path: root/fict-book.txt

Her breath was a thin wisp leaking out her nostils, she slowed it even more, listening to her heart beat one two three four and then she slowly inhale and held it one two three she came around the tree saw the flicker in the corner of her field of vision, pivoted toward it and fired. 

The biggest one fell, the other two leaped forward as she half turned and fired again. The smallest hit her square in the chest, but was dead before they hit the ground together. The last wengon stood staring, sniffing, trying to decide. It walked closer, standing nearly over her hand, sandwiched between snow and fur, still curled around the handle of the pistol. It leaned foward and bit into the wengon lying on top of her. She twisted her hand to the side and fired straight up through it's belly. It recoiled and turned to run, ut she was up and final shot, brought it down.


A family father who restores a wrecked boat on the shores of Lake Michigan in order to build a future for his family that will help them rise above their current station in the de-industrial world to lead lives of adventure and daring. he fixes up the boat he found, he makes sails of the skins of dogs, the largest easy to kill animal left in the area. He then takes the extra furs to a town at the mouth of the lock and attempts to sell them and gets laughed off the docks as backward, a yoken with skins in a world that doesn't yet need skins. He manages to get passage through the locks anyway somehow and navigates down the st. larwence river and out to sea.