Heavy reasons

Little town of dust had never seen a spectacle such as a man red wet and leaking arrive from the plains from which he drug on torn tarpaulin a heaving wolf lashed at the mouth with splintered rope eyes full like those of one soon to hang and no say about it and stranger still …

Roast and ground

She watched morosely and fanned as the beans became powder inside spinning blades the old Mexican repeated fresh like one half of a comedy double act and her horse bit as from the desert came a wind carrying a message from Death.

Snakebit

She scuffled out of the undergrowth noisily though no sound escaped her lips and her wrist hand clamped dangled before her blue veins shot through and in her muteness her big eyes were more afraid of me than the poison coursing inside her with black tendrils destined for her heart it was too late to …

Shootist

For some there's a true art to it much like the delicate knocks of a sculptor's chisel are granular yet destructive - the way a shootist tears someone's life from their grasp with a bullet or a carefully chosen composition of words makes you unsee blood, only hearing violas and timpani scorching into crescendo.