The Brocade below was written by John and used the words Guilt and Pity
The sage brush extended away from the tenon-jointed log box of a cabin to a wall of violet that grumbled and spat down spears of lightning. An unnatural silence hung over the desert. Perry walked around the little cabin once, lit a Barclay, and then walked backwards about twenty yards, puffing smoke until his boots ground into sandier soil and the sweet smell of his dog’s decomposing body enveloped him. Perry turned around then and cast his gaze about ten feet away, but Dusty was not there, where he had been shot just moments before. When Perry saw that the old carcass was directly in front of him, abuzz with flies, he bent over to see if it were possible the poor dog could still be alive. “Dusty?” he whispered. But half the animal’s muzzle was missing. Like a kettle stopped up with boiling water, Perry began to emit a tense, low moan, his mind cavitating, boiling over. How could a dog live without a muzzle? Slowly and with a certain relief, Perry drew his pistol from a nylon pocket and cocked the hammer. As his hand brushed near his face, he could still smell the smoky scent of Scotch on his fingers. He looked east at the blue, the blue that was coming, flashing its teeth. His left fist curled, a column of rigid fingers. The blue was dark and it swore at the whole world, stabbing the tender sage, and pouring a brief water over the a shot that no one heard.