This moment of silence is just for me.

Cut out of a time when sleep's avoided,

I sit alone.

A bird chirps a song of morning dew,

and sometimes others join in—

A chorus ensues.

The sun has hours to arrive.

Once in a while, the hiss of a car zips through.

Moisture on tires ripping across asphalt

then back to silence.

There’s something in the silence that can’t be engineered.

Because it’s more a feeling than a sound.

There are always sounds, but not always peace.

and peace is everything in a world where there is none.

So, I sit alone and steal this moment for myself,

while you lay and dream of better years,

better days,

or better moments to come.

I wait patiently inviting the sun to peek its curious eyes over that mountain

so when you wake, I can greet you with a peaceful start to your day.

Your smile is worth the deprivation I endured.

I.

that a purple balloon flew outside my window

and i caught the string between my teeth.

then the way that your eyes adjust to the dark,

when you're a little bit nervous,

but i can make you smile.

and you're afraid of spiders, and i of teeth,

but we can pretend we're living a domestic life.

bunk beds and comic books and

you don't eat your peas.

and i laugh when you drop your soda and

spill it all over the table, a sugary pool.

so then bring you back home,

cozy in the night air, enclosed.

five chairs, like you belong, until it's time to go.

II.

that your interests are my interests,

that mine are yours, that we're the same except for some.

except for weddings and apartments and moving boxes.

except for being capable and fun and drunk.

except for not being a child in an adult's skin, like me,

like me, like me.

except we pretend we're kids again anyway,

and i wear a fairy skirt and clip colored pins to my bag.

sometimes i'm anyone because anyone is someone.

III.

that i tell you mundane secrets in the car,

and we scatter across main street like skipping stones,

past candy stores and fuzzy hats and sunglasses for kids.

and the first ride's not enough,

so we go faster.

and there are paint cans and beaded beauties,

and spaceship memories like unheld hands,

because i've been here before.

i didn't get dizzy this time, no one to press me too close.

it didn't rain,

and i didn't miss the memories.

then you drove me home in silence,

with the music just a little too loud.

i lost a pin, i walked in circles, and

some part of me is still screaming, waiting to hit the ground.

No honey drips from lips

It is expelled through clenched teeth

And bleeding gums

While broken fingers

Hunt and peck words

Disavowed to be spoken

A symphony of silence

To tell a story

No one is ready to hear

When someone puts a loaded gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger, the human head opens up like a flower. This flower formation can happen from GSWs to knee-caps and even the groin area, but nothing compares to the head. It’s utterly horrifying to see, but maybe by the time you’re done reading this, you’ll see just how beautifully poetic it can be.

The only reason I know all of this is because I am so privileged to once have had an almost promising career in the medical field, and I was going to eventually specialize in Forensic Pathology after becoming a general surgeon. Fourteen years of schooling sounded like a fucking dream to the nerd I’ve always been. I was the youngest-ever candidate chosen for an exclusive summer program at University Medical when I saw my first and only self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. And just like myself, this person applied and was approved for Full Body Donation—so I was free to do hands-on study of his remains (thank you for your service, Sir).

The first requirements you need for that line of work is a strong stomach and an eager love for the science. However, to keep you there requires a genuine desire to help others. I am an advocate at heart, and the crux of what a pathologist does is give a voice to the voiceless. I’ve always been determined to leave this world in better shape than it was given to me, and this was my way of helping people. Studying those precious former lives under the most phenomenal doctors was by far the best professional experience of my life.

So, of the dozens of autopsies I have taken part in (both in person and through video/photo lecture), one of them, sadly, was this suicide I mentioned. He was a middle-aged male and the cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot into the mouth. It’s not the only suicide I worked on, but definitely the most visually memorable. The pressure a gunshot creates inside this air-tight, fluid-filled compression chamber we carry on our necks forces a human head to open up like the fully-bloomed petals of a lily. Any remaining teeth become forged with pieces of skull and brain because the force and heat of the explosion literally turns any hard matter into the shrapnel of a pressure cooker bomb. Ever observant as I was, they allowed me to remove a tooth I identified that was lodged into one of the petals of the human head flower.

Unfortunately, I never even made it to medical school because life threw too many punches at me at that time [*ba-dum-tee* formerly-abused humor anyone? Eh? Ehh?]. Just joking! I’ve always said, “If I couldn’t laugh at my life, I would’ve fucking killed myself a long ass time ago.” But aside from comedy saving my soul countless times, that suicide case is seared into my amygdala—from the sorrow and duty I felt toward this man and his family, down to the smell of his chewing tobacco still stuck to portions of his gums. Clearly enough to give anyone reservations about that second of bravery it takes to just fucking do it.

This was the case which also piqued my interest in the funeral business. Any Funeral Director/Embalming Specialist who can put that train wreck back together to resemble anything of the man his family and friends love so dearly, oof... to me, that is art of the highest caliber. Only the most skilled specialists in the world can pull that off well. Most families will opt for a closed casket in these cases, and you don’t get a “body funeral” if you’re signed up for Full Body Donation—but I wanted to be the one-of-a-kind talent who not only performed autopsies to the utmost perfection, but could give families their beloved back, looking beautiful, one last time.

Death wasn’t just my calling to help the world… Death was my life’s passion. I might still have a chance at the funeral business someday—that is, if it’s not me who ends up on that cold, stainless steel examination table first. Death has reappeared in my life, in a bad way, and that fucker is lurking ever closer, each day.

The majority of my physical and emotional scars belong to a single bad man who I will soon introduce y’all to in my darkest tale of woe. This man is solely responsible for the loss of my ability to continue my education and accomplish these dreams I once had. I had to plan nonstop for my escape because he was so cunning. And one day, the plan finally fell perfectly into place because he’d given himself a little too much heroin. He was completely zonked out and nodding off so heavily that I simply walked right out the front door. I told him I was off to send a gift to his mom, which he easily took me up on since he’d forgotten her birthday. He let go of my shirt and I slipped away. I escaped nearly 20 years ago, and to this day, he still finds ways to contact me online.

As long as this bad man stays away, I wish him no harm. But the videos he’s been sending me lately are what struck my desire to start writing again. Not only do I need to finally heal this pain once and for all, but I need to document what he did to me (just in case):

1) My beautiful body, gone.

2) My beautiful mind, gone.

3) My beautiful career, gone.

4) My beautiful life, FUCKING GONE.

This bad man has delusions that I will always be his property. I truly feel sorry for him, but I can never forget what he stole from me. How could I? His torture is all over my naked body every time I look in the mirror. The stalking and obsession seems to be growing, and because he was so smart, I can never call the cops on him again (long story).

So, my only choice was to finally agree to have a gun in our home full-time (specifically, when Mister is gone). Thanks to the Traumatic Brain Injury from this bad man, I’ve been a nervous, stuttering klutz ever since—so not only did it kill my once surgeon-steady hands and ballerina grace, naturally, I was always scared to be responsible for my own gun. However, I have too many lives depending on me now. She’s no Colt .45 with a pearl grip, but she’s definitely a stealthy bitch that’s more than willing to do the job. Her name is “Kiddo,” named after Uma Thurman from the Kill Bill films. Pretty fitting, don’t you think? Well, I’m proud of it—proud of my Kiddo ;)

If he ever finds me again, the play-by-play of what would happen is now also seared into my amygdala—from the fear I feel just imagining seeing him again, down to the smell of his black leather combat boots and body odor. I’ll know he’s here, and the memories will all come flooding back:

It took almost 1 decade to escape him for good. It took 2 decades to have the courage just to write about him. It took 3 decades to meet the first kind gentleman in my entire life. It took almost 4 decades from the day I was born to find self-love. He is NOT taking a single thing away from me again.

But this massive man with his roaring voice will surely be black-eyed and screaming at me. I need to remember what matters. I can’t get distracted or crumble into pieces. I need to remember what Mister taught me:

1) Just breathe and focus on your target, not the gun.

2) Keep your arms strong and grip tightly.

3) Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

4) Keep your eyes open, and never shoot to injure (only you can finish it).

If he tries to attack me or step foot into my home, it’s either him… or him. Turns out, I can still contribute to the morgue of my dreams, because Kiddo and I have unfinished business…

*click-click*

1) Heart: for stealing my life’s passion.

2) Lungs: for every time I couldn’t breathe.

3) Dick: for every time he forced me to my knees, screaming.

And just like the first time I escaped his captivity, the last words he ever heard from my beautiful voice, that I still have:

“Shhh it’s okay… go back to sleep…

I’m just going to send your mom some flowers…”

4) MOUTH: for my condolences.

Human Head Flower

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

Based on true events, but no one was harmed writing this story.

My mom and dad took full advantage of the debauchery of the 1970's. In fact, I was told that my mom took acid with my dad at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer concert and a week later she found out she was 8 weeks pregnant will little ol' me. Which explains the bad trip I had in kindergarten (The cow on the Elmer's Glue Paste called me the Walrus. Goo goo g'joob). It also explains my random ability to smell sounds and hear colors.

Some people are born with a legacy. They may have grandpa's ears, mom's smile, and dad's lack of penile length and girth. My legacy? I was born on probation, had a training wheels case of sclerosis, and a copy of, "My First AA Handbook" clutched in my little fist. This was the less than auspicious beginning to my life.

I was raised in a chaotic haze of neglect, meth fumes, and counting the days until the welfare check showed up. Somehow I managed to buck my family's preoccupation with burning out instead of fading away. I did well in school, avoided the criminal justice system, and since I didn't become a connoisseur of meth, I kept a full head of teeth.

Still, you can educate the trailer trash boy and take the trailer trash boy out of the trailer park, but you can never take the trailer trash out of the boy. As such, I have never met a psychotropic medication I didn't have an appropriate diagnosis for. I can still tell you the SNAP benefit (that's food stamps to those who grew up in a nurturing environment where parents had jobs and/or put the needs of their kiddos first) to meth exchange rate. I can tell you the horrors involved in trying to digest gov'ment cheese. If you call it, "Government Cheese" you're either too young to remember this colon blocking government handout or had parents who understood that the refrigerator was for more than Stroh's Lite beer and ketchup packets. Finally, like all my family members, I am extremely fertile meaning that before I had myself neutered for the good of humanity my love lava could impregnate with extreme ease. This fertility can be directly linked to the sad fact (and example of Ma Nature's sick sense of humor) that the least capable humans can crank out kids faster than China can crank out knock-off electronics. Ultimately, this insures that CPS social workers, the welfare department, drug dealers, and those employed in the criminal justice system have total job security. It's our humble gift to you and the economy.

In short, cut me off, take the last donut, or STEAL MY ENERGY DRINK FROM THE BREAKROOM FRIDGE and I will make it my mission to insure that my children both date and procreate with your children. Hope you like Lynyrd Skynyrd, because their music will be featured heavily at your kids and my cum fruit's weddin'! Everybody fucking sing! IF I LEAVE HERE TOMORRRRRROWWWW...

Fortune doesn’t come to those

Ignorant enough to believe that

No one is irreplaceable.

Despite one's greatest efforts

Even the most prestige will suffer the

Ragnarök if one becomes cancer upon the host’s skin.

For cancer must be cut out early to prevent the spread of its fatal disease.

Understanding this sooner will make it easier for everyone.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

TRIGGER WARNING: Sexually explicit and unashamed

Ew, does your asshole have some kind of an STD?

Sorry, that’s just from where he put his cigar out in me.

Ew, why is there a brown mark on your pink pussy?

Sorry, that’s just where I was bit for being fussy.

Um, why are you sitting so strange and formal?

Sorry, I just thought that was the everyday normal.

Um, why would that make you so fearful and sad?

Sorry, I just thought I was in trouble for being bad.

WTF, why can’t you just be more proper and stable?

Sorry, I thought every girl is supposed to love anal.

WTF, who in their right mind has a cum infatuation?

Sorry, that’s just something which feeds my rabid dark elation.

I wish someone could see all the beauty I have inside.

That my scars are merely from what I had to survive.

I close my eyes and pray for someone to save me.

A man who can love damaged goods from actual slavery.

Sweetheart, open your eyes and look at me, you precious jewel.

Mister, are you sure that’s allowed and not against the rules?

Sweetheart, please don’t hide, let me see your gorgeous body.

Mister, are you sure you want something so disfigured and shoddy?

Babygirl, no one has ever loved me the way you can.

Mister, are you sure I’m not just an obsessive fan?

Babygirl, I promise I want you and only you.

Mister, is this a trick or is it really true?

Princess, I love your dark mind, down to your pinky toes.

Mister, you even want my secrets that no one else knows?

Princess, I want all of you because we fit so perfectly.

Mister, are you the puzzle piece made for me, personally?

We discovered shared madness within letters of causerie.

A fine fellow with an aching for my debauchery.

He’ll never be some bullshit definition of Prince Charming.

But to me, this quiet giant is my Gentleman-Dom King.

He loves my wounds and kisses them softly.

He earns my submission no matter how costly.

All my dirtiest deeds are matched to his desires.

When we make love, we light this fucking world on fire.

I was grown by the heartless,

So this body I must dwell.

Now, the Princess of Darkness,

In my own beloved Hell.

These hands, she fills them.

Delicate china,

held by the bull.

Hummingbird feathers

and hollow scrimshaw

decorate the labyrinth,

But she remains unbroken,

bending, instead,

lifting, pulling, pushing us

ever skyward.

The burden too heavy,

clouds too far,

slipping grips and crushing

weights, I fell and I'm fallen.

She moves up,

she moves on,

and I mourn.

I will welcome my Theseus.

There is no peace in this death, no rising sun and fetal hurricane wind to carry my ashes to some new universe.

All I have is an agony so deep that I think perhaps I am the sea. My depths seem so black that there's no color at all in my veins. Even the life pouring out around the swords driven though my spine is dark, dark, dark.

Did I think I had color once? Was my heart as crimson as war? Did my lungs bloom with opium flowers and weeds so green that I called myself mother, and life, and hope? Was my liver a collage of slaughter and roots? Had the back of my eyelids been rainbow colors and spectral ghosts taunting me with a million seeds of the worlds I thought lived in me?

When did I surrender? Was it at the tip of the first sword? Or was it at the bite of the tenth as it ripped out my insides like a monolithic god chewing at the wreckage of a mountain?

Maybe I was born to surrender, to dash myself like a tide on on the cliffside of men and strife. Perhaps this is all there is: weapons and black blood full of the poison I've been swallowing down like the good girl I've been told to be.

But

I

Think

And I think

And I think

I think

I

I am the fetal hurricane and I devoured that rising sun. The pieces of me leaking out are so black, so deep, so fathomless that there is no monolith that can chew on the bones of me.

Of course there is no peace, no color, because every universe is born out of agony and blackness.

****

A daily tarot card writing warm up.

<3

deck is the fountain tarot

Quantum mechanics is spooky, as Einstein said. Of course, he was talking about quantum entanglement, in which a particle, observed, determines the status of the particle to which it is entangled.

It is so much the quantum world for screwdrivers!

I really needed to screw back that access panel under the Jacuzzi. I remember the screws were only hand-fed into their holes and needed professional equipment to see them properly home. A Jacuzzi is a sophisticated machine, so certainly access must be via a panel secured with Phillips screws.

You would think.

I grab my Phillips screwdriver, sitting so tragically RIGHT NEXT to the flathead screwdriver. I walk the hall to the bathroom and stoop the stoop that engenders butt-cracks for chuckling children everywhere. And LO! BEHOLD! The screws are flathead screws!

That's how my screwdriver probability field collapsed. How the quantum cookie crumbled.

THE SCIENCE BEHIND THIS QUOTIDIAN MISSTEP OF LIFE: Once the screwhead type was observed, the probability field containing vacillating realities of flathead vs Phillips collapsed to the entangled screwdriver in the tool chest, half a house away. Thus, I observe the screw in the panels, the screwdriver I needed--left behind in the tool chest complied--and I was cursed with the wrong one. Yes, Schrödinger, your cat is dead.

Or is it? [Meows waft in the æther, somewhere.]

So I walk back to the tool chest to retrieve the correct screwdriver. There it is, in all its flathead eventuality. As it turns out, we ourselves are also quantumly entangled with the things we observe, because quantum mechanics is merciful. By all rights, once I left the vicinity of the Phillips screwhead entanglement, the screwdriver in the toolbox should have collapsed into a different type of driver. Or at the very least, assumed a quasi-status of both flathead and Phillips in simultaneous shimmer, simply awaiting my observation as I reached for it. Thus, I would be damned to a Hell of walking back and forth forever, eternally having the wrong screwdriver.

Why wouldn't you just grab both screwdrivers at the same time? you ask. Because I'm a guy. The Y-chromosome forbids such foresight. It's the same mutated allele that forces me to skip the directions for putting together children's toys Christmas Eve. Or worse, (--wait! nevermind--I have GPS now).

So, I should be damned to a Hell of walking back and forth forever, eternally having the wrong screwdriver. But I wasn't.

Why? Because quantum mechanics strives to get along with us. I had the right screwdriver and walk back to the bathroom and, without any more entanglement, righty-tighty the little fellas home.

So quantum mechanics learned. It established a path of least resistance after just one misstep. Quantum theory says, "Fool me once, shame on me; fool me twice, shame on Einstein." Translated, you're not crazy, you just picked the wrong screwdriver; if you do it again, though, then you are crazy.

I now know the screws in my access panel are just one less thing needed to resolve in my life. Thanks to my inescapable partner in life, the ol' probability cloud that grants me a Mulligan to garner an Attaboy! each second time around. On to the next entanglement I go.

And don't worry about feeding the cat. I think.

Meow.