by the shoreline.
wistful, she stepped into the piercing cold sea by the shoreline,
draped in the serene ambiance of the dawning day,
as overcast clouds hung heavy over the chimes of seagulls,
circulating around the crunchy sand and among the softly crashing waves.
the sky enveloped the world
the world enveloped her heart, mind, and soul.
each second, the faintest droplet of rain would cascade down, lightly caressing her shoulder.
the unsaturated, dark, aromatic air draped heavy over her shoulders, digging her further into the sand.
slowly, it grows deeper, overlapping, again and again, whilst echoes of the past hum of conversations contained with fake voices and laughter.
the airy clouds seemingly falling further down to the ground,
crushing her.
how is one to escape when this deep in?
Sacrifice
(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.
The Drink Took Her In
Will she sleep out under the stars,
Tonight,
Or crash in some sweet
Talker's bed?...
...The smell of leather, and
Motor oil...
...Goes quick...
Taking one to the head.
...Will she wrap her thin
Frame
'round that drained
Piece of glass?...
...The drink took her in,
Now the shit
From her past
Returns in bit pictures
That only she knows.
...The drink took her in,
Now she keeps bringing more
Of her ill luck
To play;
'cuz the storm's here
In spades!...
...And the dark from
The skies
Starts to enter
Her eyes...
The drink took her in...
...Now there's nothing
To hide.
©
2017
Bunny Villaire
Lady in Red
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.
Hot Air and Cool Breeze
Summernight heat. Humidity we could float through, wade in, and drown by, if we weren't tethered to one another.
My lifeline was connected to Allison. AllieMac, I called her. She took me to this cypress sea, not far from the borders of the Okefenokee.
Bud Light cans and Marlboro, a full moon and music, AllieMac and a few strangers, and me. We sat, we sang. We played.
Her NotBoyfriend/Boyfriend was our host. He was a musician, a starving artist. No job to speak of, no future plans, he barely scraped together rent with his two band member roommates. It was all they could do to keep the shack above their heads, and the lights on.
There was no air conditioner.
The spring on the screen door would whine and pop, and the door would slam. To call it a "screen door" was generous; screen was a memory in most places within that weathered door frame, hanging in tatters and flapping in the almost-cool breeze of an old box fan.
They had a yellow lab, a big, lazy, friendly geriatric fellow. He'd shuffle right through the tatters of the bottom screen, and plop himself down in front of the drum set.
He was the band's mascot, and a crude likeness of him was painted on the bass drum.
I'd drifted out with AllieMac to this place in her old Buick station wagon. It practically floated over the dirt roads, sailing through the crests and troughs like a battleship, immune to changes in tide and terrain.
We were eighteen, maybe nineteen. She was preparing for full-scholarship adventures at Vanderbilt, where she was planning to major in English or Journalism. She was a poet, a writer, a novelist. She'd already been published before she graduated high school.
So of course we were drawn to one another.
AllieMac wasn't an inch over five feet tall. She ran marathons, she wrote songs, she played guitar. Spritely, fire-haired, fair-skinned and optimistic, she was light and hope and eager to make a difference in the world with love and compassion. Bluegreen eyes as bright as glacial ice under a winter sun, she was determined to succeed in making a change, and she lived by a simple mantra: do good.
So of course we had fundamental differences in drive, ambition, and outlook.
What we shared was a mutual respect for our differences, and our appreciation for lyrical magic and literal finesse.
Physically, I towered over her. It was in a moment, a heartbeat, a flash of seconds, that we recognized a connection between us that could change our latitude and course, potentially steering our bearing of friendship and mere intellectual draw.
It was an innocent thing, really. We were in her kitchen, she was standing at the counter, preparing lunch. She asked me to grab something from a high cabinet, so I reached around her, and she turned towards me, intending to go to the fridge. Facing one another unexpectedly, our eyes locked. I was overboard in crystal blue waters and she reached up to put her hand on my chest.
She traced her hand along my pecs, lightly gliding, gently exploring.
Time simply didn't exist.
The urge to kiss was mutual and powerful and instinctive, and yet.
And yet.
We stood there, eyes as frozen as the secondhand on the old clock radio seemed to be.
We remembered to breathe, we resisted the urge to drown in one another. She took her hand away, and time marched on.
Life's regrets are more strongly bonded to things we didn't do. I ponder these things undone from yesterdays, when I grow bored with the world's todays.
We boarded her powder-blue Detroit yacht and sailed into the swamp, and we never mentioned that moment frozen in time. That iceberg, that ghost pretending to be a hero.
Instead, we drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and learned to play "Wish You Were Here," or rather, we played at it.
We were just two lost souls, swimming, but I still wish I was there.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j8mr-gcgoI
Roads Less Traveled
His black overcoat was dusty, like he'd been standing on the side of that dirt road for a while, watching old pickup trucks clatter by.
He didn't quite match the setting. His tailored black suit and wool coat would be more appropriate for Madison Avenue or Wall Street; that's what made her take notice of him. That, and the piercing eye contact he made as her little compact car closed the distance between them.
He was utterly relaxed. In fact, he leaned against an old fencepost. It was as though nothing mattered to him at all; not the dust clinging to his coat, not the chill in the air, nor even the cigarette in his hand. He was completely nonchalant.
But that look. Those eyes.
He was perfectly composed. For all the surrounding farmland, this strange man in a tailored three-piece looked like he was leaning against a mahogany conference table in a boardroom.
All of these details, she processed at 45 miles an hour. She hadn't even realized she'd slowed from sixty until she came to a stop in the road just feet from where the man leaned.
He made no gesture. He made no signs.
And yet.
Those eyes, they commanded her to stop.
Piercing, dark, almost black. They stood out in contrast to his alabaster skin so pale she could nearly see the veins in his neck on the back of his hands.
He acknowledged her with a nod as he tossed his spent smoke into the fine sand of the road. Grinding it further into the dirt, his shining black shoes dimmed a little in the sunshine as they collected a bit more dust.
She pushed a button and lowered the passenger window. He leaned against the frame, smiling.
It wasn't a harmless smile, nor was it threatening. It was genuine, it was warm, but it spoke of danger and wonder in equal measure.
"Why are you out here dressed like an undertaker, Mister? Are you lost?"
A small laugh shook his slender frame, and he shook his head.
"No, ma'am. I'm always where I need to be."
She didn't quite know how to take that, so she just waited.
"I could use a ride, though. If you wouldn't mind."
"My dad says I shouldn't ever let hitchhikers in the car."
He adopted a very serious look. "Your father is a wise man. But I'm no hitchhiker."
"Well, you're on the side of the road, and you just asked me for a ride."
"This is true. But I can tell you're uncomfortable. That's fine, dear. You drive on, until you're ready."
It was hard to tell how old he was, exactly, but Melissa knew he was a good bit older than her seventeen years. A junior, she was making her way home from high school. She was used to being called "sugar," or "baby," or "dear," but she wasn't used to this man's strange accent. He sounded like an old movie actor; thoughts of "It's a Wonderful Life" flashed in her memory.
She almost missed his comment.
"What do you mean, ready?"
Melissa took this way every day. There were other routes between home and town, but these particular dirt roads were more fun to drive, even if there was the occasional obstacle by way of tractor or wandering livestock. She knew the way like the back of her hand; it was filled with sandy traps and gravelly snares that would snag and pull, adding to the excitement. Her little city car wasn't meant for such country living, but she was determined to drive where she wanted, how she wanted.
The man just smiled, and pushed himself away from her car window.
"Run along now, Melissa. You've places to be."
It wasn't until a mile later that she realized she'd never told him her name.
____
The dust cloud finally settled as her car faded from view.
The man in black went back to his fence post, reaching for a new Nat Sherman.
As the lighter on his cigarette case clinked, an audible pop sounded as the air around him was displaced.
"How long will you let her drive, Kharon?" The voice rumbled, menacing, but the threat implied was ignored by the man in black.
Not answering immediately, the slim man savored the flavor of his cigarette.
"You shouldn't get this one, Lucy. It isn't right."
Rumbling laughter echoed as Lucy spoke. "You know the rules. You make the deliveries. Where the packages go isn't your problem. You just get them there."
"How is this one yours? She's seventeen. A good kid."
"The wages of sin, and all that bullshit, K."
"She's just a goddamned kid."
"Was a kid. Quotas, K. I don't make the rules, I just play by them. Same as you."
"Oh, for fuck's sake. You're the king of breaking the rules."
"Prince of lies, actually."
The man in black couldn't help but chuckle.
"Technically, she isn't yours until I ferry her."
"Yes, I know. Which is why I'd like to know how long you're going to let her keep passing you."
"She's happy here. Dreaming."
"Kharon. She's been wasting away in a coma for years."
"What's this? Sympathy?" Kharon looked sideways at the man he called Lucy.
"I see what you did there, K. No. She's mine. I'm due."
"Wordplay from you, now, is it?" Kharon watched the road, where Melissa would reappear any moment.
"It's been seven years since she wrecked on this road. Think of her family, watching her rot in a hospital bed."
"Jesus, Lucy. You almost sound like you care."
Lucy cracked a devilish grin.
"What's a few more months to the likes of us? Let her have this. It's better than what you have to offer."
Sighing, Lucy finally responded. "I will be waiting when you finally do your job."
"And if I just let her haunt here, even after the plug is pulled?"
Palpable, simmering anger was the only response to the question.
From around the road's bend, Melissa's car glimmered in the sunlight, billowing a cloud of dust.
The man in black's companion popped back to his domain, leaving Kharon to his work.
Slowing and rolling down her passenger window, the teenage girl had no way of knowing she was asking the same question for the thirteen thousandth time.
"Why are you out here dressed like an undertaker, Mister? Are you lost?"
He smiled, happy to answer her again.
_____
_____
Title: Roads Less Traveled
Genre: Fantasy Short Fiction
Age Range: Young Adult / Adult
Word Count: 1074
Author Name: Nick Ferryman
Why this is a good fit: It's a fantastical piece that provides a potential answer for "Why?" or "Is there anything after we die?"
The hook: Sometimes the persona of Death lobbies on behalf of mere mortals.
Synopsis: Death himself prevents a girl from dying by keeping her in limbo, stuck inside a coma dream, to spare her eternal damnation.
Target Audience: Adult fans of the fantasy / sci-fi genre.
My Bio: withheld.
Platform: Microsoft Word
Education: withheld.
Experience: published in professional journal(s), hobbyist short story author, several stories chosen for electronic publication on various websites.
Writing style: A mixture of noir and romantic nostalgia.
Likes/Hobbies: withheld
Hometown/Age: withheld