10/7
Summer in Whiterock was, as it had been since its birth, hot and humid. Texas is a swamp and like any other grass-patch, has a higher humidity level. Not Missouri high, thank God, but above the beaker. Fortunately for the inhabitants inside of the Mexico-bordering state, the small town had been claimed a good distance from the coast, and was therefore practically perfect as long as you didn't dwaddle and chew the fat away from an air-conditioned place for far too long.
No, Whiterock is nothing like Arizona, which seems ridden with shelves of unbreakable rock and coarse clay dirt. Though it could provide better soil for agriculture, which was what most said they came to the tiny town for, the original descendants of Whiterock - they call themselves the Damane - always had a plethora of interesting things that they could pull out of their sleeves.
Now, most of us locals who can't leave regail youthful newcomers and the younger generation alike with censored tales that only detail our own regrets and warnings. At once these tales were moreso about the usual country nonsense: horses, cowboys and robbers O my, maybe even a nair slice at some George Orwell affiliated things.
It's a pity that had to change so suddenly.
