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…I’m behind. My other entry in last week’s Flash Friday contest wherein they provided the theme “man vs. man” and the above photo, courtesy of Hartwig HKD. No more than 210 words. My entry:

Father passed the blade in the same nonchalant manner with which he’d pass the comics section of the newspaper. Resigned to its fate.

I, on the other hand, held its cold steel in the palm of my hand with reverence. A reverence normally reserved for women and wine.

Father’s first happened back in the Dust Bowl days when the earth coughed dust. In days when trees shivered in the night for lost leaves.

I was to perform my first in the nocturnal wastelands of Detroit where shadows curled up with other shadows for protection. Where street lamps stopped bothering with their warm glow.

Father’s victim was nicked with the point of the blade at her carotid artery. She bled on his shoes and his hands. Nowadays, I’d catch him looking at his old, cracked hands, as if still seeing her blood.

I was not surgical like him once I started in. My hands became one with the steel and I felt indestructible with each slash.

Father watched, then turned his head.

I often asked father, once he revealed to me what he did at a young age, if I had what he had.

Father would turn his head, then, too.

I was a more fully realized, evolved version of father.

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