My latest endeavor, Sheol, is also my most ambitious. It will take some time to complete, I'm afraid, but I'm working on it whenever I can find the time. See my home page for notes on progress in my "Home Office Report." While you wait, here's a sampling of my work on Sheol, which finds Milan Strange and his gunslinging crew facing down a very difficult guest:

There wasn’t much said after that. Talon was the only one not eating. Rocco wondered aloud how a man without a tongue manages food, but Talon didn’t respond. The grimace on his face seemed etched solid, like a wood carving. His eyes were fixed on Milan. At one point, he looked downright lifeless, having not moved for many minutes; but then, all of sudden, he shuddered violently, apparently at the plate in front of him, which he pushed away before resuming his hardened demeanor.

Nelson proved to have a voracious appetite and didn’t have any qualms about reaching into another’s share to get a little extra. He kept moving around, as he seemed a magnet for smoke. Finally he stood up straight and rubbed his belly, offering his gratitude for the meal.

“We need to make one more delivery tonight,” he said, “if we want full pay. Not far from here, actually. Pretty sure we can reach Otisco before nightfall. From there we can follow Route 3, which is pretty safe.”

“You’d better bed down here, Nelson,” said Milan, “and ride with us tomorrow. Maybe 3’s clear, maybe not, but it’s never safe riding alone in the dark.”

“Whadya mean, ‘alone’?” said Nelson. “Trust me, with a partner like Talon, I ain’t got worries.”

“Ah, but you do,” said Milan, looking a bit disgruntled, “because Mr. Talon, I’m afraid, has decided to put down roots—right here on this very spot.”

Nelson reacted with a short laugh of confusion. He turned to his partner, leaning in to see his face, which lay in the shadows: “What’s he talkin’ about, Talon?”

The afternoon light, just barely breaking through the trees, had little power to illuminate the situation. Talon kept his head down, the brim of his hat covering his eyes.

He was grinding his teeth.

Milan was practically sunny. “Talon, my boy, why don’t you take a bite of those sweet mushrooms? You’re not gonna find a better campsite mea—”

Talon jerked back suddenly and gave the plate a sharp kick. It flew between Milan and Grayson, missing both of them, but some of the fish landed on Milan’s arm.

Milan sat there calmly, reached into his left pocket for a small handkerchief, and wiped himself off. Talon stood slowly and stepped forward, towering over the old man. Grayson stood, too, matching Talon’s every move.

Milan didn’t even lift his head: “That wasn’t very kind of Mr. Talon, now was it, Clarence?”

“No, sir, it wasn’t,” said Grayson.

Talon reached for the flat-back whistle strapped behind his shoulder. Grayson drew his sidearm, but Talon was faster, transforming the whistle into a saber with a click of a button, its razor-sharp blades popping out on both sides. Milan rolled slightly to his right to snatch up his old 12-gauge, while the courier took a swipe at his head, barely missing his hat.

Milan pumped a round into Talon’s gut, sending blood and chunks of flesh flying. Talon lurched but didn’t fall. Milan fired again and so did Grayson, but the courier was unnaturally fast, his body snaking weirdly to avoid the bullets. At the same time he was whipping the flat-back so fast that Grayson couldn’t keep his gun aimed. Milan leapt backwards twice to avoid getting sliced in two and had to drop low to save his neck from a vicious sweep of the blade.

Nelson was bawling like a wolf pup, even though he was out of harm’s way for the moment, having tripped backwards into a large bush.

Rocco, who had been sort of drifting when this mess started, rolled backwards and pulled his guns. He aimed to take some shots but was afraid to hit Milan. Grayson motioned to him to work his way over to their side; at the same time, he pointed to the whistle-wielder’s face. The scar on his nose was pulsing wildly, as if it were about to break, and his eyes were filling up with blood.

Talon’s focus remained on Milan. He lunged, which gave Milan a chance to knock the flat-back to the ground with his rifle. But now they were too close for Milan to shoot, so he dropped the rifle right there and punched Talon in the eye, then hit him with an uppercut to the nose. The courier howled as blood spewed from his face. He took a wild jump sideways to go for his weapon, and that was just the opportunity Grayson and Rocco needed. Standing together and tall, the two fighters blasted Talon square in the chest, which tore him wide open and bounced him ten feet back.

Still, he didn’t fall. Rocco shook his head in amazement, more stunned than Talon himself. Grayson was about to fire another round but saw that Milan had stepped forward with his rifle hot and blazing, one hand on the trigger, the other on the forestock.

“That’ll do, you old dog,” said Milan. This time he hit Talon with three rounds. The courier raged and bellowed like a bull, as if to repel the assault with fury alone. Even as he finally went down, falling backwards, his arms thrashed wildly, determined to fight every blow.

Nelson was behind his horse and stammering:

“Wha—! Wha—! What the …”

Milan walked over to the fallen courier and checked him for life-signs. His chest was nothing but a hole. The scar in his nose had split down to his mouth, and all of it was seeping a blackish liquid that looked like oil. Milan motioned to Grayson and together they turned him on his stomach.

“What the hell did you do that for?” said Nelson, finally catching his breath. “I been ridin’ with Talon for three months and knew him a long a-fore that! He never hurt a flea, and you just up and killed him dead! That was the meanest, craziest, lowdownest thing I ever seen!”

“No,” said Milan, “but this is.” He pulled out a penknife from his pants’ pocket and stabbed Talon in the back of the neck. He worked the skin until there was a sizable gap, then stabbed again, levering the blade beneath the vertebrae. About three inches below the base of the skull, something black and red squirmed beneath the metal. A second later, Milan reached in and lifted it above the skin.

That's just a small slice of some good stuff coming!

READING: Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand

LISTENING: Vampire Weekend

STUDYING: World War I

VIEWING: Sister Wendy

READING: He That Cometh, by Sigmund Mowinkel

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: Sheol

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: The Year of Mythical Living

LISTENING: Mendelssohn

FRIENDS OF SIRIANO ...

DESCENDRE

EVENTIZED

LARRY PRUITT

THE SIGNIFIERS

CONNOR ROSS