Featured

Little House on the Wasteland Now Available

…

Twenty-Four: The City of Mounds

The door that covered the entrance to the dugout creaked cautiously open. Its misshapen wooden boards scraped the dirt floor as a sneaky shaft of daylight slipped past. From the narrow earthen passageway beyond, the light pushed eagerly through the widening doorway, growing bit by bit. Instinctively, Laura and Ma both looked to Mary. They […]

Twenty-Three: When the Sap Rises

It was a cold night. The elevation, that was part of it. The Great Eighty Road had sloped upwards all day, gently but steadily, and Laura supposed that they were camped higher up than they had been for some time. Even so, no one seemed prepared for the sudden chill. . . .

Twenty-One: The Flooded Village

As the Great Eighty Road continued to lead them westward, past the sprawling ruins of Damoyne, there were fewer lectric cars, fewer iron signposts, less nameless lectric clutter lying in piles and creeping across their path. . . .

Twenty: The Ghost City of Damoyne

Laura’s teeth rattled as the bisox wagon clattered over a rough patch of creetrock. The rest of the convoy, following in her wake, became a jittering blur. Beside her, Mary held Baby Grace against her chest. . . .

Nineteen: On Convoy

The Great Eighty Road stretched on and on, gray and unwavering, day after day. Laura sometimes found herself despairing at its oppressive straightness, longing for the days when her way had meandered and detoured in all manner of surprising directions. . . .

Seventeen: Hawkeye Crossing

The inside of the assistant supervisor’s office was as much a jumble as the outside. The floor was bare creetrock. It was discolored but clean. . . .

Fifteen: Carrying On

“It’s time for us to go,” Pa said when he found them there.

Laura lay cradled in Ma’s lap, beneath the shade of an apple tree. Mary and Baby Grace huddled close beside. Somewhere up above them, birds chirped. . .

Sixteen: The Great Eighty Road

The men had wanted silver. That seemed to be the short of it. The answer hadn’t felt especially satisfying to Laura when Pa had tried to lay it out for her the night before, and, when she awoke the next morning, her questions seemed to have only grown as she slept, like seedlings sprouting new shoots in the moist night air. . . .

Fourteen: Jimapples

Laura stood on the tips of her toes, straining to reach her paintbrush just as high as it would go. Everywhere her brush swished and dabbed, the monster’s creetrock skin glowed like new, protecting the ancient beast from wind and rain and sun. . . .