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The cadence of memory and the dust of ages weigh heavy and thick on our shelves, in brittle spines and crumbling pages that our parental generation clutched like lifelines. They clung to Kerouac, his essence pouring over highways and neon nights, and to Hemingway, captivated by his tales of bullet-riddled afternoons and salt-stained horizons.

Those stories bled; they smelled of whiskey, of the scarred American dirt, that heavy thud of life lived without filter. Words not crafted to keep readers comfortable–but meant to pierce–drag you into the heat of the streets or the sear of a tropical sun to leave you marred.

By the time it reached me, the weight had lightened somehow, as though softened by all the handling. We got Jonathan Livingston Seagull, clipped-winged and untroubled, and Love Story, that delicate ache, deep enough to soothe our hearts but never quite enough to draw blood like we wanted the shape of pain without the mess, a cleanse without the callouses. Our books were gilded, perhaps, with empathy, but empathy contained and neatly folded back between safe covers.

And now, my son’s generation has been handed the pale gleam of vampires, the sanitized fantasy of perpetual youth under the fluorescence of high-school gyms and rain-soaked parking lots. The monsters became prettier, polished, and politely edited. He grew up with, but never knew, “Why We Love Dogs, Eat Pigs, and Wear Cows”—morality parceled into bite-sized facts, virtues aligned in rows on a plate and all packaged, easy to consume, with no trace of the grit and sorrow and fire that once crackled at the heart of every great story.

Maybe it’s true what they say: stories reflect the age they’re born into, and perhaps we’re here in an age of pixels and politeness, where stories are pixelated versions of their former selves, each generation a little dimmer, a little more diffuse. It’s as if the high horse we once barreled down on has died, leaving us exposed to the elements—only, it is not the thrill of the wind whipping against us but the gradual erasure of the road itself, each layer of meaning eroding just enough to smooth the ride, to keep us from noticing the decline.

And where do we go from here? From bloody knuckles and sun-burnt prose to safe cages with padded walls, as if all that once made us alive has been sanded smooth, softened for the market? Ain’t that the way? Downhill, in a slow descent, smiling on the way down, oblivious, in this rusted-out handbasket—no hardtop, no spine.

Handsome, ain’t he? Reckon there’s no beast ‘round here to beat him.
Ain’t that right, Blue? Ol’ boy, you shine like silver straight from the mountain.
Easy now, steady. Feel that muscle—solid like ore but smooth as silk.
Go on, Buck, lead him out let< folks get a look at a Comstock stallion.
Nevada-bred, sure as dust in the mines—papersright here in my pocket.
Sired by Silver King, and he’s worth every ounce of a thousand.

You know old Tom Driscoll?that claim near Virginia City?
Made his fortune in a blink, then lost it in a game down in Carson,
Left it all behind in the dark, like a miner chasin’ ghosts.
Gone now, but stories like his—well, they linger like gold fever.

Blue’s got spirit, pure grit; folks don’t know a real hoss ‘til they ride one.
Ever see that road up Six Mile Canyon? Steep as sin, slick with shale?
No easy ridin’—even on a calm day, you’re watchin’ every step.
But two months back, me and the sheriff, chasin’ them bandits by moonlight,

Found ourselves on that slope with rain pourin’ like hell’s own flood.
Ol’ Blue here didn’t falter, took the lead on that steep pitch,
Rocks rattlin’ underfoot, water rushin’ wild through the canyon.
He held his line like he had somethin’ to prove, never so much as slipped.

Branches snap like dry bones, and we hit the river, ragin’ high.
Without askin’, he plunged, chest-deep in the black, holdin’ the current,
While I gripped tight, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ it might be my last ride.
But Blue? He was steady as stone, bringin’ me through, straight and sure.

That’s what I call a hoss! Ain’t another like him on the whole Comstock.
Folks talk silver and gold, but Ol’ Blue? He’s somethin’ finer.
The sheriff? Well, he didn’t make it—got lost in the night.
But hosses like Blue? They don’t give up, even when the world says so.

We come from a goddamn different world. Back when people didn’t just sit around, waiting for life to toss‘em a bone. We worked hard as hell. Some of us had blisters before we knew what a dollar was. Started young ‘cause it was the only way the family could keep food on the table. Some of us did it ‘cause our parents got up at dawn and expected us to do the same. Or we came up on land where you worked, or you starved. And some of us just needed a buck or two to rub together ‘cause our folks couldn’t afford so much as an allowance.

We didn’t sit inside staring at screens all day. We were out there in the dirt, snow, the kind of rain that slapped you across the face. You stayed out ‘til you were blue in the damn lips, ‘til the streetlights buzzed on like a warning shot. And respect? Hell, we didn’t ask for it, didn’t expect it—not unless we’d sweated, bled or broke our asses for it.

We’ve seen some shit. The Summer of Love. Vietnam. Tricky Dick screwing it all up. We were there, every bit of it, but too busy to think it’d be history someday. Life didn’t hand us anything easy. It grabbed us by the balls and squeezed, like wringing a chicken’s neck before supper. We had to be double-tough, tougher than the shit that came at us, ‘cause if we weren’t, it’d chew us up.

Now our bodies are shot, yeah. Our effing brains aren’t much better, forgetting half the damn things they’re supposed to remember. But we’re still here. We’ve seen enough, done enough, and still, tough as nails under all the rust.

In Washoe County, allegations of election mismanagement have surfaced, with concerns about security practices, signature verification speeds, and potential errors in voter data processing.

Whistleblowers and community members have voiced concerns over procedures within the county’s Registrar of Voters office, suggesting that certain practices may compromise the integrity of election results. According to reports, up to 19 staff members in Washoe County have taken county-issued laptops home.

These devices reportedly have access to essential voting and signature verification systems. Critics argue that this practice could introduce security vulnerabilities, as any changes made offline could be injected into the system upon reconnection, leaving the process open to tampering risks.

Whistleblowers also allege that some staff members verify signatures at unusually high speeds, far faster than the recommended one-to-two-minute review per signature. Reports indicate that, in some cases, employees verified signatures at a rate of one per second, raising concerns about the accuracy and thoroughness of the signature verification process. At such speeds, an individual employee could theoretically approve thousands of ballots in a single shift, which may compromise the validity of the results.

Other reports indicate potential red flags within Washoe County’s network, with claims of suspicious connections where data is reportedly being received and transmitted under questionable circumstances. It has raised concerns about the potential for unauthorized data access and breaches of election security protocols.

Further fueling the controversy, statements from Washoe County’s former Registrar of Voters suggest potential violations of federal and state election laws, specifically around ballot distribution. It includes the possibility of ballots sent to incorrect addresses or individuals other than intended recipients, which could affect the accuracy of vote totals.

With vote totals from Washoe County potentially impacting statewide outcomes, these allegations have sparked demands for a comprehensive review. Local and national leaders are now pressing for action, with some calling on the Republican National Committee (RNC) to investigate.

With potentially tens of thousands of ballots in question, the impact on several candidates, including Senate hopeful Sam Brown, may be significant. The RNC and state election officials have yet to respond to requests for comment on the situation in Washoe County.

waking underneath the weight of the city,
neon signs flicker, and the cats scream
like banshees in the alley.
the bourbon is gone,
the ashtray is full,
my head is heavy with regrets
and half-remembered dreams.

another day stumbling through the grind,
another night chasing shadows,
running from ghosts.
the rent is due,
the fridge is empty,
and the cockroaches,
my loyal companions,
scuttle across the linoleum,
indifferent.

she left last night,
with a suitcase full of promises
we both knew would never be kept.
i watched her walk away,
her silhouette swallowed by the darkness.

i sit at my typewriter,
keys clacking like the last breath of a dying man,
spitting out lines,
trying to capture the fleeting moments of beauty in this decay.

the streets whisper tales of lost souls and broken hearts,
and the moon, hanging low,
watches over us all with a knowing smile.
we are all prisoners here,
chained to our dreams and vices,
searching for meaning
in the cigarette smoke and empty bottles.

but sometimes,
just sometimes,
we find a spark in the darkness,
a fleeting glimpse of something more.
and that’s enough to keep us going,
one more day, one more night,
against the world and everything in it.

The street through Virginia City was wildly quiet.
No tourists, no visitors, few locals.
It felt right.
It felt like I felt.
Then I saw you, one more time.
Standing on the boardwalk, looking at me
With that ‘come hither to me’ twinkle in your eye.
Then you stepped inside the Union.
You disappeared.
And you disappeared again
by the time I reached the door.
And you did it permanently.

The Nevada election landscape is a never-ending game of cat and mouse, a system engineered to ensure victory for those who understand the convoluted rules. And Sam Brown’s loss is just another glaring example.

In Nevada, however, “election season” drags on as ballots trickle in until the chosen candidate comes out on top. What we are seeing is legalized manipulation, courtesy of laws like AB321 that have turned Nevada into the poster child for questionable election practices.

The problem is how a network of policies and practices effectively builds a firewall to protect the political elite.

Take ballot harvesting: the law allows activists to deliver bundles of ballots with minimal oversight. Adding to it are voter rolls that are rarely updated, and lax ID requirements mean no one verifies the people casting votes, and the system is ripe for abuse.

Want more evidence? Nevada does not require postmarks on mail-in ballots.

We have all sent and received mail, and it is rare to see anything unmarked. But, somehow, ballots in Nevada are an exception, enabling a loophole where legitimacy becomes guesswork.

And recounts? They are laughable, re-running votes through the same machines as though feeding data into a black box a second time changes the answer.

Despite Secretary of State Cisco Aguilar’s recent claims about addressing Nevada’s election issues, he ignored bipartisan solutions proposed by Governor Joe Lombardo during the last legislative session. The reforms, designed to expedite and secure the process, never saw the light of day, thanks to a political machine that refuses to budge.

Aguilar could have taken action—he could have supported measures to clear outdated voter rolls and implement strict ID requirements. Instead, he’s now “frustrated” and suggesting new deadlines. But without structural changes, it is just a Band-Aid on a gaping wound.

If there is nothing to hide, why not allow for a hand recount in Washoe County, where the delays have been particularly troubling? Washoe has invested millions in equipment to process thousands of ballots daily, yet progress is sluggish.

A manual audit would be simple—confirm the machine results and verify signatures against DMV records. The results would be available in two days, and if everything is up and up, transparency would only strengthen public trust. Instead, officials label any questions as conspiracy theories and call for blind faith in a system that is anything but transparent.

In a class act, Sam Brown conceded to Senator Jacky Rosen. He took the high road and thanked Nevada for the honor of running, but his message resonates as a call for transparency and resilience.

BrownSam may be stepping aside, but Nevadans who believe in fair elections will not stop demanding accountability. They are not silent, and they are not backing down.

So here is the challenge to Nevada’s officials: prove “We the People” wrong. Open the books, allow a recount, and give voters the transparency they deserve.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the sand of the desert. A hot wind stirred the grit and dust, whispering through the skeletal remains of a long abandoned village. Sergeant Major Collins sat outside the tent, his eyes scanning the horizon, where the land met the sky in a wavering line.

He had been in the Marine Corps for more years than he could remember, each year adding to the weight on his shoulders, a burden he wore like a second skin. He thought of the young men under his command, fresh-faced and eager, their spirits unbroken by the realities of war. They were good boys, he thought, brave and strong, but they didn’t know yet.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. It reminded him of the sunsets he had seen in places far from here, where the ocean met the shore, and the world seemed to breathe in and out.

In those moments, the war felt distant. But here, it was always close—hovering like a storm cloud.

He heard the distant hum of engines, a sound that rumbled in his chest. They were coming. The vehicles rolled in, dust swirling around them, the men inside tense with anticipation. He could see the look in their eyes, a mixture of fear and determination. They had trained hard for this, and now it was time.

“Listen up!” Collins called, his voice steady, cutting through the noise of the engines. The men gathered, forming a semicircle around him. “We’ve been through hell together, and we’ll go through it again. Stay sharp. Trust each other. Keep your heads down.”

He watched as they nodded, some exchanging glances, their bravado still intact. It reminded him of himself at their age, full of fire and certainty. He wondered if they knew how quickly that could change.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, the sky turned dark. The stars appeared–cold and distant, indifferent to the lives that played out below. Collins felt the familiar tightness in his chest. He had seen good men fall, brave men who had fought fiercely and taken too soon.

The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the night—the rustling of the wind, the creaking of the vehicles, the gruff murmurs of the men. In the darkness, he could hear the unspoken fears, the questions that loomed like ghosts. What would happen when dawn broke? What would they face?

He closed his eyes momentarily, letting the stillness wash over him. In his mind, he could see the ocean again, waves crashing against the rocks, the salt air filling his lungs. He remembered the freedom of those moments, the peace that came before the storm.

The sun would rise soon, and with it would come the chaos. But for now, in the quiet before the storm, he found a sliver of solace. He opened his eyes, resolved. He would lead them through it. They were Marines, after all. They would fight. They would endure.

In the warm glow of the afternoon, the thermometer nudged a pleasant 73 degrees—a fine day for late October. With a satisfied sigh, I took my cherished 1913 Liberty overalls, those sturdy bibs that have seen me through many a day, and gave them a good wash. I never trust the machine to dry‘em; instead, I hang them on a low-hanging branch of our aspen tree, letting the sun soak into the fabric and the warmth, embrace them like an old friend.

But this morning, I woke with a nagging sense that something was amiss. As I turned to reach for my trusty bibs at the bedside, my heart sank—I had left them out overnight, exposed to the chill of the night.

With a groan, I pulled on my boots and stepped outside. The air bit at my cheeks with a brisk 30 degrees, and there, in the aspen’s branches, my bibs hung like a forgotten memory, frozen solid, stiff as a board, and to my utter disbelief, a crafty old crow had commandeered a button from one of them.

The feathered rascal with its glossy black eyes, seemed way too pleased with its prize—a half-ripped button from the one side of my bibs. As I shooed the crow away, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony.

Guess, I’ll be donning my Wranglers until I can patch up my favorite overalls. Even a greenhorn knows better than to leave his bibs out overnight.

Pete and I stood outside The Roasting House, sharing a laugh over the Venus Fly Trap he had received as a gift. It sat proudly on his office desk.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna feed it come wintertime,” he mused.

“My mom used to raise a few Fly Traps when I was a kid,” I said. “Raw hamburger works—that’s what she used for hers.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Any other suggestions?”

I couldn’t help but grin at the memory that surfaced. “Yeah. Don’t talk your younger brother into putting his willy in one.”

Pete burst into laughter. “What?”

“Yep,” I continued, chuckling. “I talked my brother into putting his willy in a Fly Trap. When it slapped closed, he took off screaming like it had bitten him.”

Pete’s eyes widened, and he laughed even harder.

“Mom was not too happy with me for that,” I said. “Not only did she have to deal with a terrifed, screaming five-year-old, she had to rip the plant apart to free him.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Pete asked, still laughing.

“Couldn’t sit at supper that night,” I replied. “Mom whipped my ass pretty good. And worse et, my brother never fully trusted me after that. He’d tell people I tried to get a Venus Fly to bite his willy off.”

Coffee came out of Pete’s nose.