I don’t mind putting rough-cuts into the wild; it gives me a chance to see how they fit and get a feel for their survival.

So, with that said, enjoy this bit from the new “Weathermen” entry…Bones.


Mr. Rain and The Weathermen. – Ishkur. Bones

Tristan’s crawler stopped on a worn ridge with a view of bones. They had been a metropolis, once, before civilization retreated and the weather went mad; though it was the retreat of civilization, more than weather, that had destroyed this particular city. Elemental forces, time–they’d stripped the skin, though Tristan hardly gave it more attention than a convenient waypoint. It’s former status, the ghosts or history it may have held didn’t matter. Warning chimes sounded, reminding her that this was not the best time to stop and that was it. She silenced them with the push of a button that crunched as it ground particulates into finer substance and sat, listening to the sound of her own breath through a respirator.

What mattered to her was the sky.

It was uncharacteristically blue and clear, though a nagging wind steadily pushed at her crawler, rocking it gently on its exaggerated suspension. The blue wouldn’t last. The clear sky was a deception. It was all a collection of moments before something tumbled across the lie, erased this iteration of calm, replacing it with another pause before repeating; again and again. Tristan knew the cycle, and also knew it was all about timing when traveling the distances between storms.

When you weren’t under cover, you were measuring minutes by the “Time Between”; an interval of calm before the sky boiled black and broke into violence. If you timed it right there was a small reward–meaning you didn’t have to spend hours in a crawler getting the shit knocked out of you waiting for the worst to pass while hoping your supplies didn’t give out. If you timed it bad, you were dead; leaving a carcass scattered across the miles waiting to be sandblasted to bones and smaller bits.

More bones.

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