M. S. Quinn

The Nightingales Over The Orchards

I: The Texan’s Wife The low, howling wind across the American plains, indistinguishable from the lonesome cry of the stray coyote, carries the scent of iron and blood rippling through the seas of tall grains. The storm clouds overhead, rolling and crashing thunderously into each other, fill the darkening plains skies with cracks of jagged purple lightning. Major Robert Stone sits on his speckled and scarred, half-blind horse and watches the storm roll east. He takes in the scent of the iron, a nearby battle has just ended and nothing fuels Stone more than the smell of death. He has much ground to travel if he is ever going to catch his bounty and heads off into the brewing, storm-filled night. The year is 1863. Look around you. You are here.