There's the kind of inward seeking

That is reflective navel gazing

Straining the bounds

Of getting up and over

You find yourself

Doing the rounds

Months later

Trying to uncurl

As you bring your eyes forward

Letting your body unfurl

Stretching muscles you'd

Long since retired

Do feminine wiles expire?

Coy can be learned

When one has incentive

After being burned enough times

Don't flatter my quirks

And feed me lies

That no longer works

In spreading my...

Sigh

Do I even have to say it?

Savor my levity

Don't waste my time

This girl's big on brevity

As there's continued uncurling

Soul tired, but still unfurling

And I, sorely needing to breathe

Get up and brave the air once more

Since the world moved on, men sometimes found themselves needing to be moved.

One such man moved no more.

What passed as whiskey slid from the dirty glass and down the throat of the saloon's newest patron. He placed his still-warm revolver on the scarred wood of the table and he grimaced at the blank expressions looking back at him. Relaxing in his chair, he stared at his audience.

A few lanterns hung from hooks above the tables, and the firelight from the hearth cast what should have been a warm glow across the room. The smells of a spicy stew, the sour scent of homebrew, and the coppery crimson odor of violence all mixed to create an altogether unwelcoming atmosphere.

His gaze swept across every man and woman in the bar, and each pair of eyes turned away from his own. One girl even made the sign of the cross, and he could hear the whispered prayer to the Manjesus.

Silence, except for the crackle of logs from across the saloon, was the only other sound.

He spoke softly.

“I’ve done what I came here to do. This man did what he came here to do.”

With that, he kicked the corpse on the floor.

“The killing is done, and you’re better for it."

The air was still.

"I’ll soon be leaving.”

A lone voice, barely more than a whisper, responded: “Thankee-sai.”

Stony faces and sad eyes turned away from the Gunslinger, and he poured himself another drink.

His hand almost didn’t shake when he reloaded his Big Iron, but no one seemed to notice.

He thought it would get easier, but the weight of every soul he sent on still threatened to crush him down more firmly to this earth, even as it spun beneath him.

It was an odd thing, that.

Even as he felt pressed, even as he felt held down by each drop of blood he shed, he knew that the world was moving on, but he wasn’t.

He was being held in place, frozen in a time the world had left behind.

The Gunslinger left a silver coin on the table when he finished the bottle.

Calmly, he walked out into the night, continuing pursuit of the man in black.

(Challenge Prompt: "Once upon a time...")

___________________

"She is a beautiful girl. I'll give you that."

The tall man spoke in the quiet moon shine. Night noises had long since ceased. Only the sound of trees rustling in a gentle breeze could be heard accompanying his voice.

"When she first told me about the games you two played, I wanted to think she was lying. I wanted to believe that it was some kind of practical joke; she said you even made her call you 'daddy.' I wanted to know that you'd never hurt her.  She's just a little girl."

He leaned against the long wooden handle of a shovel, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. In the night's light, the rag appeared to be spotted black.

"Oh, damn. I made a mess." Forgetting about the spots on his cloth, the man left streaks across his forehead. Touching his fingers above his brow, he brought them down to eye level, feeling their stickiness.

"Once upon a time, we were almost family.  My closest friend.  I named you her Godfather, even.  Everything's different now.  It's all a wreck, and I'm the one left cleaning it!"  His voice had climbed into a restrained shout, but there was no audience to witness his flare of temper.

Nearly no audience, anyway.

The tall man kicked the heap before him.

A muffled groan was the only response.

"Look at this. You're the one did all the work, and I'm the one sweating." He chuckled ruefully.

"Well. Maybe it's psychological. I've never exactly done this before. I guess I have you to thank for that, too. Another first for you, congratulations."

The pleas had stopped thirty minutes in. The hole became wider, deeper, but still too shallow for proper Christian use.

It only had to be deep enough to avoid the plowblades.

There had been a severe beating before they'd ever taken a drive out to this lonely cotton field. Rope had been used after the hole was finished, but not the way this monster had used it on his daughter.

Nothing about tonight was a game.

"Well, Dom. I think it's time for you to pray. You know how this ends."

The tall man left his shovel-support and leaned over to help the tied man into a sitting position.

"Dom. Dom, don't cry, big guy. You knew the risks. You've known me our entire lives. The kind of man I am. The kind of lengths I'd go to in order to protect my family. To protect my little girl."

Sobs shook Dominic's body, and the hemp between his teeth couldn't muffle the renewed pleas for clemency.

Sighing, her father drew shining blue steel from a leather holster. Pausing to admire the glow of moonlight along the cold length of the barrel, he paused and looked down at Dominic.

"You know how old she is, Dom. And you did it anyway. She still asks me to buy her Barbies and Strawberry Shortcake, you twisted fuck. I hope the Manjesus forgives you, because I, her father, her Daddy, I don't."

The ropes pulled tight as he tried to flee; the gag was true to the word as he screamed for mercy, but all he succeeded in doing was roll with the slug from that forty-four.  Headfirst, he toppled into the shallow grave dug by his own hands.

Silence.

Dom was almost dead before the first spray of dirt landed on his back.

Her dad stopped to listen as nightsounds returned to normal while he worked.

(Challenge: 2nd Date with God)

____________________________________

"Prove it.  What would you do?"

The question is a loaded one. She sits, utterly relaxed, cigar smoke pooling around her like some kind of halo. Her highball glass, half-emptied of an old fashioned, gently swirls as she toys with it.

I don't know what to say.

"I'd never really considered it, I suppose." It is all I can do to choke out that answer. To fill the empty air between us, I nervously sip on my bloody mary.

I know who she is, of course. She'd made it abundantly clear by demonstrating a minor miracle the last time we saw one another. I was charmed, amazed, and petrified, all at once. 

She'd done her best to soothe my fears, but it's hard not to be awestruck.  It's even harder to not be more than a little afraid.

I was half expecting a trumpeting Michael, or something, but was relieved when I received a simple text. "I'm having a drink at Paul's Place tonight at 7, if you'd like to join me.  I'll be glad to see you."

Unpretentious, unassuming, but still a little cocky. Like I didn't have plans tonight? Like I would just drop everything because she was going to be at some little cigar bar down the street from me?

Of course I canceled the dinner plans I had with my friends from work, and here I am.

What would you do, she aks.  The irony of the question isn't lost, to be sure. Images of cheesy bumper stickers flash in my mind, and I'm sure that is her intention. Legions of her lemmings practically line up wearing those tee-shirts and wristbands.

"We'll put a pin in that for now." Peering over the brim of her glass, I can see a hint of laughter in her eyes as she sips the whiskey.

I sigh with relief. "Thank you." I practically chug my cocktail.

"You seem nervous."

"You should be used to that reaction."

"I want you to be relaxed. Completely at ease."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?" Wincing, I snatch the celery from my glass and chomp down on it, to keep myself from speaking further.

To my surprise, she laughs. It is a throaty, deep laugh, not at all matronly or familial. It is ... almost seductive.

For the first time, I truly understand why women fall for powerful men. Images of presidents, actors, and fictional president actors flash in my mind. They always managed to attract such unlikely partners.

"Yes, that Kevin Spacey is something else, isn't he?" Her tone is playful, but I still choke on my celery. "Careful, A. Chew. Swallow. Breathe. I admit, sometimes the design leaves a little to be desired, with life and death so close to one another. I'm also a little disappointed, sometimes, in running the plumbing through the recreational area, but, well. Life is balance." She puffs her Nat Sherman and smirks.

A few patrons turn to look at me. At her gesture, they studiously begin to ignore my coughing. Finally, I recover, and I finish my drink in one gulp. As if by magic, a waiter whisks away the old glass and replaces it with a new, fresh drink.

"It isn't that I doubt your dedication, Abe. Truly, I don't. I know you love me."

I furiously nod my head in the affirmative.

She continues, "It's just that, well. Sometimes, I require...proof. It isn't for me, so much, as it is for them." She gestures with her smoldering cigar at the patrons of the bar. "They're savages. They mean well, I know. But they're still practically cave men, trembling at thunder and losing their fucking minds at every full moon. Don't even get me started on eclipses. Jesus." The single large ice cube clinks as it bounces off of the glass as she drains it. Staring off into nowhere, she fishes out the orange slice, absentmindedly nibbling the fruit before discarding the rind onto her small square napkin. Before she speaks again, another Old Fashioned replaces her empty one. "The wait staff is very attentive here," she comments.

"I think they know you." I manage a feeble laugh.

"People haven't known me in a long time, Abe." Sadness creeps into her voice, and it scares me more than wrath. She turns her gaze towards me, peering within. "Tell me about Sarah."

It catches me off guard.

"Tell you what?" I'm flustered. "I mean, you already know, right?"

She sighs.

"Indulge me, would you?" Expectantly, she pulls on her cigar.

"I mean, she's a good woman. A great mother."

"But?"

"But we were just incompatible."

"So you're between wives, is it?"  Her eyes twinkle.

"Something like that. But I'm in no hurry to remarry."

"I see. Is that why you are on Tinder?"

"Well, yes. I mean, I get lonely."

"Oh, that I can understand."

"What about you? Why would you...need Tinder?"

"I tried Grinder for a while, but I got bored.  Not enough conversation. I figured I'd switch avatars, see what happens."

"Don't you already know what's going to happen?" I nervously pluck the olive from its little plastic sword.

"I still like to experiment, Abe. That's how we ended up with wonderful things like the platypus. And artichokes."

I don't quite know how to respond to that, so I go on about my ex-wife. "Sarah is a fantastic mother, but she agreed that we weren't a great fit. I mean, our parents arranged the wedding, and all that. Very old world."

"I'm fond of the Old World. People truly knew me, then."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..." I trail off, thinking it best to just take another drink.

She sighs. "Oh, stop apologizing. You know me just fine. That's why we're here."

"To be fair, we're here because the picture you posted was hella hot."

She smiles. "Thanks."

"I mean, you practically look like a carbon-copy of Scarlet Johansen."

"There are no accidents, Abe."

"Right." Another nervous sip.  I consider asking about geoducks or naked mole rats, but I let it ride.  It's almost too easy to let my mouth run, with the Grey Goose coursing through me.

"You're right about Sarah. She is a good woman. I'm sorry you two haven't been able to make things work. I'll send you someone you'll be fully compatible with, if you like."

"I'm in no hurry. Playing the field has been fun."  I sip.

"You're getting no younger."  She sips.

"True. And my tastes seem to stay the same."  I sip a lot, blushing at the confession.

"Lucky for you there are a lot of ladies out there who like older, wiser men."  She spares me a small smile.

"I'm not exactly old, you know."

"No, but you will be."

"So you're telling me my future, now?" Vodka makes me bold, it seems.

She grins, and I relax. I'm not sure how far I can carry things with her.

Finishing with her cigar, she puts her elbows on her knees. Leaning forward, she peers into my eyes. It takes everything I have not to squirm, gazing into that beautiful abyss.

"I'm going to make your dreams come true, Abe. All of them. Every. Last. One. Because I like you." My reaction to her words is visceral. Crude.

She glances down at the physical manifestation of my enthusiasm.

Smirking, she traces a finger along my thigh.

"Answer my original question, Abraham. Will you prove that you love me?"

Stammering, I finally release a "Yes" at nearly a yell. To make sure my point gets across, I nod enthusiastically.

"Great. Then let's go pick up Isaac from his mom's house."

God help me, I know what she means me to do, but I still can't lead her out of the bar fast enough.

I only smoke when super stressed. Historically, anyway. I've managed not to pick it up again in the last few years. But just barely.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The repetitive action soothes me. It's the same as yoga breathing, but the first hit of nicotine and smoke to the lungs...well, that's the sweet spot, right?

Inhale.

Exhale.

Blowing out that first deep drag is still the most soothing feeling I can imagine.

Turns out, even a Menthol Light can't give relief anymore in the aftermath of a broken heart. Sweet red wine hits the spot now. And yoga.

Inhale.

Namaste, dickhead.

Exhale.

I dream of running away,

Of hopes and wishes that I keep at bay,

But with so many ties that force me to stay,

I guess I can't go anywhere today.

I dream of starting anew,

Of faces belonging to god only knows who,

Where time is spent on what I want to do,

But I know I won't be going there with you.

I dream of breathtaking space,

Of learning a neighbour's familiar face,

Of sunshine, laughter, and a slow, easy pace,

I dream of myself in an unrecognisable place.

I dream of finding my home,

Of uprooting seeds somebody else has sown,

And settling down in a land of my own,

But wherever I'd go, I guess I'd be going alone.

Yes, I dream of running away,

Of endless tomorrows and as much work as play,

Of saying those words often too hard to say,

But as always, I can't go anywhere today.

With a flourish of the wrist, he lifted the ornate calligraphy brush from her naked flesh. He knew she'd approve were her eyes not shut. All their last night's intimacy inked out on her lithe, body. The passionate, dark, and forbidden acts. He'd written only where clothes would cover so she could keep the words longer.

Once they were dressed, her makeup immaculate, he gave a final kiss. They wouldn't meet again. He left into cold blue light of pre-dawn, sending a voice message to his business partner.

"The body is prepped for the funeral today. She's in fridge four."

patter patter patter patter patter

patter patter patter patter

patter patter patter

patter patter

patter

pat pat pat pat

pat...

...pat...

...pat.

_____

"I saw you looking at me." Her eyes were half lidded, smiling. Thick with want.

"Oh, did you now?"

"Mmm. Now you owe me a drink."

"Is that how it works?" He wasn't feigning disinterest. He was genuinely apathetic.

"Well. Where I'm from, gentlemen don't typically stare, and if they're caught, they buy ladies drinks."

"I'll let you know when I spot either a gentleman or a lady, then. Maybe we can ask them if that's true."

"Aha! You have jokes?"

"You're laughing, so apparently I do."

"I'm going to sit here." She settled her expensive purse in her lap and took the bar stool next to him.

"Please do." He admired her shapely thighs as subtly as he could, as he tipped his glass.

"You're going to order me a drink. Preferably something with whiskey in it."

"I'll consider it."

"Maybe I should just take yours." He'd placed his scotch on the mahogany of the bar.

"Help yourself."

"I hope you don't mind lipstick on the rim." She smiled as she sipped his cocktail.

"Where else were you planning to leave it?"

"The night is young."  She winked at him.  "I'm Eden."

He shook her hand, "Patrick." His grin was obvious as the tab was settled.

_____

pat

_____

"Show me."

"I don't think you're ready for that. We've only just met." Laughter danced at the edges of his words.

"Do you always assume to know best, when it comes to us poor little women?"

"Of course not. But I know this game. And you are not ready."

"Are you going to give me a speech about trust and limits and safewords?"

"I don't give speeches. Unless soliloquies count."

"What about safewords?"

"Try, 'stop,' or 'I don't like that.' I find those work well."

"Do you actually listen?"

"Will you actually speak?"

"I doubt it. I think I can handle anything you can dish, little man."

"Don't try to taunt me. I don't play that way."

"Or what?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Or I can leave. If I wanted children, I'd have them. I have no patience for childish behavior, especially in the bedroom."

"You just think you're the cat's ass, don't you?" Her bratty tendencies had been stopped cold.

"No. I just know how I like to play. I can tell that you simply are not ready."

"Try me." Her defiance was fierce, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

_____

pat

pat

_____

Her apartment was spacious and very high-end. Rising above the city, the mists that hung in the sky clung to her bedroom windows, just as she clung to her demands and assertions. The skyline seemed to be just an arm's reach away as his breath fogged the glass.

Turning away from the sights of the city, he faced the sights of his evening.

She stretched out on the eight-thousand dollar mattress, one arm dangled over the edge as it stretched below a pillow. Her face was tranquil, smiling, and her eyes were closed.

Long and pale, she was once a stunningly beautiful woman. She was old enough to be successful, but young enough to clutch the memory of being fashionably pretty. There was a bitterness about her; not quite a desperation, but an obvious need to be accepted.

She absolutely exuded the need to win. She demanded her desires, and her demands were usually met.

To her, he was a conquest. An adventure. A notch for her antique bedpost.

He smiled, remembering the sounds of those bedposts drumming off the wall of the condo; a bass to her alto, both singing along sweetly to his tune.

She may be a star performer, but he was ever the maestro.

"Do you need anything from the kitchen?" he asked, walking past her and navigating their strewn clothes. His bare feet slapped warmed marble floors.

She continued to smile. Apparently, she had nodded off to sleep.

"I'll take that as a no, then. If you don't mind, I'm going to clean up a little and grab a drink." While gathering dishes, he thought he heard her sigh. Fine china and antique sterling made for interesting and creative games; carefully, he balanced these improvised toys along with discarded condoms, making his way out of the room.

Whistling, he found what he was looking for beneath a bathroom sink, and he began to leave the house in better condition than when he found it.

Mostly.

_____

pat

_____

"What's that?"

"Is that hesitation in your voice, girl?" He played to her defiance, while demeaning her to keep her off balance.

"Absolutely not! What do you plan to do with it? I think I like where this is going." You won't.

"I think you liked where I just went." He grinned like he was supposed to do.

"Oh, god, you're making me blush." You're easy.

"Red looks good on you." He silently congratulated himself on the well placed compliment; flattering words were exactly what she expected.

"I'm sure you say that to all the ladies." Sometimes I say nothing at all.

"No. I don't." He was sincere when he said that.

"I believe you, actually." He knew he had her from the moment she sat down at the bar.

"Good. You should." If she only knew what he was thinking.

"So what are you going to do with that?" Hide it.

"What would you like me to do with it?" You were never ready.

"Mmmm. Surprise me." Oh, it will be surprising.

Entering her, pinning her down, Eden smiled as he made her come again.

Soon after, he made her look good in red.

_____

pat

_____

The Wüsthof chef's knife slid easily back into her butcher block, after a thorough bleaching. He walked back into her bedroom.

She still had the ghost of a smile, with arm stretched over the side of the bed.

pat

Drips, running from brachial artery down off of fingertips, had all but stopped. What her heart had begun, gravity had helped finish.

Crimson splashed the marble beneath her bedsheets, and they, too, held vermilion court in that silent chamber.

Patrick Bateman calmly donned his charcoal Valentino suit, carefully folding the tie and placing it in his coat pocket. "Hip to Be Square" began playing on his Sony Walkman.

He could finally relax.

I'm feeling freaking frustrated, 

foes, friends, and family finding faults, 

flipping fervor for fear, 

fickle freedom, 

while flattering financial feats fondle fiction, 

foolish friction fraternize fair fantasies far from fantastic, 

fire flamed filled fences, 

forced father fatalities, 

fetal fraternity facilities feeding feminist fish foods, 

fingers forgetting fundamental functions, 

fuel fees, frantic freeway flux, and fleeing focus fade frontal foresight, 

false flight falling fifty-five feet fornenst a feeble fringe fathoming future fulfillment, 

fist of fury fighting ferocious phenomena fending folding figures funneling flaky facts, 

futile fashion, fruitless freelance, 

frivolous frequencies flooding favorable fellowship, 

fiending freakish foreign forsaken flavors framed in familiar fabric, 

flying phobia, failing phobia, 

forward footsteps filming the finale following frustration.