Abacus Jones: Soulless Cowboy in,

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What is this?  A self.

I have been so many for so long.  A tender of a flock that was the flock himself, and yet the shepherd.  But this: a self?  After such time that time itself is meaningless?  I tell myself that I am Abacus Jones now.  He was.  He yet is, for now.  I am.  We?  Certainly I have been a “we” for an eternity, so I can be two.  We are two that is one.  We are Abacus Jones now. Continue reading

Crimson Night

                She stood at the corner of the street, her hair red, dark, but unmistakably red.  Her face was a pale slate framed by her dark hair, rounded chin, dark eyes that could bore a hole through a wall if they were to stare just a little too long.  She wore a short leather jacket with sleeves that extended the length of her arms, just beyond the tips of her thin fingers.  It was zipped up to just under her chin where it hugged her neck, a clasp pulled across the front and belting holding it tightly closed.  Her boots were black, thick and capable.  The rest of her was covered in black as well, including a skirt, but not for style, for ability.  The two swords she had belted across her jutted hips said as much.  The gun belted to her other hip said more.

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