Intoxcy8me

Intoxcy8me is a Texan urban Science Fiction & Fantasy author! Intoxcy8me ®  © Shadow Saga Series: Shadow Riders Click on Prologue ↓ to start reading! ↓ Prologue Prologue The sky was burning. No, not burning, glowing red from the sun's ray, like the blood of a fresh cut on ones finger. A storm was brewing but not of this reality, devouring the universe. You could see silent lightning strobes in the distance. Hunter turned towards it and the rain plastered him in the face, he winced at the sight. Hesitation lingered in the black air. Hunter pulls his storm coat over his head as he leaves the tent, partly to fend off the rain, and partly to cover his weapons. The edge of the skyline flicks on and off with the unnerving lightning strikes, far away, like a malfunctioning lamp filament that refuses to stay lit. Men have gathered around the cook tents, waiting for their food, hunkered down wit

Prologue to Grunts Ghost The sky was burning. No, not burning, glowing red from the sun's ray, like the blood of a fresh cut on ones finger. A storm was brewing but not of this reality, devouring the universe. You could see silent lightning strobes in the distance. Grunt turned towards it and the rain plastered him in the face, he winced at the sight. Hesitation lingered in the black air. Grunt pulls his storm coat over his head as he leaves the tent, partly to fend off the rain, and partly to cover his weapons. The edge of the skyline flicks on and off with the unnerving lightning strikes, far away, like a malfunctioning lamp filament that refuses to stay lit. Men have gathered around the cook tents, hunkered down with their backs turned against the weather. They half-watch him approach, shrouded, hooded, some supping from mess cans. They watch him approach, a few gestured vaguely. Grunt’s Ghosts. Someone had come up with that within a few days of their first deployment. As h

To the close observer even at a distance, there was a difference in the figures as they struggled through the sagebrush. The man who rode a big black stallion, leading two others was outfitted in all black. A horned toad startled by the intrusion darted across the trail from the shelter of one sage-brush to another—'In a country that raises sage-brush, horned toads, and hell,' and Big John laughed softly to himself. The June sun was dropping low in the west over the black Colorado range. Purple haze began to thicken in the timbered notches. Gray foothills, round and billowy, rolled down from the higher country. The land burned like hot slag, and except for a panting lizard here and there, or a dust-gray jack-rabbit, startled from its covert, nothing animate stirred upon its face. They were smooth, sweeping, with long velvety slopes and isolated patches of aspens that blazed in autumn gold. Splotches of red vine colored the soft gray of sage. Old Rimrock, a mountain scarred b