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Fury at the Crossroads

“Give me my shit back,” Fury growled. The sight of her guitar awoke righteous rage in her. It was hers, the last remnant of her family and people, the last thing she carried from her home as it was destroyed, burned in humanity’s war against its divine. Besides Fury herself, the guitar was the only thing that remained to prove that her parents’ love had existed.

Furious Jackson reclined on the banks of the BlackDog river and strummed her guitar for an audience of dead cypress.
Hangdog

They found him dangling from what was left of a tough old willow. Grinn’s nose couldn’t have missed him, the clean den-smell of hidden wolf beneath the bitter futility billowing from him like wet-leaf smoke. She eased along the dry creek bed from behind. Her choices displeased the palomino, but she could take this other wolf if it came to claws. He was a long fellow, sure, broad-shouldered with shaggy brown hair, but Grinn’s height and heft near matched him.

Grinn punched her chest, thumping the bullet out like the last sweet in the jar.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Fury at the Crossroads
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Furious Jackson reclined on the banks of the BlackDog river and strummed her guitar for an audience of dead cypress.
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