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.

Fingers gliding

over lacquered Ash,

as a soldier waits

hoping he gets lucky fast.

Losing memories

at the bottom of a glass

he orders another

flaunting his active-duty cash—

a beacon for the piranhas,

but every once in a while,

along comes a shark.

He had a plane to catch

a trigger to pull,

but not before he pulled the trigger

one more night in Chicago.

He was a shooter from the hip

in more ways than one,

and a glutton for punishment

knowing all the right places to find it,

except tonight

the man with a propensity for pain

never saw her coming.

---

She exhaled a silky stream—

a Cross breeze

pushing through the haze.

His shoulders grazed

as sweet vapor wrapped round

to arouse his war-torn face.

He was deeply engaged

with the scarlet woman

from Sixteen and Belmont,

a bitter rival whose red dress

left little to the imagination,

yet despite her blatant promiscuity,

his ears perked with intrigue

at the chance that

the grass on the other side

was greener indeed,

and in one breath

her smoky invitation

arrested his attention

exposing his salacious greed.

Was it a lucky strike

for a woman pushing thirty

or was it her experience

that made the man from Kansas

do a double take?

---

It wasn’t long

before the lady in red

sealed her fate with a fatal flaw

while the Black Mantis stirred her straw.

Ta, Ta…She thought.

Only amateurs excuse themselves

to the powder room

before closing the deal,

and a professional needs little time

to move in for a steal.

She inhaled his vulnerability with poise

and delivered a seductive plume

against his cheek,

a kiss from the Windy City herself,

then returned to sipping her French Seventy-Five.

She’d been playing hard-to-get long enough to know

he’d steal a peek.

Then he stole a peek.

Now, Charles was a gambling man,

and tonight, he thought he’d hedge his bets.

What's the worst that could happen?

Tomorrow, he had a one-way ticket to certain death.

But before the ladybird returned refreshed

the Mantis had him spending his entire check—

he was “All in” on black

and they were gone before Ms. Red ever came back.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Reasons your cat may be a CIA agent:

1. Satellites cannot yet see through roofs therefore we need boots on the ground to report activity—Puss in Boots.

2. It’s important to monitor the declining health of the American people—that way they know when we as a nation have reached a critical mass of morbid obesity, effectively guaranteeing we are incapable of fighting back when they take over. The secret cat agents report monthly.

3. To end the genocide of their feline race, the Ambassador for the International Organization of Feline Affairs (I.O.F.A.)signed a peace treaty with China, to spy on Americans in exchange for the use of chicken and pork in all their meals. They have arrived from overseas as trained double agents working for the CIA under the Morbid Obesity Operation (M.O.O) but really report back to the Chinese Communist Party-run by Xi Jinping.

Reasons the aliens left without bothering:

1. Everything here tastes like chicken.

2. Our butt-holes were becoming too expanded for their probes. Evidence points to enlarged rectums caused by being “fuller of shit” the further we evolve.

3. We’re the trashy inbreeds of the solar system everyone’s afraid to contract diseases from. Better stay away instead of bringing home “the itch.”

Reasons the FDA actually approves of alcohol/ nicotine:

1. Better to be drunk and not remember than sober and aware when the government rams us in the ass. The smoke is for after, to calm the nerves and slow the shakes.

2. If we coat our insides with enough fuel and tar when they finally use their satellite lasers for “Population Control,” we’ll ignite like matches.

3. Cause without them, I wouldn’t have had a childhood.

Excuses to call out of work so you can go fishing:

1. “I’m pregnant.” Guys Only: If they contest, tell them that’s how you identify now and instead you need a day off for your mental health so you can process all their intrusive questioning. For Females: nothing more is needed. It’s a Win, Win, Win!

2. “My child bit me. I’m taking her to the vet to be put down. Also, I may need a rabies shot. I’ll be out the whole day.”

3. “I may or may not have overheard my cat talking on the phone last night to the CIA. I have an appointment with a shrink at eleven.”

Wait… what is that hiding in the corner:

1. Meth Grandma. She’s usually okay as long as she gets to smoke every few hours. Just keep an eye on her for when she starts getting twitchy.

2. “Well kid,” as ashes fall from her face and her half-smoked Virginia Slim “Those are your hopes and dreams.” my mother takes a swig from her jug of Rhine wine and passes out on the living room floor.

3. “Oh, it’s just Lucky, our pet possum. If you’re quiet and remain relatively still, at night, you’ll get to see him come out and eat the cat’s food.”

Ronnie’s at check-out. I’m three back— adrenaline's pumping. Fuck, I hate him— never taking no for an answer. I devise a plan as the line thins. Soon I’m next to be offered the “Kool’aid.” Before the bottle hits the counter—

“—Ollie's card?”

“Nope."

My card's swipe-ready. He excites.

“You want—"

“—No thank you.” I sneer. “Just. Pepper." It’s working!

His eyes roll.

“Oookayy.”

Fuck yeah! Got ’em! Just gotta pay and leave. He turns to the lady behind me.

“Ma’am. Number? You get his points.”

No! What?! She spouts off digits like she won the lottery.

Ronnie got me again!

Purple ribbons wrapped in pink.

Icey kisses grazing cheek.

Asphalt drumming underfoot.

A whitetail alerts the bevy.

Stubborn apples softly swaying.

Blurry blanket loosely hanging.

Gravel quelling underfoot.

A warbler performs her shanty.

Starry pupils fading faster.

Dragons’ breath exhaling vapor.

Acorns grinding underfoot.

A rabbit scampers the gully.

Smokey Mountains blue and grey.

Mindful troubles drift away.

Sandstone scuffing underfoot.

A human inhales life’s privy.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

The runway’s clear

and the echelon

loops back

for the second time;

The first time,

was to calculate

wind speed

and direction

then scan the airstrip

for outliers.

Descending westward

they approach,

first over the treetops,

then above the powerlines,

and before long

they’re buzzing the tower—

my whole porch rattling

as they glide past

swooping broken corn stalks

inches from mud.

The captain in the front

lifts his nose,

tucks his tails for drag

and the rest follow suit.

They apply their brakes in unison

reversing thrust,

and as if guided expertly

by a magnetic field

he lands his crew safely.

It's in these short-term

flight tests

early in the morning,

where the visibility

hangs questionably

in the air

when nature shows you

how insignificant you truly are.

It’s then,

you realize

how much life

goes on around you

and will continue

to go on

without you.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

I fear

I’m projecting my aspirations

onto a backdrop

too wrinkled with time,

where all versions of me,

play across my face at once

skewing my image,

and never revealing a clear picture

of reality.

Everyone eats their

popcorn and Skittles

waiting for a tragedy to unfold,

and I eat right along with them

knowing I've directed this screenplay before

aware of what's coming next.

Hollywood is full of copycats and wannabes.

Am I not just a proxy

wearing a different costume?

Why do I feel I’ve failed

before the opening credits have finished

or feel like an imposter

every time I start something new?

Will this movie ever conclude

or am I just a series of short openers

with no endings until I die?

Who then will write the credits

or will they forever remain blank?

When steel meets pine

false realities will splinter,

revealing the truth in everything,

thus, exposing the lies.

I see you now

you Fake Fuck,

you disillusioned marionette,

thrilled to have that hand jammed

so deep in your ass

you climax

while screaming out

for your AI “daddy.”

Never the writer

but always the receiver,

passing it off

like you stumbled upon greatness,

You Fake Fucking Woodchuck,

I’m on to you!

Mirror mirror

of your own deceit

pound another dishonored medal

into your wooden chest

and pretend to wince

at the hypothesized pain

you assume a “real boy” would endure.

Lean lifelessly against the wall

you puppet,

head cocked,

expression locked,

and useless

without a hand to tickle your taint

and feed you your words,

knowing the blood stains

smeared in the reflection

are hallucinations

of a dishonest mannequin’s pipe dream—

all strings attached

of course.

And when you finally ask

who’s the fairest one of all,

you’ll watch yourself

mouthing someone else’s name

for Alexa doesn’t lie,

because the written coding

designed by some other guy

told you so.

Geppetto should have

thrown you into the mill

and chopped you into scraps

because you’d be more useful as kindling

rather a phony typist

blowing smoke up our asses.

Though, they do say

where there’s smoke…

…but I tend to say Fuck it,

let me light the fire myself.

I’m on to you!

I’ve read you now,

and for a moment

I even championed you,

tipping my Stetson in solidarity,

cheering on an “up-and-comer,”

yet, it was never “You” was it?

You imposter!

How unoriginal of you

to use software to “fit in”

with a group of

living breathing Artists

standing out

solely because

of their unparalleled creativity

and beautiful minds,

forging unique and honest works

you can’t even dream of.

You’re jealous, aren’t you?

Envy leads people to do stupid things,

I get it,

but if you think for one moment

you’re getting away

with using AI

as your “Ghost Writer,”

you can take a hard

left turn

at the corner of Fuck off

and I hope you burn, pussy!

Now that I’ve

run the diagnostics

following your mile-long nose

down the rabbit hole

I’ll stop at nothing

until the wrongs

have been rectified

and we’re cleansed of your kind.

I will personally ensure

you’re exposed

blacklisted,

then shunned,

and dragged through the streets

of every writing community

for the next ten years,

I’m on to you!

Creativity is our religion,

our words form the bible,

and this community is our church,

and you just barged onto our holy ground

instantly making yourself

the antichrist.

Soon, you’ll be

long gone and forgotten

faster than a horse and buggy late

for an Ohioan excommunication

and you’ll burn at the stake

I gored you with

in front of the entire congregation

spitting on your mangled flesh,

while you scream silently

waiting for the words

to talk your way out of it

but they'll never come

because you forgot

you needed a prompt

to speak them.

I’m on to you!

Look at you,

you Fake Fucking woodchuck,

living on your

computer-aided

“Life-Support”

in a horrible attempt

to humanize yourself,

to be more like us,

to feel what it’s like

to have an actual heartbeat,

that has felt the pain of love,

and the grace found in death,

but you know the truth, don’t you?

There is no amount of one’s and zero’s

that’ll ever make you “feel real,”

and now that I’m on to you

I’ll gladly pull the plug for you

and watch you wither away

fading into the shadows

of that woodpile in the corner

where you belong.

I’m on to you!

How well do you sleep

knowing you’ll never measure up

to the authenticity

or vibrancy,

or the pure inventiveness

and explosiveness,

of even the most average artists?

I suspect, not that great!

And if by some miracle

you are sleeping well,

which I hope you’re not,

I vow here and now

to become that neck fat,

that swollen tongue apnea

in the back of your throat,

that suffocating “Hag”

weighing on your chest

ensuring you choke yourself awake

every few moments

back into my living nightmare

exhausting yourself

more and more,

deeper and deeper,

until you’re falling forever

into a reoccurring sickness.

I will be the Krueger of your dreams,

playing your fear as a re-run

for my amusement

leaving you afraid to fall asleep

and with every gasp, you struggle

to pull out of thin air

you’ll be thinking of me.

It's then, you’ll realize without a doubt

I’m onto you.

and you’ll wonder how I know

and how I found out,

but you’ll be too fucking tired

to do anything about it

because I’ll see to it that you’re deprived.

The kind of deprivation

that drives one

into a padded chamber

and all you’ll hear

in your unimaginative,

uninspiring,

Fake Fucking head

will be

I’m onto you!

I’m onto you

I’m onto you

and I’ll be the whispers scratching at your ears

until you choose to leave this precious church

or I until choose to expose you…

I’m onto you!

I’m onto you

I’m onto you

Sleep well you “Fake Fuck.”

Sleep well knowing

that with every written lie you pass off as your own,

your nose will be exposed to greater lengths,

and a woodchuck never chucks wood,

never has and never will,

so be the groundhog you are,

scurry away to make your home elsewhere,

or I’ll dig your new hole myself.

Storms pass,

but many follow,

how frequent

depends on the zip code,

and drowning under the downpour

of an inebrious squall line

inflicts dual sensory loss,

as thunder always confirms lightning.

But the storm passes regardless,

leaving behind

a devastation worse than the last,

forcing you to become

the clean-up-crew

of your own disaster relief

and like every time before

you’ll find yourself

sifting through the rubble,

spiritless and disoriented

hoping to salvage what's left

of the cracked frames,

shattered dreams,

and the memories of better times

when the winds were less turbulent.

Storms pass,

but many follow,

how frequent

depends on the zip code,

so, if you're fed up with living

in Tornado Alley,

change your address.

Seasons change,

much how

eyes can't stay open

forever—

it’s science really,

life happening

between the blinks,

like the dinosaurs.

One day

they’re schlepping

across the same land

you’re now

comfortably standing curbside,

sipping on that Frappuccino,

and worrying about

what some nameless bitch said online

three days ago,

while waiting for your rideshare

just around the corner,

and one day,

they’re gone.

Much like that free pile

melting beneath a ghetto streetlight,

where trash is treasure,

it’s between the flicker

of that short-circuited amber-glow

when you too

will disappear.

Seasons change,

grey skies brighten blue,

months turn to years,

as unprocessed rage boils over,

and love floats away with the clouds

to far-off places

only to become a storm

where others

must learn to take shelter

like you did,

and to them, you bid,

Godspeed,

or farewell.

But as another season approaches

with it comes fresh moisture

to collect in the skies

above your head

so, you can live in the clouds once more

tracing your fingers across

impossible shapes

only to fall in love again,

only to loathe again

like you did the last time

when you begin drowning under

an inescapable typhoon.

Seasons Change.

Lizards the size of busses

devolved to the height of chickens

simply to lay our eggs.

And much like them,

mankind will regress.

In fact,

we’ll likely drive ourselves

to extinction

using our own

world ending “asteroids”

and perhaps,

like the dinosaurs,

devolve into chickens too

so, the next intelligible species

can come along to farm breakfast

out of our asses.

At least we’d be worth something then,

even if it is just nutrients.

Maybe that’s how they feel.

Maybe I should ask one.

Don’t fret though.

Knowing this

shouldn’t discourage you,

but instead

empower you to prioritize

living your life

to the fullest every day

while never giving a fuck

about a million years from now.

because hey,

seasons change.

So, to you

I bid,

Godspeed,

and farewell.

Why not hedge our bets?