut his word in half, flickered lights before his eyes, then shut it all down with a deep dark absence of color so grim it was difficult to put word on. Music in Book 3, Chapter 18: Cullah - Please Bring Me Shelter (CC BY-SA 4.0)
In the dark and rainy parking lot of the diner, Tom and Noah pulled the collars of their jackets up over their ears. Mark did not seem to notice the rain. Music in Book 3, Chapter 17: Cullah - Please Bring Me Shelter (CC BY-SA 4.0) Rain On He
Be forewarned, I can still taste the ferment on my teeth. Conjecture and abstract thought do not, admittedly, serve much purpose in a guide to the mysterious world you and I now inhabit, yet I would submit that you can cut as deep as you like a
Abranyah blinked through the rain, peering down both ends of the street, waiting for activity. Music in Book3, Chapter 15: Cullah - Please Bring Me Shelter (CC BY-SA 4.0) Blue Dot Sessions - Bask VX (CC BY-NC 4.0) Guitar Drone 1 - Ghost Hunte
Bare-footed and with packs slung over their shoulders, Rhamuel and Abranyah made for the main gates of The Omaha Claim, fit to leave as fast as the dust would allow. Music in Book 3, Chapter Fourteen: Cullah - Please Bring Me Shelter (CC BY-
In a sun dappled stretch of the Scar, endless as it had always been, a young woman found herself near done with what the dust had to offer. So goes folk in younger years—just aged enough to know and appreciate the finer and subsequent illumina
The diner was far enough away from work, but nothing felt far enough when there was going to be talk of confidential things. Things some argue better left unexplained, not discussed, kept away from deeper thought—weird things. Music in Book
Knucklebones stepped one leathery bare foot into the plastic pool, bright and faded colors both rippling under the liquid. Filth bloomed in arcs from his foot, dirt and barren clouding the chemicals. He wrinkled an ancient looking triangle that
King’s office was surprisingly empty for a man of his resources. There was no special reason for it—he was in charge of it all, the whole enterprise, but cared little for the more obvious of comforts or distraction. Music in Tincture: Book 3,
We are always starving. It sort of goes with the territory—this being hungry in every odd tick of the day. An empty belly and its degrees of unpleasantness is better than any watch or sundial, and no further calculations on mood need interject.
Tom smiled and nodded with the applause, but when the meeting resumed he went right back to staring directly into the center of a donut. Music in Tincture: Book 3, Chapter Eight: Cullah – Please Bring Me Shelter (CC BY-SA 4.0) Alterr – Small
Torches had never done Allgood much favor, but that they lit up a question or two in the good populace was useful. Two old branches lit the stench of thoroughfare just before the bar-house, the tips never extinguished thanks to some flammable g
Even in that too-bright light of the morning, Abranyah always struggled to wake with it. She preferred to sleep as long as possible, but the sun would eventually prove to be an enemy—fuel for whatever device the barren was planning to kill you
An otherwise normal day in an otherwise normal life, time as it was. Tom had been fostering a general sense of unease for a while now, yet like a weird sort of depression, he had difficulty pinpointing its origin. Music in Tincture: Book 3, C
The ways a body tends to crave its own undoing is a humanistic riddle that I no longer wish to endure. A short way to speak it, I suppose: my empathy muscles have atrophied. Music in Tincture: Book 3, Chapter Four: Cullah – Please Bring Me Sh
Rhamuel kept folks on a spectrum of his own design, the range beginning somewhere around “tolerate,” and ending near “abject avoidance.” Abranyah once asked where the disdain found its origination point, but the tanker would only reply, “Every
This was the kind of fruitless nonsense that permeated The Scar—a seeming irregularity of principle and purpose to things. A body could rub a book to ash in their fingers. They could then take a step and trip over a heaping stack of books showi
Old splinters whistle. Everything across The Scar has aged long past the reek of decay, more so worn, faded, and abused by the transient miscellany that wandered through it over and over and over. There was a weird beauty when the too-bright
The tanker was always a curiosity for Rachel. “What are you looking for?” she asked. “You said you had an idea?” Arachal was bent over the front seats of his black Mustang and rifling through the glove compartment. “I do. I’m looking for—ah, he
Excerpted from: Revenants of War An Attempted Guide for Safe Warrant After The Whatever Much has been mired in speculation of the burnouts, most of it the mealy speech of a drunkard, or on occasion your humble author. People have actually visit
This wasn’t the first time that something had tried to kill Abranyah. It was, however, the first attempt with a cannon. Music in Tincture: Book 2, Chapter Seventeen: Tom Vourtsis – Black Eyes The OO-Ray – Sleep Kingdoms Radere – Snow Noise (
Rachel stepped back into the church and spat on the floor. “Well we’ve got lights again, no thanks to you,” she said. “In the movies when they siphon gas out of a car, they never throw up. Guess who learned a new thing today?” Music in Tinctu
“I have every confidence in his ability to avoid a well deserved death,” said Abranyah. She only considered the words after she had said them, surprised that she had actually meant them. Marcus shook his head. “If you say so.” They both turned
.2201 I met the most interesting man today. He sleeps at the fire while I write this, another few inches of bulk to my daily carry, but I find the exercise of keeping a journal cathartic. His name is Israfali. He has asked me to call him Fali,
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