I

Jimmy  Thompson

My evening in West Texas begins in a Mexican cantina with a Miller and large chili. The chips seemed heavy, so the jukebox in the corner becomes my focus. I play a couple of Fleetwood Mac tunes while sipping beer and slurping chili with a plastic spoon. Gazing out the window, there is a small Indian boy in a corral. He’s trying to pull a wild horse into a barn, which is a spectacle. The mood in the cantina seems sour, had the news spread? How many more like me were there? Strange nervousness affects my composure and chili dribbles form my mouth onto the table. The jaw munches in slow motion. Now, I am eerily aware, that people in the cantina are becoming uneasy with this performance and my sudden lack of neatness is causing stares. Damn this planet. I leave; no tip this time. No, there’s a need for fast wind to ease this tension and loose my nerves; my aggression is seeping and becoming impetuous. (more…)

The man lit his match on the cement guardrail along the edge of the building. He touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette, and then flicked the match off the roof. Cigarettes had become a rare sight, and Jack suspected that the man had killed someone to get that pack.

He was a big man, the bulk of his weight centered in his gut. A thick, brown beard covered his face. He wore a flannel shirt, torn in several places, and a pair of dirty, faded jeans. Chubby fingers plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, which was curled into a smile as he stared at the roof across the street from him. On the ground Jack made note of the shotgun leaning against the guardrail, as well as the pistol tucked away in the man’s pants. (more…)