O. C. Calhoun

This one is in the editing stages and will soon be finished. Here's a quick preview of the beginning: The moment Thomas stepped out of the carriage, the very dirt of Canton told him he should go home. It stuck and squished, hissing at him quietly. He didn't listen. He pulled the brim of his homburg down against the glare of the brutal Alabama sun and turned to pay his coachman. A couple extra nickels would hopefully bring the man back here more quickly when the time came to leave. Canton wasn't a place he wanted to be. Without the cover of trees, the sun baked the town's single street. Yet, it was unable to burn away the dampness underfoot or the vague, unplaceable malodor of the place. It was nothing but a double row of clapboard storefronts; it would fit right into one of the dime westerns he'd read growing up if it was in a desert rather than a swamp. The coachman, a stout, heavyset man who always smelled like beer even though Thoma

This Cat This little orange cat won't stop 'til he's fat. He endlessly howls and thoughtlessly yowls. He's not even contrite enough not to bite. When he swipes with his paws, he uses his claws. I can only choose to bleed or break down and feed. Maybe if he gets his food he'll give me an interlude. I guess I'll go do that, to get a break from this.