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SOME PLACE OUT WEST — It had to be one of these days, of all days, that Island Girl went into foal. It took three covers before one finally took, by which point Walker had spent a cool sixty grand trying to produce something of the mare. For some inscrutable reason, it had to be her, and the sire had to be Sultan. The fact that it took so long for her to quicken seemed a bad omen. His ranch hands were convinced the man was fighting fate; something out there in the universe resisted a foal by Island Girl and Sultan, but he doggedly forged on in spite of it. Whatever motivated him, at least they could all agree: the man was relentless. Not a force of nature, but a force against it. Maybe that was something worth respecting, even if what he fought so hard for seemed so inconsequential as a foal by his favorite racehorse.Those ranch hands who’d known him since he was a boy felt that tenacity ran in his blood. His father, and his father’s father, were just as tenacious, and it must’ve been that very temperament that fostered the family’s success in the first place. The family considered it a boon. At the same time, to call it ‘tenacity’ was really just a kind way of putting it, and in private, some of Walker’s employees were keen to say the man was ‘just plain stubborn’ or, more bluntly, ‘an ass’.Old Walker took charge of just about everything, all the time. Even the bastard boys born to his maids were no exception — or, at least, one of them was — and he’d seized upon that boy and made a goddamn man out of him. He gave him a respectable education, an even more respectable job, innumerable opportunities, and now the boy had at last returned to Mirador a doctor with all his credentials in tow. Word was, he was even an artist. A real renaissance man, that one. Maybe the next Da Vinci.Men like Walker played the long game. They had a plan for everything and everyone, and it could be years before their investments paid off. At last, the time for the rumored Doc Da Vinci to pay off had finally come. A torrential storm had set upon Mirador from the blue, so ferocious that trees were blown from their roots and barn roofs were torn to pieces. The storm cut power to the whole damn ranch and even the town; in a final desperate move by Fate to avert a foal by Sultan and Island Girl, it was in this damnable weather that the mare went into labor.Two men showed up at the doctor’s practice, the second man’s purpose less clear than the driver’s. He must have just come along for the ride. Neither spoke a word to each other; the driver drove silently, and the rider took up space. It was the former who left the truck, too, slamming the car door on his way out to the doctor’s door. Rather than knock, he kicked it open, clutching his hat hard on the top of his head so it didn’t go flying off with the wind.“Doc Da Vinky!” Somewhere along the line, the doctor’s real name was lost. Plenty of Walker’s employees thought that was actually his name. They were also under the impression the poor doctor knew why they’d come, and thus only gave the briefest of updates. “Boss is waitin’ on you. Vet ain’t makin’ it, they don’t know where he’s at. Ol’ Island Girl’s gonna croak at this rate.”

THE KING KEELS — As if bewitched, Ashura carved himself open and reached inside. There was nothing but guts at his fingertips; the bone he reached for laid behind dense muscle, his diaphragm gone rigid despite attempts to breathe deeper. Much of himself was entirely present, watching the demon before him crouch and pass his tongue between his lips, but a small voice berated him from the back of his mind: You fool! What if you die here?A chill quickly overtook him. First, it came for the tips of his fingers, his toes; they paled, going blue before they went white, and then the ice passed into his limbs. The hot blood staining his hands failed to warm them, instead highlighting the heavy contrast between what he'd dug out of his core and the distal ends of his body. It felt like he'd plunged his hands into a freezing lake, only to attempt to wash them again in fire. The stranger, mesmerized, seemed to revel in this. The more the king suffered, the more appreciative his assailant. He shut his eyes to Ashura's plight.His Majesty had nothing to say but the obvious: this was an impossible task. His lips moved again, but he couldn't manage a plea. He was, after all, a king, and he'd been so foolhardy all his life that he wouldn't deign to admit he was at the brink of death. Indeed, as the last king's eighth child, he felt himself practically invincible. No one plotted on his life because a river the width of seven people laid between him and the throne, practically intractable. Being named heir was as much a shock to him as it was the rest of his kingdom, but the truth was, it suited him. Even with his innards spilling into the forest floor, Ashura was too proud to beg for help. He'd die in vain, for a flute of all things, but at least he wouldn't die by the hand of his brethren. Perhaps therein laid his strength: he considered only his siblings a threat to his life and behaved accordingly. Living as though nothing but his father's children could kill him gave the king an unconquerable air, and when he tore himself open, one would be forgiven if they believed he'd actually survive it. He did it so coolly, so casually — totally nonchalant, as if this were a weekly occurrence. Then he couldn't grab hold of a rib and he realized, yes, this could kill him, too.His assailant felt like adding insult to injury. Ashura watched him helplessly, numb to the predatory look in his gaze until the stranger reached inside his wound. His eyes had half-lidded in the time between speaking and breathing, but the man's hand in his flesh threw them wide open again. Rather than dropping his jaw, Ashura clenched it, looking into the stranger's gaze with a mixture of shock and offense. He couldn't just let well enough alone? He saw a man suffering before him, and he couldn't wait the handful of minutes it would take for him to pass to loot his body? Ashura opened his mouth, having half a mind to ask the stranger what the hell he thought he was doing, but then he felt him digging below his ribs. The king's breath caught in his throat.How curious that this mesmerized him, too. Ashura wondered if the stranger's actions were just so incomprehensible that he couldn't help but be intrigued, feeling disembodied and apart from himself as the other man tore through the muscle holding up his lungs. To be sure, he felt everything: how sinew gave way to his assailant's fingers, how his lung collapsed with the change in pressure. He couldn't breathe anymore, yet as the stranger wrapped fingers around his shortest rib, he thought himself that this was an experience worth putting to paper. It was exquisite, literally unlike anything else in the world. Only the two of them shared it. He couldn't even be angry, couldn't hate his assailant for taking advantage of the moment and inflicting upon him even more pain. They certainly weren't strangers anymore; this man was even closer to him than any brother or fling, having reached inside him like this.Maybe he would have done the same, in this demon's place, just for the sake of seeing what it was like to dig around in another man's body. Briefly, Ashura wondered if it was possible to carve a note upon his soul, so that he might one day write about this in the next life. Then, his rib snapped off into the other man's hand, and the life in his eyes went without a fight.

When he woke, that wonder lingered with him. Ashura gazed about the room and thought he must have just been born again, instilled with a soul not with his first breath but when he finally managed to open his new eyes. Yet—what babe opened his eyes to an empty room? Surely he should have seen his mother resting by his side, or at least a relative tending to him nearby. He took stock of the room before the pain hit him, first eyeing what hung from the hollow's walls and then, scrutinizing the room's furniture. A fire was of little notice, having seen so many throughout his life, until he realized he was truly all alone and thought, At least they made sure I was warm.He tried to take a deep breath. His mind could only stave off the pain for so long; the moment his greater muscles moved, every possible unpleasant sensation slammed him. It was too much, and he fainted again.This time, Ashura regained consciousness with his circumstances well in mind. He looked out from his eyelids miserably, more upset he'd returned to life in this body than he was to think he'd left everything dear to him behind. At least if he'd been reborn, he wouldn't have had to deal with this infernal pain. Provided his family was good, he could have lived a few years in relative luxury, having his every need met with little more than a feeble cry. Now, he had to deal with whatever just happened.He felt sick, so he didn't move. Ashura breathed shallowly, dizzied by the pain, acutely aware of his little rib's absence. There were more injuries, too: someone had patched him up so he wouldn't die, but they'd left all his other afflictions alone. His shoulder still ached, he still felt there was a stake where his nose should be, and there was so much blood in his stomach, he knew his first move would have him vomiting it up. All that made the king reluctant to do more than breathe, silently cursing his circumstances. He might have been grateful for his life if he weren't in such blinding pain.Since he had nothing to do, Ashura considered: what of his savior? Ashura dared another look about the room, but there was no movement beyond the fire. His eye was drawn to nothing, so he let his gaze wander up to whatever was above him. In place of a normal ceiling, there was wood, too far to be lit by the fire. He didn't question it.His savior was nowhere to be found, so that person didn't occupy him. Instead, Ashura's mind drifted to his assailant. There were no specific thoughts to be had about him; Ashura only saw memories in his mind's eye, some he'd experienced and others he hadn't. That man knew him intimately now -- if he had the chance, Ashura would have liked to ask him what it was like to touch the inside of a living man. No, more specifically — what was it like to push aside his innards, to take hold of his rib? To break it off in his hand, and then tear it out of his body? Surely he hadn't done this with anyone before, had he? Ashura briefly likened himself to a maiden, fearing his assailant had been that intimate with many others before. Now, he was amused. It served to distract him from the pain.

LITERATURE

keywords for shit I’m into (not necessarily sexual):• rough   • rugged   • large   • masculine   • suppressed   • surreptitious   • cowboys, charros, vaqueros   • infamy   • agápē   • thick-headed   • strong   • protective   • begrudging   • curious   • intrigued   • temptation   • stoic   • stone cold   • mischievous   • playful   • affection   • strict tops   • switches   • touch-starved   • drinking buddies   • smoking   • sharing cigarettes   • asymmetry   • crooked noses   • crooked teeth   • the only exception   • sanctuary   • it takes one to know one   • language barriers   • frontier   • dark skin   • extraordinary (as in "outside the norm")   • DL   • chaotic good   • lawful evil   • careful   • age gaps   • moment of weakness   • noblesse oblige (for better or for worse)   • broken teeth   • broken bones   • grudges   • spite   • misunderstood   • ruthless   • by any means necessary   • lonely   • fate   • determined   • scars   • handicaps   • Gilgamesh   • & Enkidu   • untouchable   • lofty   • sin   • love languages   • lumpenproletariat   • to be loved is to be changed   • tension   • slow dancing   • post-apocalyptic   • I’ll do anything for you (in the dark)   • wandering   • leitmotif   • daddy issues   • power trip   • the one that got away   • late night drives   • jazz   • ambition   • lost   • guidance   • long hair   • addiction   • revenge   • moonlight   • prayer   • promiscuous   • daydreaming