God, The Eagles

God how I loved “Hotel California.” Which was more than a song. The rooms had feather beds and cozy quilts you’d think came from the Amish people. Those people, straight and true. Me, I’m a scotch on the rocks girl, down at the hotel bar most nights singing along with those guys. “Desperado” comes to mind. My kids weren’t half as much trouble as I let on. All of them stellar now. So stellar I don’t know what to say to them anymore. And the way they don’t call, I figure they don’t know what to say to me either.

Linda Lowe's poems and stories have appeared in Outlook Springs, Gone Lawn, Dogzplot, Right Hand Pointing, New Verse News and others.

A Town Called Big Nothing

Rufino rode into view on his white stallion. The streets emptied like the receding tide.

He was considered a desperado, a gunfighter who roamed the towns, working for anyone willing to pay. Sometimes he was a bounty hunter, sometimes a cattle rustler, sometimes an assassin. They knew him by his tattoos. On his skin were inscribed the names of each of his victims.

Everyone in town had reason to fear Rufino's arrival. He could be there for any one of them.

When Rufino rode away into the setting sun, every single inhabitant was dead and his skin was considerably darker.