fringe

Cowboys and Indians, Camel-colored suede, fringe cut into the cloth. A jacket for an outlaw. Arms held up, but never in surrender; extended in the front, gripping a firearm and aiming to shoot. The feel of the hot desert sun, melting her brow as she hastily wipes the perspiration away. The hat helps, but not enough. Sand’s in her boots now, grainy and annoying; It weighs her down by a gram or two, and even that is too much. The smell of gunsmoke and whiskey on her clothes having soaked herself the night before. The taste in her mouth is cotton dehydration. The bitter, burning whiskey still coats her dry throat like a strange sourness. The cool metal of the gun that lay in her waistband overnight is now warmed by her grip, and the sun. She waits for the sign as she sits on her palomino horse. Securely in the saddle, she loosens her aim, puts the gun in her ankle holster and reaches into the interior pocket of her camel-suede coat with the fringe hanging down the sleeves, and pulls out a brass telescope. She looks out across the desert skyline, the heat rippling in the distance creating a liquid mirage. Suddenly, just coming up from the horizon she thinks she sees him. Yes. That’s him! Riding fast on his grey horse, cutting his own path in the hot desert sand. She sees his golden chain she gave him glint in the sun as it moves against his chest. Smiling to herself, she then realizes her mission, her reality of what she must do, and that is, undoubtedly, to kill him. Even family couldn’t escape from the law. And what kind of sheriff would she be if she didn’t lay down the law, even for her own brother? Clicking her tongue, she grabbed the reins and led her horse back to town. She’d alert her deputy –

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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