Skip to main content


Showing posts from January, 2011


© London Saint James, May Not Be Reproduced Without Permission
     J.P. MASTERS WAS TIRED.      Oh, it wasn’t any one thing in particular, but of late, everything about his life generally bothered him.  In some ways he was anesthetized to the constant struggle between the Indian world in which he was born into and the White world he was adopted into, but this current feeling of exhaustion was something different.  He was missing something.  Something he could not quite put his finger on.  It wasn’t due to the fact he had lost his heritage when his mother died at the age of twenty-two, giving birth to him or he had a drunk for a father who died from an over indulgence with lighting in a bottle, good old home brewed firewater, when he was just thirty-four.  It wasn’t even the fact J.P.’s career in the FBI ended early and he had stranded himself back where it all began in South Dakota, no it was… well, he wasn’t quite sure.      J.P. glanced around his six foot…