STORIES

How can he sit there gorging himself knowing there’s a killer loose? My husband Charles, devours my specialty: red-pepper meatloaf, garlic-roasted potatoes. I stir mine, scowling — no appetite.  

“How can you eat at a time like this?” 

He freezes, fork pauses mid-flight; eyes reluctant to meet mine. 

“This again, Patricia? A man’s gotta eat, you know.” 

This week, it’s a boy from Charleston. Last week, eleven-year-old Samantha. In the weeks and months before, new faces and different names stared at me, isolated on the back of a milk carton — all missing, never found. I lay my fork in protest. 

“What if one was ours, Charles?”

He releases his fork, eyes wide, brows low. A clang ruins the mood.    

“Don’t bring that up again! You know I can’t— " He throws his napkin and abruptly leaves. 

“Stop obsessing, Pat.”

---

It’s hard enough to sleep after a fight, even more so when there’s a killer loose. Charles works nights. There’s no closure until morning. It’s been this way since learning he’s sterile — we argue, he escapes to work, and if we’re lucky, we make up the next day. Two years of this shit develops some bad habits and frequent insomnia. 

Smoke trails from my cigarette, unaffected — the breeze died at midnight. It’s quiet. Darkness brings out the honesty in people, like Janice who walks her dog late to avoid picking up its shit, or George who secretly masturbates to smut mags while his wife sleeps peacefully in their bed, or how I greatly despise a child killer enough to make it my sole duty in life. 

What scum — robbing parents of miracles. I’ll kill him. I take a drag, then exhale. The balcony is my watchtower; the night, my hunting ground. I’ve studied him, tracked his movements, and narrowed his whereabouts to a ten-mile radius. Tonight, he’s nearby. I feel it. I flick ash, then tighten my running shoes. Tonight, I have the late shift.       

---

I complete the first few loops, using shadows as camouflage — Neighborhood Watch 101. I started this group when the first child’s picture was printed. Rebecca Clementine, age seven. It was heartbreaking. I’d always wanted a daughter.

I patrol the streets throughout the night — nothing is suspicious until I spot Charles speeding home with his headlights off. It’s 4:05. What’s he doing?!  

Concerned, I cut across the cul-de-sac to intercept, but he’s too quick. He’s already exiting the trunk with a lumpish trash bag slumped over his shoulder when I’m only a few houses away. He scans, cautiously. I hide. 

He enters the fence into the backyard disappearing silently and I follow. 

---

I sneak into position atop the neighbor’s woodpile. Charles is acting unusually disconnected, and digging a hole in our landscaping. The black bag lays beside him, bright red sneakers sticking out. Red sneakers?! 

I immediately recall this week’s milk carton description: Timothy Baker, age ten, blue t-shirt, jeans, and Red Converse. Then I recall every landscaping project over the past year. 

I bolt for my gun! 

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Trina’s gut knots when the new boy enters the cafeteria. Something's off—his scent, his piercing eyes, his prowling. It’s not lust she feels, but instinct. She gouges the table’s underside while Becky and Rachel gush over him. Another half-breed encroaches! Tomorrow’s blood moon will determine which wolf remains. 

Her.  

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Vermilion lips poke through rotting leaves—her final defiance, and perhaps a kiss for a washed-up bloodhound. A little encouragement to find her killer. She speaks to me, never mentioning her name. I jot down, Jane. 

Ivory skin turned icy blue. Is she an actress, a model, an Eastside harlot? Nobody forgets a pretty face. I’ll ask around. Victory curls become ebony drapes cascading her saffron dress, hiked and torn. 

Terminal nine—an unlikely place to die naturally; so derelict, homeless avoid it. I secure the station, then head for the city.

If she weren’t dead, I’d be in love.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Removed from my chair, reduced to the likes of an old steed, it seems I’ve been put out to pasture. It’s a feeding frenzy. My bastard sons have dishonored the house I’ve built and now my soul aches with grief, but my heart pumps venom. How laughable, these entitled shits assume I can be discarded so easily. Where’s the respect?

They’ve never known the juggernaut who was their father, only the humbled man who emerged unscathed from the aftermath of blazing the land so vigorously. They’re naive, never understanding their fur-lined beds lay atop the bones of more honorable and stronger men than they’ll ever be, and I cut those men down yawning. They’re trying to take my throne like it’s the chair that earns respect among the people, yet they fail to realize—I am the throne.

How badly they desire power, having never fought for anything, yet a fight is what they’ll receive. I’ll cripple them until they’re swollen and limp, then drag their mangled bodies through the streets like all my slain foes before them. Rivers will run red with their vile blood until the water flows clean.

I’ll never let the rule of my kingdom be reduced to two daughters with dicks who’d rather bathe in buttermilk than the blood of a fallen enemy. Tomorrow, they’ll stare me in the eyes as I sever their souls from their bodies, then I’ll feed them to the pigs.

“Bonne chance, mes bâtards d'enfants.”

This crown dies with me.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Some small towns never change; the same can be said about the people. Those who’ve escaped only come back to bury bodies and sell property.

I turn onto Sixth—rows of cleavage hang loosely through car windows, drunken vagrants bare-knuckle over minimart turf, and junkies visit “heaven” sprawled across church steps.

Twenty years, nothing’s changed, ’cept Ma.

I park outside a decrepit house on a dead-end street—my childhood. Ma’s porch rocker sways delicately, this time without cigarette smoke. I stay outside. Inside, there are only empty cans and abandoned dreams.

I hammer a “For Sale” sign curbside.

Goodbye, Ma.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

You fawned me just to lay under the stars until I screamed NO, but you penetrated my atmosphere with the full-force of gravity anyway. Now blood swirls at my feet as a black hole swallows your filth. I can’t scrub hard enough. You exploited my innocence in April, and by May deflowered me.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Darcy flashed her question across the lake and anxiously awaited Trevor’s response. How lame, she thought—using Morse code and a flashlight to ask a boy out. Summer Camp was ending soon yet she still hadn’t had her first kiss. 

His light blinked back. Dash-Dot-Dash-Dash. “Y” for yes!

Fireflies churned in her stomach.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

THOSE WHO DON'T

REMEMBER THE PAST

ARE CONDEMNED

TO REPEAT IT.

Jonestown, 1978

They held their drinks high in solidarity as children screamed over anxious chatter. Then, all at once, their anticipation was quenched, and the pavilion turned silent. Father Jim declared it was a revolution just before blowing his brains out.

***

Nine Hundred people died for us to learn we shouldn’t "drink the Kool-Aid,” yet we still do. Why? What legacy did their sacrifice leave us if we continue to sip from poisoned screens feeding like feening rats? 

But even rats have the capacity to learn. 

Do You?

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

It was the end of an era. My last weekend was fading with the sun. Elementary would become middle school and my eleventh birthday was looming. Everything changed over the summer, and the realization that everything had an expiration had set in.

The backyard was buzzing. Crickets played their fiddles, bullfrogs crooned the blues, and mosquitoes waged a small-scale war on Papa’s bug zapper and my legs. We were too focused on lapping our creemees in time to avoid a melted catastrophe on Nana’s porch swing and nearly missed the first fireflies. 

Thousands of twinkling stars fired across a lavender sky and instantly we were out of our seats building our lanterns. I was elated laughing and pouncing until I collected two dozen. Papa had gotten half. When we rested, he explained how fireflies got their moonglow. Many moons ago a beetle family was torn apart by a trembling of finches.

They were devastated and vowed one day they’d meet again. One night the little beetle had a brilliant idea. He’d harness the moonlight, travel by night, and find his family. So, he did, and he taught the others how to find their moonglow too. Each spring the finches come, and by summer the beetles reunite in the cornfields. 

It was the end of an era, my last special summer with PaPa. I never expected he’d have an expiration too, but every summer I still visit that porch swing and catch fireflies in the cornfield hoping our lights meet again.   

Welcome, Haley,

There’s no need to panic. The drowsiness wears off within an hour. Until you can be trusted, the door remains sealed. Sunlight is a privilege. It’ll take time, but by following the rules, eventually, you’ll be permitted to accompany me upstairs. If you must reach me, an intercom is affixed above your dresser. Phone and internet are unavailable. For entertainment, the television transmits my 24-hour “reconnection” broadcast.

I understand the inconvenience of withdrawal, but it’s imperative you detox from the “Social Addictions” infecting you.

Rules:

• No screaming. I realize you’re scared, but there’s no reason to make things awkward. Besides, you’re too far underground for anyone to hear.

• Regular exercise is required. A workout regimen hangs on the wall.

• Food is served promptly at 6:00 am, 1:00 pm, 7:00 pm.

I must confess. Of all my subjects, I’m rooting for you the most.

Restore Your Natural Harmony

-Master

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Chip sulks behind the glass staring into the bustling town of Arrowdale. Today is the grand opening of his new coffee house, The Lair, but the place is empty. The silence is maddening. He put his three hearts and soul into this business and even took out a second mortgage on his cave. What's the point? He thinks. No one will buy from a cold-blooded Firebreather. He pulls away and dips behind the counter—his tail curled with anxiety, dragging behind. Ashamed, Chip begins weeping into his claws. He just wants to be accepted like everyone else. He's more than a human-eating dragon, why can't they see that? His tears spill onto the counter until a metallic ding from a tiny bell alerts him. Chip wipes his reddened scaly cheeks and sniffles back his sadness as a teenage girl timidly approaches. "Um, sir...are you open? The sign outside isn't glowing."

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

The invasion emerged silently, not from our skies; but from our oceans.

Charcoal skies, homeward-bound, we fell in line as always. Hurrah! Hurrah! We’d long forgotten the meaning and never questioned our cadence, escaping the rain with our heads down. Today, the little one strayed far behind. He was looking up. Later, he told us about the water, how he danced, and how he lived.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

I vowed to follow her to the end of the universe never expecting to die in the center of it.

I’m pulled inside, instantly paralyzed by an inescapable pressure—a quantum state of perpetual falling. I’m exponentially stretched between two worlds where I’m nothing in both, yet everything at once. She hangs in the darkness, facing a dying sun; Her silhouette is an eclipse of a sad story.

My blood vessels begin bursting, and my eyes stretch from their sockets as I’m drawn closer to her center. Oxygen pulls through my poriferous skin and the memory of us making love under a Van Gogh sky is vacuum-sealed forever. My lungs shrivel to the size of acorns and my breath vaporizes into the void.

I’m at the mercy of the sand now.

Time moves backward here. I was teleported into the future only to be spat out the other end to face the past I left behind. As I’m dragged closer, I’m forced to watch myself drift away—a mirror image where life and death exist in harmony.

Every molecule atomizes and I slowly disintegrate at her feet. I existed in a single moment and died somewhere between. Now, I’m freefalling forever as her stardust.

For her, it was just another flip of the hourglass.

For me, it was a lifetime. 

“She LOVES me.”

He plucks a petal from a wilted rose slowly encircling Daria’s chair.

“She loves ME not,” he taunts, scornfully tossing it at her.

Her pleas are muffled through a scarlet-stained rag, her cheeks rubbing painfully raw.

“She loves me,” he growls, sprinkling crumbled remnants onto her matted hair.

It had been three days since he bound and brought her here since she’d trashed his

card and flowers, and his heart. He snatches her head backward exposing tender flesh. Her squeals instantly hush.

“She loves me NOT!” he whispers, then carves a heart across her neck.

“Happy Valentines!”

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Raindrops replaced tears as she traced memories along the window. I lent her my hand while I drove. Her reflection revealed the weight of the past year. Silhouettes camouflaged her face; our daughter’s ghost stained it— a flood damming at the corners of her eyes. She’d been strong until today, the anniversary of Anastasia’s murder. I parked adjacent to a dimly lit warehouse, interrupting her mournful trance.

“Where are we David?”

“You’ll see. I’ve gotta surprise that’ll cheer you up. C’mon.”

We entered through the backdoor. Before us sat our daughter’s killer tied up, a red bow around his neck.

The End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Her throat rattles from the closet, alerting me it’s midnight. She’s coming. I face away. Melatonin hasn’t kicked in so I count backward trying to flee. Five. The door groans. I shrink into the mattress, paralyzed. My therapist said, "Breathe slowly," but broken fingernails scraping bedrails induce hyperventilating. Four. Crippled limbs crackle closer. She wheezes onto my toes. I retract them. Three. Sheets tugging, I pull firm! Another tug, then Another! Two. The bedframe squeaks. Her weight becomes enormous. I suck empty air. Clicking grows louder. She sniffs at my ears.

One. I have to look…

Jawbone unhinged; She screeches!

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

This is my last Christmas. They don’t know it yet. My two smallest are tucked away dreaming, while I add the final touches under our tree. Soon, they’ll tumble down the stairs propelled by Santa’s gifts. The smiles, the glee, the magic throughout the room will light me up brighter than heaven itself. Only then do I get to unwrap my own presents. I’ll lift them up to feel their weight, carefully peeling back their badly placed tape, and with my eyes snap a Polaroid that I will take with me into the sky. I sip my coffee and wait. 

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Their eyes were imprisoned, jailed by their curiosity, and locked onto a life sentence with no possibility of escape; no chance of parole. 3:41 pm (PST) filled the corner of their modest flat screen, which they had affixed over the mantle last summer. Their breathing was shallow, and remained secondary to their other bodily functions, all of them. For now, they were very much alive. Besides the reporters over-speaking the video clips on the television, it was quiet. It was deadly quiet. The world was watching in anticipation, holding its breath, waiting, just like Hank and Francis were, while recessed in their Lazy-Boy knock-offs. They were frozen, side by side, separated only by a small table, a lamp, and their overweight calico which fancied licking itself over anything else. King of the jungle, hierarch of the household, the world had stopped for everyone, yet it revolved around this feline’s nightly routine, and for him, his pretentious licking commenced. If only he knew.

Even the birds, and the wind that carries them, remained silent and still, careful not to whistle a tune or to rustle the tree branches outside. The screen radiated a series of light bursts and reoccurring banners which highlighted the wrinkles in their foreheads, and the impending doom held on their faces. Nothing could break them from the inconceivable truth that cemented them in their place except their tender hands that reached out for one another’s embrace. Francis found Hank first. Overwhelmed with shock and fear her hand trembled across his features to eventually find his hand. With her usual grace and the deepest love for her husband, she squeezed. Hank interlaced his fingers returning the gesture, but their eyes remained glued to the screen. They had hoped it was an April fool’s prank, or perhaps a movie. Unfortunately, it was September, a week before their twentieth anniversary, and it was a Thursday; Not a typical day for a film release. This unequivocally was not a joke.

The first red button had been pushed, and a day that no one thought would happen had happened. On their way, heading for the entire west coast of the United States, were one-hundred-thirty-three intercontinental ballistic missiles, each armed with a nuclear warhead that averaged forty times more powerful than Hiroshima. The display on their television was old news, as the government acted at their usual turtle-like pace, intentionally holding back its warning to the public of the Pacific submarine fleet that fired upon us fifteen minutes prior. Hank and Francis had minutes to live if they were lucky, seconds if they were less, and now living in Seattle didn’t seem like the dream that they had originally sought out. Outrunning a nuclear blast seemed implausible with or without a timely warning, and unfortunately, there was no room left for regrets.

With no time to think, no life left to live, and any future memories already destroyed they finally broke their gazes from the wall, with a fateful acceptance. The screen glazed over into an endless blackness, and Hank carefully set down his remote in the depths of his recliner pocket. Their fingers remained balled into an unbreakable fusion of love, as they stood up facing toward each other. Frances locked eyes with him, and Hank did with her. He gripped her by the waist, pulling her closer like he always did when he meant to get her attention. Like the day he said his vows; Like the day that he asked her out for the first time; Like now. He struggled to work up a word from his lips, but eventually found some, while she remained lost in his eyes; her favorite memories flooding her view. 

“Frankie--”

“Shh,” she interrupted while nodding her head, and placing a single finger across his lips. “I know.” 

No words were needed. Nothing was needed. They both just knew. Frances rested her head against his chest, and he nuzzled his chin into her cushioned crown, their heartbeats syncing for one last time. 

As light is faster than sound, the exponential glow of a miniature sunrise flooded its warmth through the windows. The room became white-washed in a heavenly brilliance. It was silent but astonishing. Their grip tightened on each other, and their eyes wrinkled in anticipation of an inconceivable pain. Death was imminent. Before the sound could arrive, and with the finality of their love securely held in each other’s arms, their bodies, their home, the memories they cherished, and even the obese cat, all withered away into a dust cloud of ashes miles into the atmosphere, only to have ever been joined as one, connected by love, and now remembered by no one. 

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Jacob,

I write you with much apprehension, yet I am compelled to out of my love for Thomas. It's been roughly a year since I began dating him, but somehow he remains in my life. Why? Why do you allow him to be with me now when the two boyfriends before him, you decided to brutally remove from my life, and subsequently sent me four black roses each time you made one disappear? I want to be free of you, but I notice your reflection in every window we pass and never miss your car outside my house most nights until Eleven. Is this a game to you? When will you finally learn I'm not interested? It's been four years since you and I met, and you've forced yourself into my life every day since; I assume by design, but I can no longer fathom the thought of losing my sweet Thomas, and if you cared about me as much as you have ruthlessly demonstrated, then you would continue to let us live on, in love. I beg you to leave us alone and stop following me. Don't hurt him like you did the others. I wish I could say that I would do anything to protect us, but that's not true, because I will never choose to be with you. Please find a way to move on. I know that your love for me feels real, but it's not. So, this time please don't send me flowers.

-Fearfully

Rachel

Her overpriced mascara stained both cheeks and her pretentious tears had been dampening the rag jammed into her mouth for over half an hour. I place my hands on the back of her head and pull the restraint tighter to secure it. The corners of her mouth appeared to pinken raw; A special hue of light red that seemed to pair well with the purple bruising beginning to show just under her left eye. I proudly had given that to her in the bathroom, just before dragging her unconscious body into the middle of the woods where we are now. Even homecoming queens cry I guess, but who would have thought in such a lame, pitiful way? The pretty girls always seemed so perfect in the school brochures, at least the ones my mother and I had sifted through in the guidance office over the summer. Well, she is not so perfect now, is she? I kick a pile of dust and rubble onto her flawless dress and watch it begin to settle. As it falls onto her it starts to mix with her sweat-dampened skin to create a muddy film that covers her silky white complexion. 

“I guess this is what happens when you bully the wrong bitch, isn’t it Tiffany?”

She mumbles her frantic responses through her cotton muzzle. I assume it’s an attempt to plead for her mercy or apologize. Who knows? Her mouth is gagged. I chuckle in amusement and refuse to give in to her fake apologies. As if she forgot she is not at home with her Mommie who gives into everything, she responds with a temper tantrum and gives it her best try at breaking herself from the “Girl-Scout” quality knots that I secured her to the chair with. I confidently knew she wasn’t breaking free. I could have hung her from the edge of a cliff with those knots, and they wouldn’t have slipped an inch. Come to think of it, I did that same thing the prior year with Amanda, the head cheerleader from my last school. In fact, I remember using those very knots. I nod to myself in recollection. My only issue with Amanda was my grip, and misjudging her weight. On the bright side, I heard she had a beautiful closed-casket ceremony the next week. I sent flowers the day before we moved. 

I looked Tiffany over. Her puppy-dog eyes were bloodshot, and her hair had become matted with sweat at the edges. Even with all the damage I had inflicted, she still looked arguably hot in a bad-girl grungy kind of way. I, being the typical goth girl who was single-handedly trying to re-incarnate the 90s with my solitary style, could appreciate such a hideous look. I bent over at the waist meeting her at eye level, and took a mouthful of my favorite flavor of lollipop, cherry with a chocolate center. I rolled it around playfully to taunt her, accompanying it with a smirk rising from the corners of my mouth, then pulled it out with a dramatic flair. My lips smacked together breaking the silence, and shattering what was left of her hope with a single “POP!”

“See you in hell!” I sneer playfully.

I kick my black boot into her chest and push her backward until she is staring at the ceiling. A near-perfect balance. Tiffany starts weeping for her life. This is the most honest thing I have ever seen from her. I giggle at the notion that it’s too late to go back now. 

“What a shame, Tiff. There is someone inside of there Afterall.” I emphasize “there” with a final nudge to let her fall to the ground, and turn away to pack up my things.

The crack of her skull against the cement sounded different than I anticipated. It isn’t like the movies, but much softer, duller, and painfully worse. She screams in agony, and her eyes widen with fear or perhaps it is the shock from being concussed. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. Either way, it’s too needy for me, and her cries for help are disgusting. I have to get out of this place. I crumble the receipt and paper bag to the hardware store into a ball and hastily stuff them into my pack. I zip it closed, then climb the dilapidated stairwell to exit the basement back into the woods. I never look back, except to slam the cellar door closed, and to secure it with a rusted lock and chain. Her cries for help are eventually swallowed by the forest, as I quickly put distance between us, then waltz back into my junior prom ready to commemorate the night. I think tonight I will ask Mason to slow dance. He is after all, single now. 

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

When we were young, we were immortal. Always eager to try something new, even if it was dangerous or could kill us. We lived our lives with an unmatched vibrancy only equal to each other: fearless, carefree, and inquisitive. We had an entire life ahead of us. We were untouchable—a rat pack, born together, never leaving each other’s sides except to chase our dreams, and we always had each other’s backs except when we slept.

Heath, the most musically talented of us, shared a room with Sigmund, who should have been an engineer with his gifts of foresight and planning. Tasha, our only sister, self-appointed stylist, and inspiring chef, shared her room with Samuel, who hated his first name, and after many years of badgering us about it eventually forced us to call him S. He was the most sensitive of the pack, and the most allergy stricken. He spent most of his early summers avoiding the outside during peak pollen season, which dampened it for all of us, but with the advent of better medication, he started to venture out as we grew up. Then there was I, Touré, the one who avoided wool, hated handshakes but longed for a hug from time to time. I had my room, and kind of preferred it that way, as I needed more space than the rest of them to grow and to feel. I was deeply complicated, but more emotionally mature than the others, and when push came to shove, I easily had the thickest skin of the group. I kept all of us together throughout the good times, but especially the difficult ones. Even during the Great White Hurricane in the winter of '88 when I lost a part of myself to frostbite, it was I who kept everyone relaxed in the hospital despite the excruciating pain of losing two and a half fingers.

We grew up differently than most, and I am grateful for it. I want to say that we were lucky, yet I never did feel the asphalt of a public schoolyard, so the conclusiveness in such a statement would be simply negligent. I can say that growing up attending school from home, had many perks, most of which would have never been available with a free education from the state. We taught ourselves many days when our parents were away. Our substitute was the forest. Many of our classroom hours were spent outside on the grass, and in the leaves, among the wildest parts of life, where we learned about the trees and the insects. We learned about ourselves. The woods stirred up our imaginations into a whirlwind of bursting creativity, untamed wonder, and unmatchable confidence.

Heath enjoyed listening to the birds every morning until lunch while Tasha ate every berry in sight to ruin hers. Frequently, she left little for the rest of us to enjoy, and the majority that remained were found in the discard pile made up mostly of the poisonous ones Sigmund warned her about. When he was medicated, S, did his best to have a good time for the sake of the group and eventually grew to love the flowers. He always described his fondness for the delicate fragrances hidden deep in their pedals. His favorite, was a white gardenia because it reminded him of the fresh oranges from Florida, a place he always wanted to visit, but sadly never did. Sigmund was usually on his back observing everything above us. He called out new shapes in the clouds and confirmed the identities of Heath's birds for him when they flew over. He enjoyed making up stories with his unique "cloud characters" that took on impossible odds, covered vast distances, and searched for love in all the right places. Entertained for hours, we never forgot his imaginative stories.

I learned a little differently than the rest. My body became a vessel through which I felt everything inside and out. When the breeze whipped through my hair I was reminded of freedom, and to flow like the wind instead of against it. When a ladybug crawled across my bare feet, I became mindful of how even the tiniest things can make an impressive impact. The rough bark of the oaks that lined our driveway felt like a hardened cloak of armor with a highly important secret to protect. I imagined they hid decades of stories in their creases, and I often wondered what the trees would share, if they could speak. I compared those trees to humans, who similarly have protective layers around them hindering their ability to share their authentic selves. I wondered how the world would be if everyone were more open and honest. My favorite feeling though, was the mountain water from Beaver Creek. I always splashed it into my face whenever we passed through, even when it was its coldest. It was brimming with its trademarked healing powers, always cooling my soul to the bones. I often dreamed of jumping in a lake filled with that same water, and for some reason, I wanted to drink my way through it, while I swam fully submerged, as if I would heal from the inside out or become one with its energy. Those days, when it was simplest when we did not need to care about the dangers of the world around us, and the sun determined our bedtimes, were among the best years of our lives.

It's cliche to say, but we really did grow up fast, continuing to seek all that the world offered up to us, and before we knew it a man’s voice began announcing our names from a clipboard among the few other homeschoolers attending the Class of '77. That day, standing on the football field of the Middlebury Union High School, our black caps were flung high into the sky reaching for Sigmund clouds, and our childhood floated away just like them. It wasn't long before we each ventured out to see the world in our ways with our diplomas tightly gripped in our hands. Like most siblings, we too began spending less time together, as we each chased our separate interests into adulthood.

As usual, our over-achieving sister found her calling first. Tasha was talented in almost everything, but had a particular knack for the ability to decorate, and settled on becoming an interior designer. Though she tried, she never made it to become a top chef, like in the shows she religiously followed, but she will always go down as the top chef of the family. Heath was right behind her with his choice, which wasn't hard for him as he naturally dove headfirst into music. Though he never got famous for it, he had an amazing ear for talent and did very well for himself as a sound mixer and music producer locally. Unlike the others, Sigmund never went to school but attended the university of life in its place. After a few years traveling abroad, he settled on becoming a self-taught photographer with an eye for everything beautiful, especially a girl. He immediately fell in love with his first model, Iris, and they quickly eloped in Paris in the summer of '82. After the wedding, we lost him to her in the first couple of years of their relationship, as she was his entire focus, and had hold of his heart. Then there was S. He developed a nose for solving crimes, and after five years at Norwich University in VT, he graduated with a degree in criminology, and became a police officer immediately after. Despite his younger, more sensitive years, he quickly grew into himself as an audacious bloodhound, and just like Sigmund, but without the girl, he married the force. I took the longest path and perhaps the hardest, but eventually got around to figuring it all out after many soul-searching and somewhat questionable years. I would rather not explain the details, but the spiritual realm reached out and grabbed me one day, and I knew that I was meant to become a massage therapist with plans to later add a yoga instructor to my resume. I started as a spiritual advisor first because I wanted to touch the minds, bodies, and spirits of the whole world. It suited my life perfectly and made me whole. From those early days on we chased our careers, followed our hearts, some of us found love, but we all experienced fulfilling lives. Like all who came before us, and all who would eventually follow behind, the years had piled on, and our clocks ticked closer to midnight in the eldest part of our lives. 

Though we had always kept in touch, usually visiting a couple of times a year for holidays and birthdays, we eventually found ourselves further apart than we had ever imagined. I cannot attest to when, but somewhere along the road of life there was a day of singularity for me. I finally looked over my shoulder to examine where my footsteps had traveled and where they were heading. After a while, I concluded that we were not perpetual beings, but instead, without question we all were heading into the cosmos to each become a tiny new star. That day of reflection came just in time, and because of it, our visits happened more frequently, especially as the five of us soon started fading away. One after another, we began saying goodbye to each other, which was something that had never crossed our minds we would have to endure. Something Sigmund or even S. could not have predicted. We thought we would live forever, we thought we would die together. We never anticipated having to attend each other’s funerals, but we did.

Heath passed first. His death was sudden, but we found out months later, that he was hiding his decline from everyone, and instead had been over-compensating for years. As it is commonplace to say, I wish I had known earlier, so I could have spent more time with him before he left us. In retrospect, he never was a man who wanted special attention, especially for a disability. So, he died his way, and for that, I appreciate and love him more. The next to leave us was Sigmund. A huge surprise again, and a loss that tore the three of us apart the most. He seemed to most invincible to us, and we never truly recovered after his passing. He was such a stable leader in the group, never to complain about the appointed position he had no say in, but he was the one that we all relied upon to help guide us forward and lead the way. Without him, we had lost sight of ourselves, quickly becoming lost. It was only two years later during the peak of the flu season, when I had to bury Tasha and S., myself. It happened within the same month of December. What was once my favorite time of the year had quickly become a month of mourning and pain, and thus stayed that way for every subsequent year after that I survived without them. It seemed to rain all thirty-one days for them as if the world stopped to cry for their loss. I wept an additional thirty-one after realizing my family, my brothers, and my sister were all gone for good.

All that is left, after my siblings have vanished into the ether, is I, an empty shell of a man who is held together by a thick membrane of connective tissue, loose skin, and faint memories helping to glue everything in place. My bedsheets have me wrapped into a tightly wound death burrito with an extra layer of expired meat, soggy lettuce, and no Picante sauce inside. Each day, I long for the soft touches of the hospice nurse during her hourly rounds. It's the only touch I have left. I don't know her name, but I know she hums a special tune that makes my skin dance a little longer. It reminds me of Heath and his melodies and I find pleasure in the warmth it brings me. I have no one else to share my life with, nor stories to burden onto them in hopes they would learn a valuable lesson or never forget the life that my siblings and I had lived. I realize now that when I used to observe old people talking so much about their lives, they were reliving their favorite memories, but they also were trying to preserve them in someone's mind, so after they pass they hopefully would be remembered for just one more day.

My engine is on idle, and my exhaust fumes are creeping heavily throughout the room. I know the oxygen will eventually displace from here leaving only toxic fumes, but I would never know when it happens. So, I wait. I lay here as fearless as I once was, as we all were so long ago, and I am left only with the feelings of what my memories used to be. Without knowing what lies beyond that closed door that awaits my turning hand, I eagerly invite what will soon be the final chapter of my life, death. As if it is the final song in my concerto of life, the sold-out crowd of thousands of hairs on my skin reach up like extended arms, eagerly rising to meet the distant echoes of my siblings who sing beside me on the same stage. Their voices vibrate intensely through my body. I know they are here, and a calmness fills me. I grin with hope. The rat pack will soon be whole again. Their presence invites me onward; to leave my vessel; They soothe me as I begin the same journey they did. Similar to S.'s flowers wilting after an autumn frost; my hairs wither and flatten while my body's warmth radiates out of me. I begin to close our book of life for good, with me as the final chapter, who wrote the last words, and I place my author signature on the inside cover, for someone else to read.

I remember my kin, for they were so many things and so many experiences, and they lived with such a vibrant love for the world around us. Remember Heath for his beautiful tunes on the balcony during the summers overlooking the lake. Remember Sigmund for all of his wild quests he took his characters on, and how he was gracious enough to let us come along for the ride. Remember Tasha for she filled our hearts and our stomachs with every part of her very soul. Remember Samuel for his sensitive side, and the poems that explained it, especially when he read them to us on the days we couldn't go out because of his allergy "condition." Finally, remember me, the one who had felt the entirety of a lifetime, and barred the scars to prove it. I can only hope that I touched the lives of many, healed the hearts of a few, and inspired at least one.

I, Touré was the last of us.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I often daydream when I’m alone. Today is no different…

It’s the same every time. I find myself floating above the ground, not too high where if I’d fall it’d be an instant death, but just high enough where I acquire a new perspective on life. I hide among the trees to observe the silence found within the woods. The bluebirds share a morning bath while gossiping, Creekside. A few of them shiver off the excess water in a beautiful display—the mist catches the sunrise glow. A scurry of squirrels darts out from their home for a brisk jog deeper into the forest eventually disappearing behind the hemlocks. A wandering doe with her fawn pass beneath me forging for acorns under fresh oak leaves—their favorite autumn snack. I’m at peace, not alone, but in a land where nothing matters besides natural instincts and survival, and I’m without her—A fresh breath that I can learn to live with.

This cigarette isn’t going to light itself. I strike a match. The new tobacco hisses like a meddling serpent offering me an indescribable bliss I haven’t felt in twenty-two years. I slump against the boulder I just wrestled into place deserving a moment for myself, but I take three instead ignoring the dull thuds heard from below. The backward curiosity of your playful tone turning to agonizing pleas after you’ve realized I closed the doors on you for good, is priceless. Your voice reverberates utter fear within the tomb I built just for you—a melody so perfect, I think of scales lifting off the pages and the notes reoccurring forever in the most elegant loop pirouetting across the undertaker's dream; my dream. This wasn’t the trip you thought it was, I suppose you know that now. We’ve been nearing the end of days for some time and you were oblivious, never taking the hints I was unhappy or needing to talk. When you expel hate’s last breath out from your dried-up lips, I’ll sip it down like an aged bourbon on the rocks, savoring every cubic foot until all that is useful is absorbed, then provide myself a toast to many years to come, while you gasp and choke trying to count the minutes till darkness.

Only then will I carry on telling an alternate truth to the ones I know will miss you. I’ll say, you died “naturally” in the woods on a hike somewhere in the Alaskan bush, and a large brown predator pulled you away from me forever. Oh, what a shame I shall express with salted sobs. She was my only love. It was a heartbreaking, unexpected loss that I’ll never recover from. My distraught wrist bends toward a sorrowed brow in a telling attempt to sell it.

Oh, and sell it I will because I have unnatural motives you’ll never live to see and while I wait at your doorstep for you to finally quiet down, I ponder where I will travel next in my new life's journey after of course the "mourning period" as any hint of suspicion would be detrimental. I guess it's goodbye my darling, and if I forgot to say it earlier, Happy Anniversary.

I often daydream when I’m alone. Today is no different, except today my dream comes true, and in roughly thirty minutes, I’ll finally be at peace.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Exposed and vulnerable; shedding yesteryear's toxicity; healing. Poison leaching drip by drip, I tremble with anticipation inside myself, encased in my old skin's camouflage, waiting for my metamorphosis to complete. 

“Patience young pupa, for you can be a butterfly, again,” My whisper, echoes off the walls of my chrysalis spilling inspiration into my ears.   

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

It’s funny, that while we wait for eggs and coffee, the entire diner fights tooth and nail to talk over one another. The unbearable screech of their oblivious voices inflicts horror inside my anxiety-ridden mind, like a starving dog burdened with fleas. But once food is served and their gaping mouths filled, the morning with my wife can begin. We enjoy our silent gaze in the breaks when they’re chewing, devouring themselves alive like a dying snake eating its tail, and I can’t help but wonder if they are truly cherishing this moment or contemplating the next thing they want to say. 

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Melting together, our hands squeeze tighter. This fusion of molecular chemistry means we truly are becoming one—A promise we made at the altar, but has now been sped up by a foreign leader with a bomb. Layers of skin flake away becoming breeze bound. Our future will follow a similar wind. A new experience is shared, as our insides are slowly revealed to one another for the first time. All insecurities are left aside. Radiation deteriorates flesh, it consumes souls, and our bones are slowly liquefying into a pool of muck at our feet, yet we stand tall and rebellious.

Her ribcage is exposed and her lungs expand rapidly. The last clear thing I see is her beating heart struggling inside her chest. It’s pumping faster to pace with mine, and here I thought it was mine struggling to pace with hers. An extension of life simply upheld by the force of love leads to the compulsion to last another moment. We go on like this for some time while our bodies disintegrate layer by layer; Eyes locked to avoid fear. It’s amazing how beautiful love can be at its strongest—at its rawest. Nothing can stop us with love as our weapon.

My vision is narrowing as our faces begin dripping onto the earth below, but still, I appreciate her smile. It got me through some tough years, and she now strains what’s left of her cheekbones to get me through once more. I pull her in closer—bodies meshing. I too force a smile to calm her nerves, our final rebellion against this meaningless war is at this moment. They can send all they have, and kill us a thousand times over, but they will never break us from what we have between us. We are an alloy of adoration fused forever into a single molecule.      

What once was the life of two darling lovers will soon decay into dust and be wafted into the air to join the rest of the particles drifting through the sky. A cloud forms from the millions of lost souls floating aimlessly to create a storm—only then do we begin our retribution. We return as the fallout stinging with fury upon the skin of the leaders whose egos pressed the buttons from the other side of the world. This is our final assault. They have never captured us. They will never destroy us. We will never be broken and we will rain down our revenge in the form of acid until they too melt into piles of sludge just as we did. 

Humanity will never be the same without our Love. 

It will never be the same without—all Love.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Hours suffered in stagnant air— a chelate glaze collects beneath my trembling legs. I’m numb. My pasty forehead pressed to the crack frantically searching for anyone to flicker past. Nobody! Minutes from final boarding and leaving Mexico seems hopeless while finding fucking toilet paper impossible. I should’ve listened to Mother.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "All Aboard" - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - -

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

In the beginning, I was naïve— too eager to preserve life, too blinded by saving the world, and for centuries I did, but a sanctuary exposes one major flaw, overabundance. Humans multiplied. Cities Overcrowded. Agitation sprouted hate. Hellbent on destroying themselves the planet became their battleground— a war-torn dumpster, forcing many creatures into extinction. I couldn’t save them all. A species that once reveled in enlightenment and face-to-face connection now measures success by “likes” on smartphones— their thumbs replacing mouths.

Humans are pestilent, a malignancy sucking life from its host. I cannot sit by anymore.

I must destroy the disease.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

On the night I danced atop raindrop graves inviting the skies to strike me down, my discarded heart struggled to pace my legs as I twirled to the cadence of thunder. I offered a silent plea to any willing god who’d expunge from me, the damnation of passion forlorn. For my tireless wings had lost their wind making a heartless tomorrow seem inescapable. I yearned to die if living without love was to be my fate. So, I kicked the puddles filling with heaven’s tears flouncing my native dance to mock the storm. My untamed arms flailed the arrogance of a youth’s bravado enticing the pain to be relieved by a single strike. My eyelids fell to meet the end as Zion’s reprisal cut through the shroud of darkness with a firebolt, yet it spared my life leaving me dumbfounded and enraged. I opened my eyes to the stir of birds vacating their limbed perches as they scattered across the horizon anticipating an aftershock—The very rhythm I had been dancing to all night. I continued on like it never happened poking at the growling beast above until…BOOM! With a sudden flash, a message revealed itself atop the grand clock tower—The silhouette of you. You watched over me with an enrapt beauty, and all this time I thought I was alone. My skin flushed without warning, and I no longer beckoned for death’s embrace, but instead sought the passion cemented in your eyes. It was then I longed to receive the warmth retained deep inside your heart and upon meeting each other’s gaze I knew we would chase the shadows of dreams no more—We would live them. 

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

“Flavorless. Without Seasoning. A bland chunk of meat. That’s what I’d be.”

I’ve been through a few things and wouldn’t be myself without them. Instead, I’d be a stranger I've never met—I’d be undercooked ribs attached to the bone.

You could waste time wondering what life would be like without your issues, hell I know I have, but as I did, you may fail to realize you’re still alive and end up pondering forever. You got through all that fucked up shit somehow and found a way to crawl out, so take time to realize it and savor it. I get it, it can be nearly impossible to distinguish whether you are indeed out of it until years after the fact. Perhaps, you chose to be deaf to the wise, hardheaded, and ignorant like me; Blazing your path and hammering through every brick wall you came across when you could have easily just walked around them. Maybe you felt like you were forced to, as you were stuck in first gear chugging through life in survival mode for nearly twenty years; Something you were taught at an early age how to do; How to be a navigator, never the driver. It’s also possible there is a reason never to be understood. Hell, I still don’t know.

For whatever causes got us here, our experiences are who we are now; aged pieces of meat slow-cooked to perfection and nothing to be ignored. What was once, a tough, flavorless slab of flesh just required time and patience to become an Umami masterpiece. Hot off the grill and well rested, let everyone grab a plate. Make sure to add a kiss of motherly alcoholism, a sprinkle of homelessness, and a dash of mental health issues to taste, then finish it off with a few globs of other fattening shit to clog the arteries. Make them grease the corners of their mouths and line their bellies until they are sick.

I would rather be dry-rubbed in my special blend any day than be seasoned like all the rest. So, serve me up until I’m gone, and save the garnish for the weak.

The End

©Chris Sadhill

“I took an oath many years before the bombs started to fall, and so did everyone else, but after the sky burned to the ground, and incinerated all that was around us, the few hundred who stayed behind are the only ones left upholding it. Our call sign is Wagon 29, but we are more popularly nicknamed as “the Bulletproof Crew,” by the other ambulances. Though we are immortalized for going into places that no one else will, we are anything but eternal. We come out alive each time sporting our trademarked “don’t give a fuck” attitudes, and I guess that leaves an impression on people after a while, but it isn’t hard. We just have a “More action, less talking” outlook. We bottle that shit up, only to spit it back out at the city the next time we go in.”

“Perhaps believing that we are demigods, somehow makes them feel safer. They know we bleed, but they choose to ignore it. This delusional crumb of hope is magical to them and has them thinking, that if ’29 gets home each night, they could too. But if magic does exist, it most certainly wouldn’t be a cute and fuzzy pulled out of a hat, instead it would be a sleight of hand; A lure of cheese for all those field mice scurrying about, trying to find the scraps of life to hold onto just for another day or perhaps another nibble. Those are the ones who die first, because they don’t focus on the right things, and they have all the wrong motives. They-re selfish. The reality is that there is no hope strong enough to bring anyone home, not me, not you, and there certainly is no special wand to save your ass. Many more are gonna die, it’s a fact. There are piles of bodies lining those streets from those who already have, and every day they get higher. You have to accept the inevitable out here. Maybe today, a little girl with a 9mm pick you off while you are trying to resuscitate her mother, maybe it will happen in a week. Maybe next year. We all do eventually, but the quicker you realize that the quicker you can focus on the oath and not the other shit. That’s when real work gets done, and that’s when you become idolized like us.”

“The district already lost two guys this week in the suburbs just outside the city. One, was on the interstate heading back to the station. He was taken out by an alcoholic with a rifle who was just fucking around. The god-damned asshole was using the ambulance for target practice while putting down his toilet wine. The other nicknamed “Tommy Gun,” from Wagon 47, was self-inflicted before his shift even started. I don’t blame him for it, cause this shit can get to you after a while, but if you’re gonna be on my crew, you gotta get past that emotional bullshit, stop looking at life as life, and humans as humans, then you can get to work without any fear.”

“The difference between them and us was how we look at our patients. Yesterday, Gary Andrews, of 3335 Cherrywood Ave, wasn’t Gary. He was a sucking chest wound that needed constant pressure, a plastic seal, 180cc’s of pure saline, and one hell of a lead foot to save his overdosed ass. They aren’t patients, they’re injuries. They’re body parts that are in the wrong places either needing re-alignment or a lot of fucking staples. You gotta take the human out of humanity nowadays. Too much shit has happened for us to stop and think about it, now.”

I lean over to shake the hands of the recruit sitting next to me, while I casually take my eyes off the road, and loosely steer us down the merge ramp onto the interstate.

“Enough of the pep talk, you ready for this shit kid? I’m Axel by the way, but everyone calls me Ax.”

His eyes were wide and full of uncertainty or regret, or both. He leaned against the door as if he was hoping it would open to save him. I didn’t know if he was more scared of me, or the stories of the city we were soon driving into. With a soft, fresh out of medical camp-nod, he squeaks out.

“Ronnie, sir.” while loosely shaking my hand.

I have seen this look before, and it usually doesn’t end well, but hell we need people, and it takes balls to sign up, so, I will give him that. He gets brownies for the Sir too. I whip out of the merge lane onto the I-30 ramp on a direct path with Dallas. The skies ahead are crimson-black with its usual ongoing fire and thick smoke. The city was just the way I preferred it and the smell of danger was in the air.

“Get your gun ready kid, Today, we got some lives to save!”

As we approach the city at my usual warp speed attempting to avoid as many stray bullets as I can, while the remaining ones ricochet off of us every few minutes, our radio sounds with our first call.

“Wagon 29, Dispatch.”

I reach for the radio, but Ronnie beats me to it. I shoot him a glare to warn him not to fuck it up, but nod with approval to continue on. He lacks confidence, and sounds questionable, but responds correctly; which is exactly how we all started.

“Go for ’29?”

“We got a car accident just off exit forty-five Bravo, southbound on Riverfront. One victim, a female, is approximately thirty-eight years of age. Possible head wound, and other injuries. The caller says she is bleeding badly and does not have much time. Over”

“Copy that, over”

The radio goes silent for a couple of seconds, then sounds on to produce a constant flow of scratchy airwaves, and then clicks off. After a few moments, it comes back on with the dispatcher’s voice again, but distressed.

“Ax?”

I immediately snatch the radio out of Ronnie's hand, slide my fingers onto the side button, and press it in.

“Go for Ax.”

There is a long pause again.

“Ax, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the victim is driving a Blue Colorado, license plate GXT 4598.” The radio clicks off for another moment, giving me time to comprehend the numbers and the description. I twist my head in confusion, while an overwhelming flood of memories and heartache from the last four years rapidly begin to surface. The radio breaks through my thoughts, confirming my best and worst suspicions.

“Ax, I think we just found your wife…and I think she’s dying!”

--My foot welds the gas pedal to the floor.--

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I have lived in the sewers of my mind for as long as I can remember. It’s filthy and dark down here. A bottomless staircase spiraling straight to hell. I call it home. When I descend, there is no railing to hold onto or candelabra to guide me. I’m left clawing the edges as I circle deeper into the catacombs. My fingers become split and swollen from gripping craggy stones, but I’m no rock climber. I struggle with each step slipping as I go. My rent is paid far in advance so I come as I please, no questions asked. Especially since the landlord skipped town last week with all of my cash. Who knows if he’s ever coming back? Most times I am alone, even sitting next to the ones I love. I choke that stale air down only for it to projectile vomit back up. I am left feeling uneasy and disconnected, but yearning for a deeper dive into self-pity. I know nothing of what I want and want nothing of what I have. There is a grunginess to the sewers that leave stains on skin, something that one can’t just scrub off, but it’s real god dammit, and I’d fucking rather have real, than anything else.

At least I can feel real.

The End

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

She hovered over him watching him sleep for the past thirteen minutes, a pile of his soiled clothes resting at her freshly manicured feet. He was soaking in the bathtub that she had drawn for him just before he arrived from an exhausting night at work. She glared down the tip of her nose into his soul, observing each breath rise from his chest, and liberally exiting through his nostrils. She always liked how they flared out at the tips when he was exhausted, like he was this morning; or when he would get out of breath from when they wrestled and he was being goofy; or when he was aroused, which happened less often than it used to. He was peaceful, similar to a sleeping infant. It was reminiscent of when their four-year-old daughter would lay dreaming in her bassinet at the foot of their bed in what seemed only yesterday. She took all of him in, yet behind her composure, she felt anything but peace or love. Her throat swallowed her revenge, while she gripped a pair of un-washed purple panties tightly balled inside of her fist. The other hand yielded a toaster oven that was attached to an extension cord, and plugged into the outlet on the wall. This morning, the only breakfast she would be serving him was soggy toast with no butter.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill 

Sorry, this is unavailable and is being submitted for publication requests.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

IMMEDIATELY AFTER

I hovered over him panting with anger, and bellowed the guttural grunts of my primal rage all over the room. Instantly, I transformed into a dragon, discharging my fiery breath of pent-up frustrations into his prickly pale face. A mist of drool spewed out of my mouth with every dejected howl I belched, and my throat grew raspier with each bark. Though I was fueled by all the absent years of his love for me, I was mostly supercharged by the meat cleaver he had chased after me with only a minute earlier. I was in fact just defending myself. So, on this night, either by my cold-blooded hands or on my own two feet walking out of this place, my choice to become step-fatherless seemed inevitable.

MINUTES BEFORE

I found myself blindsided in the fresh heat of a household disagreement, which was a common way of communicating for my family, but I was not quite sure how this one began. Somehow, I was caught between my mother demanding that I start producing rent, only two weeks after graduation, and my step-father telling me to move out with immediacy. It's not that I didn't foresee having to grow up, pay bills, or start partaking in a society like everyone else, but I had a hard and confusing end to my senior year that I was still mentally recovering from. Two big spoilers; Before the football season even began I had broken my leg, which literally shattered any opportunity for a college scout to see me on the field. Implausible, yes. Impossible, not quite. In ninth grade, I was named Vermont's Best Lineman, and we won State in the same year, though Florida was a different breed of humans, and I was small, there was still a chance for a smaller school to pick me up. Secondly, in the final weeks before graduation, I lost my opportunity for an academic scholarship, mostly due to the fact that my parents neglected to get me properly prepped for S.A.T. Though having been loosely diagnosed with A.D.H.D, which did affect my test-taking abilities, it was mostly a financial issue that was exacerbated by lack of saving anything, the lack of care from my parents, and the failure to see the benefit of investing in their talented son. I in fact was closely a straight-A student, on the honor roll for more quarters than I could remember, and among the top percentile of my class. It certainly wasn't an intelligence thing. I remember my mother's words of wisdom spoken out of the corner of her mouth as she handed me the sixty-two dollar money order for the last possible test that I was able to schedule for the year.

"You got one shot, don't fuck it up!" while she puffed her cigarette, and placed the car abruptly into the park at the school entrance minutes before test time. The weight of my future rested upon my success.

Both of those things could have gotten me out of this place, and both would have prevented this night from happening. I was overwhelmed with anxiety fueled by the stress of abruptly needing to find a home or a job, or both. So, I walked away like I was taught to do by my therapist ten years prior. I found a brief comfort inside my so-called bedroom, which was a walk-in closet inside my parent's room. Her slow-relaxed voice resonated over and over in my head while I attempted to control my breathing and plan my next move. Count to ten. Think before you speak. Create space and allow time before reacting. I knew that going outside would be good for us all, especially me, and listening to music would be relaxing while I went for a walk in a neighborhood park. So, I had a plan. I slammed my feet into my shoes with no time to tie them, then made sure to grab the earbuds off the dresser while hastily shuffling towards my bedroom door, but I was met in the doorway by my step-father yielding a large knife that was intended to chop through bone. Accompanying him was my mother actively fighting him off, and with a strained urgency, instructed me to leave.

Maybe I was in shock from seeing the bright flash of the sharpened metal when the knife caught the light just right, or perhaps the overall excitement from the heightened stress and immediacy of the moment, nevertheless, I continued towards the exit without a reaction and blindly obliged my mothers to request to leave. I brushed passed them unaffected until my hand eventually found its way to the knob, and I began turning it. Even though my back faced them I could feel their animated presence behind me, which re-enforced my need to leave. My awareness of the room had lifted the hairs off my skin in anticipation. Each one was fully erect and standing at attention; Ready for their assignment; Ready for war. My heart thumped inside my chest pumping apprehensiveness throughout my veins, but I continued opening the door knowing that I was only inches away from being safer on the other side. In one moment, all of my efforts to calm and distance myself from the situation were sabotaged as I was struck from behind by a massive blow to my back. I carried enough momentum to slam the door shut with my head, and my survival instincts immediately took over. A six-year flame ignited a wildfire within me. My stepfather and I became entwined into a pretzel of anger, and I speedily salted him with my years of pain-turned-hate.

THE IN-BETWEEN

When someone says they "blacked out" it's hard for another person to comprehend what that really means. I think that our minds protect ourselves, and default into a sort of "survival mode," so that we won't have to deal with the emotional side when we are forced to recollect the horrible events. Maybe there is truth in that, or perhaps we really just blackout in a blind rage, but I don't think it's an absolute thing, and I assume it's not the same for everyone or the same every time; It's circumstantial.

For me, on this night it was a total darkness that infected my sight, my mind, and my heart for short periods of time, and I am left with snippets of silent, black-and-white, time-lapses of going ape-shit crazy. There were moments that I remember pounding his body like one would imagine a silver back to do when protecting its troop; my shirt ripping to shreds over my head with every strike and with every uncontrollable scream. It was the purest of rage that I delivered to him. It was the most honest I had ever been with him since he and my mother met. Unfortunately, it was the most painful of honesty, the kind that actually hurts. Then there are the moments that may never be found, lost in the black hole of hatred, and tumbling through the endless void of my mind's darkness.

AFTER THE AFTER

I gathered any moisture I could find in my mouth, and hocked it into his face with cruel intentions, then dug my elbow deeper into his neck ensuring I would employ more pain. I wanted him to feel my strength; To inflict a sense of humiliation on him. I was empowered, yet still in total fear for my life. I was barely in control, and running on adrenaline, which is not a good combination for a kid who lacked maturity and had nothing to lose. Every vein pumped with the compulsion to end him quickly. I had the capability, and I had the motive. I was compelled to stand up for myself finally, prove I could be a man, and gain the respect any loving son would deserve even if it meant beating it out of him. So there I was, eager to inflict pain on him and watch his life wither away slowly, so that it may match the loneliness that I felt inside. Having the urge to fight to the death was only natural, as men have been doing it for thousands of years, but for whatever reason, that night, I didn't kill him despite having an undeniable justification to do it. Maybe it was my mother pulling and grabbing at me or her constant pleading for my release of his throat. Maybe it was a lesson for me to observe what I am capable of, and where my demons can lead me if left unchecked or they became inflamed. Maybe seeing what a man looks like when he thinks he's going to die or that I am even capable of making someone think or feel that way is what saved his life that night, because when I looked into his eyes, I was afraid, but I was mostly afraid of myself.

I let my grip up just enough to allow air to enter into his lungs, yet maintained most of my weight on his body, to ensure he would stay put. He was frozen in place. His tail was tucked between his legs, and he stared at me with enormous dread, as if he accepted his fate, and knew he was going to die. My spit rolled down his cheek, and onto the carpet as tears pooled into the corner of his eyes. His pupils were dilated and remained that way without fluctuation regardless of the light. The fear on his face was impactful to me, but only in retrospect. As I retell it, I also relive it. With each time, the memory is branded deeper into my soul, and I can assume I will only be relinquished of it, many years from now when I pass on. I will never forget the glossed-over stare he held on me, while he anticipated my next infliction. His eyes seemed to conclude that it would be the last feeling he would ever experience, but it would have been something to experience instead of the raw emptiness that existed in his death. His head was jammed into the carpet and pinned between the couch, and my arm. I straddled his body pressing all my weight onto him, but it was pointless as he stopped struggling almost instantly after our brawl had started. He just laid there like when a dog cowers down showing its belly in surrender. As if he realized he was not the alpha wolf anymore, or that he never really was, yet he was the grown man, and I was only seventeen, fresh out of high school. How was I the stronger one? Why is he cowering to me?

Though I believe I was right for defending myself that night, it's what I did afterward, that bothers me to this day. He deserved his ass-beating, and I would do it again with the same intensity and the same brutality, but taking from him the tiny part of manhood that he had left, destroying the bits of pride that remained within him, and the humiliation that I inflicted after he was already down and had given up, was plain wrong. It was arrogant and destructive. It was a horrendous act of violence against a person's soul. It is saddening to live with. We can all heal from the bruises, the broken ribs, and the concussed head like he did, but it takes a lifetime for some, to mend a broken and battered soul. Even when I remember his glazed eyes staring back at me, I can't help by see a hurt boy staring at a hurt boy, both of whom never healed, never had a real father to look up to, never had time to mature, and both were never taught how to talk about it. In a fucked up twisted kind of way, that day was the moment that I realized, that he and I were more similar than we ever thought. The day that we chiseled in stone a permanent void between us was also the same day that we connected the most, and actually shared our feelings with each other, not with our words or our fists, but instead with both sets of eyes.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Anyone passing by would have me mistaken for dead, but I was just sprawled out on my creeper, underneath an old garbage truck trying to make a living. This particular trash rig was assigned the number eight-one-three. Its route only picked up from the seafood grills around town so the guys in the shop nicknamed it Fish Fry, yet it smelled anything but edible or delicious. To say the rancid stew of sea flesh singed my nostrils would be an understatement. The stench was unspeakable, especially on hot days like this. You never get used to it, but instead, you find a way to deal with it. I’d rather be back in the last truck, which had me ankle-deep in diaper shit and rotting poultry. It wasn’t abnormal to have some kid’s butt bomb filling the gaps of my boots, and while that aroma could break any good man, it was a smell I preferred over truck eight-thirteen.

My collar was sweat-stained and fresh grease was splattered like blood across my clothes. I forced my eyes shut. I was deep in concentration and my fingers helped me see what my eyes could not. My arm was contorted inside an engine attempting to locate a fitting the size of a pencil eraser. The sting of my skin cooking against heated metal quickly guided me to where thought I would find it. I felt the edges of the pump shaft until I came across a familiar grease point, then jammed the needle down its throat. I didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger on the hose and start pumping it in. After a few rounds of puffs and hisses from the air compressor, the monthly lubrication was complete and it was time to get out of there. One down thirty-eight more to go.

Mid-July in Florida is hot enough as it is, but on this day, we were nearing a triple-digit heat wave and my lunch break was just around the corner. I was already on my back, therefore, considering stealing a moment for myself wasn’t much of a stretch. So, I did. I retracted my arm from hell’s taint and tossed the hose at my service truck parked a couple of lengths ahead. I had worked hard enough; I could give a shit about wasting a minute for the city. I closed my eyes for a well-earned rest and rolled onto my side. Eventually, circulation pulsed back into my arm bringing with it the stab of pins and needles we all love to hate. I can’t recall the specifics, but Rush Limbaugh was ranting on about the liberal agenda and how they will destroy our way of life. I was hooked on the cadence of his voice rather than the message that carried from the speakers into my impressionable mind. After a short time, my eyes opened and I began examining the exciting undercarriage of a fifteen-ton compressor truck used for human waste and yesterday’s memories thrown aside.

I guess I was just too focused on the job to notice, but the corner of my eye picked up a movement that made me question if I was dying or just passing out from the heat. Either option was no good, so I jolted my body alert in an attempt to stop the darkness from taking me. I grabbed onto anything above that seemed stable and held on tight as if I could stop death from pulling me under with my bare hands. The movement never subsided. A few moments later and further examinations revealed the ground beneath me was shifting—In fact, it was crawling. I was an inch away from a sea of yellow wiggling in a shadow that stretched the length of the truck. It was then that I noticed the faintest crinkle of tiny legs entering my ears which competed with the slimy squirm of wet bodies against wet bodies rubbing against one another on an asphalt dance floor. It was a maggot rave. A fish fry celebration in the dead heat of summer, and I seemed to be their guest of honor. What a party to observe. I watched the larvae dance for the grease man for some time and came away appreciating the perfect choreography they performed in my presence.

It wasn’t long before I moved onto the next truck, but not before I stopped to catch a bite to eat—A prepacked meal I had prepared the night before.

Chopped Ramen Noodles, shrimp flavored.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Peering out the rusted hole in the trunk, her inquisitive nose lifted to the scent of gasoline. Abby’s father entered her view dripping in her mother’s blood, and lit a match with finality.

The tug on the end of the filament, moments after fresh bait had been secured to your hook. An exhilarating fight between boys versus nature and the appreciation of the need for both to co-exist. 

The late nights munching on, popcorn, cheeseburgers, and fresh-cut fries, while perched on the hood of your parent’s Ford escort; Your faces illuminated by the drive-in screen showing the movies that you now call “Classics” of your childhood.   

The nights of the confusing glow from the sun burning through your eyelids until you finally fall asleep, because daylight savings was in effect, and 9 pm was time to go to bed on a school night.

The first lick of a soft serve crèemee under a scorching sun, mid-day; Chocolate, with chocolate sprinkles, the only way to have it, and no one could tell you otherwise. 

The careless adventures of riding bikes all over town or walking the trails in the Vermont backwoods with your best friend; Building forts, burning wood, and a late curfew that kept us away from home a few more hours, and outside to get in more trouble. 

Collecting loose change, you found on the ground until you had enough to buy a tootsie pop at the local candy store, and hoping it was the one with a star on it so you could redeem a free one. 

The endless weekends are filled with video games and soda stains. Crushing on girls in magazines and recording over songs on blank cassette tapes.

The good times. Perhaps they were among some of the only good times before I watched my best friend, James, ride away in the backseat with his hand pressed on the window like you would see in the movies. My presence in the middle of the street was left empty and friendless. I stood there until the car left my view, and a little longer to confirm if it was a joke. 

It was not.   

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

O, say, can you see by dawn’s early light, that America is the early bird killing the worms? A flag dyed in native blood, and the black men dragged here after, its broad stripes now stretch the globe in the name of democracy, imposing its will with over seven hundred bases scattered like bright stars in an oppressed sky. “In God, we Trust,” painted on the sides of rockets and bombs bursting in the air on foreign soil, proving to our citizens that our flag is still there. The land of the free and the home of the Krispie Kreme’s and Frappuccino’s.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Whether or not this year's family reunion will be scarring me for life is hanging by a thread on Grandma Cecil’s swimsuit top as she stretches over the cooler for another “Natty Daddy.” My fate now relies on the craftsmanship of an underpaid Walmart seamstress who probably hated her job.

The End

©2023 Chris Sadhill

The blood-filled capillaries in his eyes and the surprised expression cemented on his face, indicated he was dead. Despite her third success, Rose was disappointed and remained straddled over his limp torso analyzing the past two minutes. She took in the destruction around her while catching her breath, then released the pressure of the lamp cord off his bulging throat. She sat upright, slamming her hand with frustration into his chest. Her process had improved, but to consider herself a professional, a higher caliber of efficiency was required. Rose grinned. 

Perhaps next time will be the perfect ending to her book. 

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill 

His words were muffled, resonating in her head as she watched him stir her remaining creamer into his pathetic coffee cup, yet she was unphased. This was the thousandth time she had been robbed of her morning sweetener. Unknown to him, a little something was added the night before. This was Dave’s last day.

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill 

She gripped her ticket with angst, carefully surveying the entrance. The doors unlatched, and without hesitation, she entered. Nicole left him for the last time.

Straightening tall, Gregory immediately locks eyes with her and becomes hypnotized by her brilliance as he has many times before. With each meeting, he grows a little more love and appreciation for her beauty, but still fails to generate enough courage to say her name aloud, and alternately maintains a silence of insecurity that resonates with the fearful tone of retaliation from his friends and family. She reproduces his absorbed expression exactly, mirroring it back to him with an eager yet forgiving glow, all the while her eyes withhold the pain of a forbidden reality where she remains nameless and trapped in a lifeless box hanging on the wall, waiting for him to ask her out of it.

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill 

She stood there frozen; door-knob in hand. The other side her assaulter sat. She exhaled vengeance. Her hand decisively turned.

Sam reluctantly left behind his last regarded safe space as his foot propelled him off the school late bus and into an anxiety-filled evening. Taking this specific bus was the only available option for him to catch a ride home each night due to his recent choice to join the school’s football team. A decision for him, that was quickly becoming a regrettable one. The accordion door closed swiftly behind him forcing an air-tight seal between the security of the bus’s interior, and the cruel fall night where he vulnerably stood.

It was as usual this night as it always was. He was very much exhausted from a full day of schoolwork followed by barely surviving another evening practice, which he recently determined was designed to kill him. Sam sighed. He heaved his backpack over his shoulders and turned to face the mile-long hill he was soon to embark on for the last time this week. The wind was ripping through from the west, attempting to pull the dancing trees from their roots, and creating ominous shadows that stretched across the winding road. The spider-like branches creepily scurried out of sight and disappeared into a vortex of darkness that even the moonlight could not seem to penetrate. Sam remained frozen still.

The air brakes on the bus released all of their pressure dispersing a cloud of pebbles and dust into his face. In a flash of familiar faces mixed with a yellow blur flickering across his view, the bus exited down the road rapidly out of sight. Sam’s hands waved a clearing through the dirt cloud that surrounded him, paused, and then dropped them to his side with a dispirited thud. There was no one waiting at the foot of the hill, and though he had gotten used to maintaining the lowest of expectations that he would be warmly greeted and lovingly embraced, he still had held onto a bit of hope. 

Unfortunately, the reality that this weekend was starting the same way the last ten before it had, begun fully sinking in, and he had to walk this hill once more this week.

Perhaps he was a burden, or his parents’ decision to make him walk alone was a life lesson he would later learn, whatever their excuse was, the refusal to offer a ride, even once in a while, was rude and unsupported. He hated this hill. He also hated the dark, and this country back-road offered both. It was the worst part about his decision to join the team second only to the physical death that he endured during every practice. Despite the setbacks, Sam regularly reminded himself that this was a calculated attempt to expand his physical and social experiences while also allowing him to escape the alcohol-fueled arguments plaguing his home.

Sam usually diverted speaking of home when asked and mostly avoided the subject altogether. Similar to the others they lived in prior, this dwelling could not be claimed as their own, and for the past five months, they had been squatting on someone else’s land, only to recently move inside just before winter. The Property belonged to a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Hixon, who was a kind nurturing lady and was known to be most loyal to her flowers and garden throughout the year. She remained a dedicated state employee for over 20 years, which was a direct contrast to the personalities and lifestyle of his freeloading parents. The news they had gathered from local neighbors eluded them to believe that she had moved out after a lengthy divorce only a few years prior, and no one had seen either of them since. However long they would live at this house remained to be seen, but Sam concluded that it was far better than the tents that sheltered them over the spring. It's not like he could do anything about it anyway, so he never complained, but morally and ethically it never really settled well in his thoughts.

“Let’s do this,” he said to himself with an encouraging whimper.

Despite getting bulked up for the football season, tonight Sam’s fear of the dark woods and the creatures that lurked within them was not dissuaded, and he stood there as if he was the world's tiniest mouse. Though he was full of paralyzing thoughts, he eventually managed to muster a bit of courage; A combination rooted out of necessity, a growing pain in his stomach, and him channeling his favorite film hero played by Sylvester Stallone. Sam took a deep breath, then exited the edge of the street lights into the darkness that had become his familiar way home.

Like most back roads, the ones in Vermont are reliably unforgiving, usually littered with potholes, loose gravel, and the occasional slippery dirt, thus guaranteeing a bumpy ride and an even more sketchy hike. Thankfully for Sam, on this night, the moon dimly guided his climb to the top whenever it had a chance to peek through the patches of clouds rolling overhead. The wind busted through the bushes and quickly howled across his feet. As if a pack of wolves were nipping at his heels, his pace hurried onward, careful to glance over his shoulder every few steps. Shadows danced over him from the branches above as leaves and twigs snapped off in a winding flurry of chaos. They fell fast and hard into the deep ravine below, but not before beating themselves across Sam’s face. Somehow, he was on their way to their final destination. The branches reached out their monstrous arms seemingly trying to grab at him which surely was as an attempt to pull him into the darkness where he feared he would be lost to the endless depths of the forest, forever. He wasn’t curious enough to learn that fate and instead ducked and dodged around every reaching limb as if his thick lineman legs were that of an agile running back avoiding every tackle to score a game-winning touchdown.

“Almost there,” he whispered to himself.

He stumbled forward, kicking the rocks along the road that he could not see, and attempting to stay upright while muttering pale attempts to build his bravery enough to make it home. His steps grew faster while he began using the energy that his coach demanded he was to leave on the field a few hours earlier. Tonight, he was glad that he had not. Sam’s mind was a mad alchemist fabricating the darkest woodland of evil around him, and causing his jutting eyes to search every direction for the next potential thing that could observably kill him. He twitched with anxiety. A crack of a twig frantically snapped his head to the right. He was in a whirlwind of fear. His footsteps mirrored his heavy breathing, and he tightened his shoulder straps to lessen his body from over-swaying.

“Just get home,” he urged.

The pointless conversation he was having with himself calmed his nerves at best for a few moments but did little to nothing to scare off the increasing hallucinations of the flickering pairs of eyes that stared back at him from behind the trees. They tortured him by keeping their distance. He wondered why they wouldn’t come out from the shadows and just take him alive. It would be easy to end it quickly, yet the monsters that followed him remained there still and motionless as if they were mocking him. A rustle in the bushes flipped him around, forcing him into a backward jog. Being on high alert meant that every shadow was a demon and every sound was a coming attack. Sam began sprinting, and covered a quarter-mile in what seemed under a minute. He was singularly focused on getting home safely, and as quick as his energy would allow until a flickering light began dancing through the trees just ahead of him. His pace slowed as the familiar porch light illuminated through an opening in the woods.

His fear-induced thoughts of the eerie forest, the dreadful trees extending their claws to snatch him, and the howling wind that chased him up the hill, began to recede, yet he realized in actuality that all the perils from the woods, he had just arguably and perceptibly survived, were likely minimal, in comparison to the real darkness that remained hidden from him behind his front door.

Sam stood at the foot of the driveway, and decided to stay a little longer, in the dark…

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill

Three vexed fingers, L-shaped; aimed intently at ignorance. Trigger Pulled; stupidity vanquished. Muzzle blown blissfully.

Karen listened patiently, offering the cheerful smile she had practiced earlier this morning and every day for the past ten years. An eager couple excitedly explained their financials to her while embracing each other’s hands with warm love. She transcribed their information robotically while their words muffled distantly in her mind. She often wondered what it would be like to sit on the other side of this desk as ambitious and happy as her clients, yet week after week she cemented herself into her swiveling armchair as if she was a fixture of the bank. Karen often wondered.

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill 

I arose to the purple hue of an early sunrise flashing across my face. It somehow had sneaked through a tiny opening in my curtains. The warmth on my cheeks contrasted with the chilly gusts of air that my oscillating fan rushed across my legs. I receded them under the covers in protest. The crack of a morning egg on the stove is a familiar sound on a Sunday, and I knew it wasn’t long before my son Ashton, and I would cross paths. Although Blake, my husband, usually intercepted him before he could wake me, as this was my only day to sleep in, it was long overdue for Ashton to get by the guard. Sure enough, as if the breaking of the shell woke him too, the squeaking of my bedroom door seemed to allow enough room for a two-year-old to pass through. I listened for his footsteps as he creepily inched closer, and in preparation closed my eyes to playfully fake a sleeping mom. A tap on my arm from a tiny hand forced me to offer a playful squint to startle the culprit. He always peeks at me with his eyes hovering just above the horizon sporting a yearning expression. I never deny his cuteness. So, as always when he breaks through the front lines of daddy’s defense, I accept him into bed for a pre-breakfast morning snuggle. We slept in until breakfast was served.

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill 

The rope that bound him absorbed Sam’s blood with every attempt to break free. He hadn’t met his captor yet but was certain he knew why he was there. If correct, his wrists wouldn’t be the last things spilling blood. The debt collector entered. A butcher’s apron around his neck.

The End

©2022 Chris Sadhill