Singer Songwriter

One

"Bring him here," spoke the cloud of dust. The voice was unmistakably altered, assuming the same tune of a blowhorn. 

"Bring what's left of him," corrected the by-rider. He peered down at the bloodied carcass. It reminded him of Saturdays. He dedicated those days to float away on the lake, cradling the rod in his still hands, and if his patience was merited, gutting the fish he'd just caught. The man's skull looked as exposed.

"Is it intact?" The dust settled, revealing a woman's head and body clad in indigo-checkered fabric, tightened at the waist with a snakeskin belt.  On the cinched knot, her initials were etched. 

K. R.

Her eyes were shut closed -there was no use keeping them open- and on their edges, close to her temples, were dots of golden-brown ash.

"Lucky for you," the by-raider said, as he swung down to examine the bronze, brain-dipped chip, "it is."

He weighed the chip in his hands. "Not much," he concluded.

The woman's lips pursed. "Enough for lunch?" 

He nodded, then remembering she couldn't see him, he verified that yes, they could break their fast with it. He circled around the half-dying man. Pre-pubescent, he seemed, a street child. No parents to report his murder with. Good choice, he thought. 

It was more than enough for lunch. He pocketed the bronze chip and replaced it with a plastic one he found in excess weeks ago. This is the one he'd pay with at the inn later. 

It wasn't his first time to lie.