Wounded Skies – Ashes under rainfall Mile 48 Outside Wamena, PapuaI don’t know why I keep writing these things. Maybe because if I stop, the silence will finally catch me. And silence out here is never empty, just filled with all the …

Ashes under rainfall

I don’t know why I keep writing these things. Maybe because if I stop, the silence will finally catch me.

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Wounded Skies – Ashes under rainfall Mile 48 Outside Wamena, PapuaI don’t know why I keep writing these things. Maybe because if I stop, the silence will finally catch me. And silence out here is never empty, just filled with all the …

Ashes under rainfall

I don’t know why I keep writing these things. Maybe because if I stop, the silence will finally catch me.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2026/01/27/w...
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Wounded Skies – Dust Won’t Forget Journal of Thane HortonThe Beacon Post (Personal Log, Unsent)Northern Mali — Outskirts of Kidal I’m writing this in the half-collapsed shade of what used to be a goat shelter. Wind keeps lifting th…

Dust Won’t Forget

I’m writing this in the half-collapsed shade of what used to be a goat shelter. Wind keeps lifting the edge of the canvas over my head like a taunt.

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Wounded Skies – Silent Fires Burn Deep El Salvador, 1986 The sky hung low and bruised, a blanket of smoke and dust choking out the sun as we drove down the cracked highway. Our truck bounced over potholes the size of craters, the jagged…

Silent Fires Burn Deep

The sky hung low and bruised, a blanket of smoke and dust choking out the sun as we drove down the cracked highway.

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Wounded Skies – Silent Fires, Broken Souls October 8, 1973 — Sinai Desert, Egypt The sun was a cruel overseer, hammering down on cracked earth as if to burn the truth into every grain of sand. Thane Horton crouched behind a shattered tank, …

Silent Fires, Broken Souls

The sun was a cruel overseer, hammering down on cracked earth as if to burn the truth into every grain of sand.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/10/20/w...
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Wounded Skies – Ashes of a Kingdom Libya, 2011 The sun bled out over Benghazi’s shattered skyline, as if the city itself was dying slow and loud. I’m writing this in a burnt-out café, the walls blackened by mortar shells, the floor …

Ashes of a Kingdom

The sun bled out over Benghazi’s shattered skyline, as if the city itself was dying slow and loud.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/10/01/w...
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Wounded Skies – Sand, Blood, and Smoke July 10, 1976 – Jebel Samhan, Dhofar Province, Oman They say war doesn’t end, it only changes coordinates. The war in Dhofar is officially over. But try telling that to the rocks still soaked…

Sand, Blood, and Smoke

They say war doesn’t end, it only changes coordinates.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/09/06/w...
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Wounded Skies –  Mud, Smoke, Goddamn Lies Mantua Front, 12 miles south of San Rafael July 19, 1967 I used to think war had a smell. Blood, cordite, diesel fuel, and heat. But Mantua? Mantua smelled like desperation under eucalyptus trees. …

Mud, Smoke, Goddamn Lies

I used to think war had a smell. Blood, cordite, diesel fuel, and heat. But Mantua? Mantua smelled like desperation under eucalyptus trees.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/08/28/w...
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Wounded Skies – Dust Claims All Names May – July, 1998 | Fashoda Borderlands | Unpublished Notes They say this war doesn’t exist. Not in the West. Not on CNN. Not even on the goddamn map they hand out in hotel lobbies in Nairobi. The F…

Dust Claims All Names

hey say this war doesn’t exist. Not in the West. Not on CNN. Not even on the goddamn map they hand out in hotel lobbies in Nairobi.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/08/20/w...
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Wounded Skies – Mud, Mines, Mercy, Madness Journal Entry: January 18, 1993Location: Huambo Province, Angola The heat wakes me before the sun does, sticky, clinging like guilt. The air smells like old gunpowder and rotting cassava. I’m…

Wounded Skies – Mud, Mines, Mercy, Madness

The heat wakes me before the sun does, sticky, clinging like guilt. The air smells like old gunpowder and rotting cassava.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/08/10/w...
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Wounded Skies – The beginnings “Don’t write it pretty,” my father used to say. “Write it true.”I never realized how much that would hurt until I started writing truth soaked in blood. 0600 HOURS – DUST & SMOKE I woke up to a…

Wounded Skies – The beginnings

“Don’t write it pretty,” my father used to say. “Write it true.” I never realized how much that would hurt until I started writing truth soaked in blood.

pulpvortex.wordpress.com/2025/08/03/w...
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