Part 1: Old Saloon in a Street of Mud

Drops of rain bounced fiercely off the brim of my knackered old hat, dampening out any chances I had of hearing the crisp steady sounds of Johnny Stud, a young traveling fiddler from Arkansas who happened to be skipping to his upbeat tune inside the saloon I had now stood in front of. After two days of travel, my mouth was dryer than the Texas summers I had experienced as a boy, and tonight I fully intended on drowning myself in the warm clutches of the cheapest Tennessee Hooch they offered, either until I lost consciousness or when the bar keep, Mr. Silverstein, closed the bar doors locking me out for good.

The Gatlinburg mud stained the lower third of my elongated coat splashing against me in a fanfare of thickening muck, and I preferred it that way. I finished hitching my horse and was sure to double wrap the lead, then turned toward the yellow hue illuminating from the windows of the Black Forest Cantina. The end of my night hastily invited me in, however with much control, and no reason to rush, I realigned my lower back. I made sure to adjust my six-shooter while I snapped my waistband back into place and tightened down the straps.

Navigating up the stairs to the saloon I dipped my head underneath the sheet of water converging off the edge of the roof. Each droplet drilled a shallow ditch further into the ground forming along the perimeter of the porch. A wife and her leather-faced husband exited the bar tripping over one another. The man barely kept his legs under himself as most of his weight lay over her shoulders. She struggled to drag him toward his horse, yet somehow remained composed and ladylike in their oddly choreographed shuffle. I nodded to her.

“Ma’am.”

The responding scowl on her face carried the weight of years of embarrassment he must have burdened upon her. I got the feeling this was a regular occurrence, and would be willing to bet he will be sleeping in the barn tonight with the cows, provided she managed to get him home. I sparked up a match, then flicked the remaining ashes off my previously half-smoked cigar, and forced the embers into an orange glow. A strong draw eventually illuminated my tangled beard, and thick musky smoke filled my mouth. I held it in for a moment dropping a shoulder into the porch post. My gaze followed the disorderly couple on their way home, and arguably well on their way to a divorce. I exhaled a cloud of relaxation into the air above me, watching it dissipate similarly to the way their silhouettes faded into the darkness, as they dipped into the shadows behind the general store.

Occasional hoots and yips from the patrons jarred my attention as the drunkards danced and sang to the ditties that Stud played inside. His fiddle stick kissed the strings quickly and witty, but not too complicated to follow, and carried a somewhat repetitive locomotive sound that chugged along and was accompanied by the clashing of the emptied glasses filling the room. It was a lively welcomed contrast to the isolating July monsoon I had just endured, having trampled through the mountains from Hot Springs, sixty miles northeast of here. A good stretch, a warm drink, and maybe a little attention from a widower looking for a few coins, would be all I need to set me up for another few days on my trip to Chattanooga.

With my cigar clenched in my teeth I shook off my coat, kicked any loose mud onto the floorboards, and folded my jacket over my arm. I then pushed my way through the folding doors to enter the Cantina, a regular stop for me when I came through. Somewhere in the corner of the bar, I spotted a stool that was close enough to the alcohol yet offered a view of the room that did not infringe too much on my security. Trust me, when you are in as many bars as I am you appreciate having your back to a corner. I sat down, jamming myself between a balding loud-mouthed fat man, and an unwashed tattered mess of a woman who was passed out in her vomit on the bar. Perhaps surprisingly, it was not the worst place I stopped to have myself a brew.

The inside of the place was well-lit, centering around two large Chandeliers equally spaced above a somewhat-impressive main room, and stretching to the top of a lofted ceiling. The remaining light was accented by enough wall sconces you could lose count of. There were five dedicated gambling tables, three filled with poker players, and two occupied by dedicated blackjack players. Each was scattered among a dozen regular patron tables filled with mainly fur trappers, lumberjacks, and soot-laden miners. Everyone was attempting to strike it big, or at least enough to have a free night of partying. The place was dingy at its cleanest. A haze from the burning tobacco mixed with the gas lanterns on the walls filled the room. A hard-working musk punched through the air and lined the inside of my nose. It was the smell of a strong respectful work ethic combined with a lack of regular bathing. It was my kind of place and my type of town.

Johnny Stud romped his feet in the corner of the main room in unison with his infectious tune. The crowd followed suit. Some tapped their toes, a few nodded their heads, and the rest were slapping their hands to their thighs. They all seemed unknowingly hypnotized by his music as they shared conversations from across their tables. Stud was elevated above the crowd on a single-step stage tightly tucked away in front of a small piano. Reaching tall behind the stage was a staircase leading to an open-lounge loft that towered over the establishment, and accessed a series of rooms along the back perimeter of the upstairs. Roughly a half dozen saloon girls were working hard to get free drinks, attempting to acquire any extra cash however they could. They all pretended to be drunk, flirted robustly, and sat across the laps of what appeared to be wealthy businessmen. An experienced stout woman walked into my view leading a man up to her room, the fifth door from the top of the stairs to the left. They disappeared for a short while, then re-emerged. Their clothing was more frazzled and out of order than when they entered. One had become a little richer, and the other, of clearer mind, but both were satisfied when they parted ways.

My scanning of the room was interrupted by Mr. Silverstein.

“What’ll you have?”

I pulled my gaze away from the room.

“The cheapest dark you got”

He reached under the shelf and fumbled around for a bit, but finally came up with a full bottle, mainly untouched, of an unknown whiskey. His eyes widened with unsure followed by a shrug of his shoulders.

“Just imported from Kentucky, cheapest I got. Double for a nickel?”

I was reluctant, but when I patted my pockets, I was quickly reminded of the lack of funding I had brought with me, and ultimately caved to the inferior alcohol.

“No Choice I reckon. Keep ’em coming.”

Part 2: Dirty, Mangy Dog

A couple of drinks in and the warm welcome of the Kentucky mountains flooded through me. Though not hugely impressive, they made a stronger drink than I had initially assumed. Feeling more relaxed, entirely bold, and a little lucky, I slammed down another nickel.

“Filler ’er up Thomas.”

Mr. Silverstein shot me a stern glance over the top of his glasses while he filled my cup. The edges of his fluffed mustache provoked into a curl and met the bottom of his nose as his lips pruned together into a scowl. He never liked using his first name outside of his tight-knit circle. Hell, I guess I never did either, and knowing that I flourished a rise out of him, I put my hands up, waving them in submission, accompanied by a light-hearted chuckle. I leaned back into my chair choking on my smoke.

“Sorry, Sorry.”

The corner of his mouth curled with a grin slightly while he waved his pointer finger toward the tables.

“Go lose your money on one of those tables or find something to do, you grungy bastard. Just get out of my hair”

He snickered a little, while sauntering to the other end of the bar, and began wiping a disorderly mess left behind by the last rowdy customer. I turned toward the room unsure of which table I would decidedly join.

The room fell quieter than before as the Alabama man stopped playing, yet the patrons maintained a vibration throughout the room engaged in their hearty conversations. The echo of a fiddle being rested against a chair only caught the attention of a few. Then Mr. Stud made a short announcement to the room.

“I’ll be back after a long piss and a much-needed refill.”

A couple of cries in support of his chosen lack of sobriety sounded, while he stepped off the stage nodding to the house piano player who walked past him to take his seat at the keys. He started to fill the musical void by playing a local favorite, Maple Leaf Rag.

“You gon do sumtin, or just sit der lookin’ like a foo?” interrupted the loud-mouthed fat man adjacent to me.

He was barely awake, struggling to stay upright, and swaying within the ocean of his alcohol-filled gut. He misted the air around him as he talked as his lazy gut spilled over his unbuttoned pants, and jutted out below his stained shirt. I leaned back to avoid the cloud of spit shooting in every direction. With his current state, I refrained from responding, but I pondered as it had never occurred to me in all my observations that others could be watching me too. Perplexed with this thought, and unsure of how long I had been sitting there staring at the room, I rose out of my seat pushing past the sloppy drunk toward the room.

With a drink in my hand and some money to lose, I sat down at the first available seat that would deal me seven cards, and was lucky enough to have a good view of the stage. Completing the circle at the table among four other men, I threw down a few coins to buy into the next round. I scanned my competition while I got comfortable adjusting my seat. To my left donning a grey vest with matching slacks was a slick and orderly man who rose properly in his chair, and carried himself differently than most others in the room. Even well into his glass of Gin, he spoke with an educated vocabulary, and a sharp tone grabbing the attention of everyone at the table with each word, indicating to me he was either a traveling salesman, a lawyer, or perhaps worse, a politician. To my right sat two other men, both similar in build and age and as filthy as the ground I walked in on. It was apparent they made attempts to wash their faces and hands, but the soot and crud stained their skin regardless, with a dull and dead appearance. It was also evident that they had just come straight from work to be here and I assumed they were spending their entire day’s wages at this table. They could have been railroad workers, but I was certain they were miners, especially from the consistent coughing and occasional black tar that accompanied their spit. Just like many young bucks before them, these two seemed to be friends. They had most likely come from the same small town, working hard to make a little extra coin for their families, before the long treacherous winter came. Sharing a few jokes and joining in some laughs they kept their presence to a minimum.

The fifth man at the table was a bigger man who sat uncomfortably bent with age. He began dealing the cards out for a new round to each of us. His crooked fingers grasped the deck revealing his onset arthritis. Though, he moved more fluidly than one would expect with thickened and twisted knuckles. He managed to keep his head hidden under his tilted hat conveniently casting a shadow over his face. I figured it was his way of disguising his poker tells and creating a sense of mystery for those he played. It worked. Breaking me from my table read, he stopped dealing, and with a sudden poke of his brim, he flicked his hat to the top of his forehead to speak to a saloon server girl passing by. He leaned into the light turning toward the girl which illuminated a long and prominent scar on his cheek. It seemed quite familiar to me. He pointed at his empty glass and groaned out a few gritty words.

“Another one, ma’am.”

He flipped a coin unnecessarily high into the air above her. She followed it as if she was a cat tracking a bird, and snatched it carefully with both hands out of the sky in a similar feline fashion. Though most girls were happy to receive any money they could, her jutting chin followed by an obvious eye-roll suggested a mild irritation, as she walked away. The large gray-haired man turned back to the table passing out the remaining cards to the rest of us, but a shimmering light passed over an unmistakable evil eye. I could not help but glance more than once. I was transfixed; Hypnotized. His distinctive squint was maintained by a raised boney cheek. His scar reached far up his face to meet the bottom of his curled and arched brow. I slowly shifted my weight in suspicion and began opening my jacket. I fumbled through my pocket for a worn-out picture my mother had given to me many years earlier. My arm extended in front of me pumping with anticipation as I squinted for my final confirmation. All the men’s eyes around me shifted from their cards in my direction. In these parts, it was just as unusual to have a photograph in your possession as it was to be interrupting a poker game bizarrely holding one up in front of you. Therefore, I scored two, for oddly capturing the sole focus of the table, on me. In almost perfect coordination with the building pressure, a well-refreshed Johnny Stud entered the stage for his second set of the night. He picked up his fiddle and started in right away, stomping the hardened wooden stage, and sending shockwaves through the floorboards throughout the room. My heartbeat had already been slowly increasing but quickly increased to match his new intensity.

Before my eyes, I had the picture on one side; the old snake of a man in front of me on the other. I held it for some time, but my hand eventually lowered to the table allowing a raw and unblocked view. He stared back at me confused, yet lacked any intimidation or worry.

“You got somethin’ to say, boy?”

The tension had broadened to the rest of the room, and the men at my table all moved away from the anticipated ring of fire about ready to take place. I abruptly stood up tumbling my chair behind me, leaned over the table, and flicked the picture into his chest. I knew without a doubt, that I had just found my father.

Part 3: Growing Up Quick and Mean

Perhaps my father was not of right mind, or a fair amount of alcohol abetted him the night I was born, but without explanation, on November 15th, 1855 I was named after my great-grandmother. Though this is the origin of my pain, my bastard father managed to compound a series of bad decisions when he abandoned my mother and me, only three years later. I was cursed for the rest of my life. He left nothing for us; no money, no food, and certainly no fatherly guidance for a growing young boy. The only thing my daddy ever left us was an old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.

Growing up was quick for me. I became a man without knowing how to be one, and much earlier than most. I fought almost every day learning better how to brawl well before I could ride a horse. It was safe to say if my mother wasn’t dragging me out of the schoolhouse three times in one week, we were having a good week. In the heart of Texas, there was not a place for a boy like me. I challenged everything, especially their all-loving religion often asking myself and others, how a Just God could do this to a boy and still be considered “Just”. A fair answer was never offered nor concluded. We moved a lot, and each town we lived in seemed to mirror the last, a bane for both of us. We were judged everywhere we went, with the fury of the good book knocking us further and further out of the Lone Star state, and causing my mother an enormous amount of torture and pain. It is not good for a woman to be without a man who occupies her house, and she was regularly scolded for not being married. Her anxiety and probably my wild ways eventually led to her failed heart. Without faith, parents, or any friends, I soon became more suppressed from the public eye dipping further into the shadows for many years.

My name and my story traveled from town to town to hide my shame. I worked relentlessly after my mother passed wherever I could wrangle cattle, help in the stables, or brawl in a bar for money. I worked my way all over the south, but eventually ended up in Tennessee, today, in Gatlinburg at this old saloon in a street of mud. The years of pain, the death of a withered and broken mother taken too young, and the hatred for my abandoned youth filled my veins.

Part 4: The Mud, the Blood, and the Beer

My father glanced at the picture briefly, but discarded it onto the floor, effortlessly. He then looked up at me producing a scowl.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

The fury of my entire upbringing blazed inside my body, and I began losing my ability to control myself. My muscles tightened, my fiery blood flushed my neck and face, and my fist hardened into stone as I ground my knuckles into a knot. We were meeting for the first time as grown men, but I knew, he knew, who I was.

“My name is Sue! How do you do?”

I clenched the end of the table promptly tossing it over my left hip into the adjacent crowd and aggressively strode toward him. The glasses of undrunk alcohol smashed onto the ground shattering across the feet of at least eight men, and the undrunk brandy splashed across the breasts of the women who accompanied their laps. The fiddle kept chugging along louder and faster. Most bands would have already bailed at the hint someone was going to fight, but Johnny kept playing hard and rough attempting to distract the crowd, yet he fueled my anger deeper. With a dead eye on my target and driven by only one motivation, a vow that I had made myself many years prior, I ragefully inched my way toward him belting out.

“Now you gonna die!”

He started rising out of his chair toward me as I wound up the iron ball of a fist and thrust the entire pain of my Texas childhood right between his eyes, knocking him back into his chair. The legs instantly buckled under the force of the impact causing him to launch further onto the laps of two men attempting to flee behind him. I surprised myself a little, and even took a second glance at my hand, impressed by the power I had just unleashed. I was confident any man would not have come back from that one, but just as he hit the ground to my surprise, he bounced up toward me faster than I had put him there. The crowd had fully encircled us clapping and yelping, and the honky-tonk was in full swing. The piano player joined Johnny and played along in a tension-building ditty. Women shrieked in the crowd distracting me for the shortest of moments.

“He’s got a knife!”

A shimmer of light from my father’s blade whizzed past my face and easily carved out a piece of my ear. The tip of the blade punched a hole through my hat, launching it off my head. I stumbled backward holding the area where the part of my ear used to be. The warm thickening liquid flowed everywhere; down the side of my face, over my fingers, and began filling my ear canal. We both were bleeding. His blood ran from the middle of his nose and onto the floor. He held his knife out in front of him as he hunkered toward me one slow step at a time. I hopped out of the way as he swung an extended arm toward me. We began to circle the room like caged animals. Another lunge and a miss, but it was much closer than the last. The crowd move along with us but began constricting us like a snake. Within seconds, I found myself backed up against the chair I had thrown earlier. He squared up to me inching forward with a smile on his face, Blood filling the gaps in his teeth. I squared to him eager for another go at that hideous smirk, and in an attempt to dissuade him, stared through his soul as I licked the blood off my hands. Without hesitation, he took two stutter steps to the side, and lunged again toward me, forcing me to duck under his arm. I grabbed the legs of the chair and came up swinging with all my might, meeting the front of his teeth. The wood exploded into more than a hundred splinters showering the crowd with wood dust, blood, and fine bits of teeth debris. We tumbled together off balance. The crowd gasped as the knife became air-born, flipping out of his hand and slamming tip-side down into the floorboards. Patrons began scattering out of the way opening a space for us as we crashed through the entrance doors, and onto the outside porch. We fought and bounced down the dampened stairs, swearing and yelling along the way. The thick muddy street cushioned our landing as we finally came to a stop having gouged a muddy slick in our wake. I was lucky enough to have landed mounted over the top of him.

The rain had not let up since I had first arrived. It showered us with water, washing away some, but not all of our blood. I slammed the side of his head with an open palm, then grabbed him by the throat attempting to squeeze the life out of him. He gulped for air, but instead of fear showing in his eyes, he seemed to invite death in as he fought back. His arms had great strength but even greater reach. He inched them up my arms to my shoulders and converged up to my forehead. He began squeezing my temples until my skull felt like it was going to cave in on itself and then began forcing his calloused thumbs harder and deeper into my eyes. I hollered in discomfort. We both bellowed our warrior grunts back and forth while continuing to inflict a relentless onslaught of pain on each other. The crowd that had followed us out, gathered at the porch. They cheered, clapped, and stomped in glee as if this was the best show they had seen in a decade.

We managed to roll into the steepening street a little further. I started gaining my feet and he punched me in the ribs, knocking me back to the ground. He then attempted the same. I kneed him in the gut, forcing the wind out of his body. We were almost at a stalemate, yet kept fighting to gain control or die. I tried to crawl away from him to gain my balance but he grabbed my legs and pulled his slimy body on top of mine biting a series of holes into the back of my leg. I overcame the agony instantly filling with rage, and twisted around like an alligator’s death roll. I sat up, grabbed his shoulders at the sides, and headbutted him square in the forehead.

I fell backward into the mud, sliding a few feet away, as he rolled a few times in the opposite direction. We were both in a daze, exhausted from combat, and certainly gassed from an enormous intake of alcohol. We slowly paced to our feet, slipping, crawling, and reaching for anything that could help us up. I eventually found my way to the porch steps, and he snaked himself to the watering trough. Before I could fully gain my stance, he got his feet under himself first. He rushed at me, landing a crushing blow to the middle of my back. I fell to my knees. His boot delivered another blow, launching me to my hands, bent over and almost defeated. A final blow to the side of my ribs laid me fully out. I was face down in the mud, covered in blood, and reeking of piss-warm beer. I thought I had learned from past fights, but I certainly underestimated the power and resilience of my enemy tonight. My father leaned against the porch post catching his breath. He spits up a large wad of blood into a puddle at the base of my feet. A piece of his tooth emerged from the quickly dissipating red mess. I would tell you I had fought tougher men, but I really couldn’t remember the last time I did. He kicked like a mule and bit through me like a god-damned crocodile.

We stood there looking at each other with the same stalemated stare, wincing in pain, and both sharing a competitive urgency to win. My breath was heavy, and my chest rose rapidly matching my need for oxygen, yet instead of self-care, I began to rise over my feet. His hand flipped his jacket over the back of his hip revealing his six-shooter, and his palm began grazing the cylinder. I felt then it was one of our last moments, either him or I, and so I went for mine. With more speed, more anger, and sheer will to survive, I pulled mine first. He stood there defeated, finally as I rose my aim at him. He released his grip causing the gun to fall, splashing into the mud below. I held him at gunpoint while I leaned against the railing of the stairs matching his stance. Both of us were steadfast and quiet. I had one arm wrapped across my chest bracing my ribs. In a baffling display of arrogance, or with a cynical sense of humor, my father began to smile down the barrel of my loaded gun.

Part 5: Different Points of View

I was taken aback by his display of happiness in the face of death. I took in the moment while I regained my stance, and shifted my aim. He grunted up another wad of blood, spit to his side, and cleared his throat while he chuckled to himself in defeat.

“Son, when I left your mother and you, I was in a bad place and knew I would do more harm than good for you both. I knew this world was going to be one hell of a ride, and if a young boy was going to make it, he had to grow up tougher than leather, and sharper than nails, especially in Texas. So, I named you after my sweet grandmother, your great-grandmother, Sue.

A few women on the porch awed a tone of forgiveness as they resonated in anticipation for the rest of his speech. They waved their hands rapidly onto their flushed faces and tearing eyes. Some were fortunate enough to hold a fan.

“Now I know you never met her, it was before your time, but she was the strongest mule of a person I knew; Kinda like you is now. I walked out that door before you could ever come to hate me for a thousand other reasons I would rather not re-hash, and I knew that you would be forced to thicken your skin quicker than a flash flood in a Texas drought, or you be killed and eaten alive by the ravenous world around you. It seems to me like that name helped you become one hell of a man.”

A couple of men in the crowd nodded and tipped their hats as they grunted in support, but others shifted around uncomfortably from the sappy tone this father-son fight had turned into.

“I know there is a fire in your belly and your hatred of me has been burning for some time. It shows in how well you fought. You fight with passion; asking questions later, and I respect that. Hell, I would not blame you to kill me now. I certainly gave you a damn good reason to do so, but before you do, I ask you to think about how you came to receive that gravel in your gut, and the spit in your eyes. No matter how horrible I have been to you, and all of the mistakes I have made throughout my useless life, I am still the son of a bitch that named you, Sue.”

The rain was the only thing that broke the silence throughout the crowd. It continued crashing against the beaten and tattered roof. One harsh droplet after another dripped down my head and streamed onto my face. I was speechless. My mind raced to calculate my next move. I stood there still, gripping my gun; sure to keep a bead on my father. The crowd was filled with individual statues, some gaping at the jaw, all motionless. Everyone waited, including me. On one side, I had an unbearable past, solely created by the man in front of me, and my revenge was just on the other side of a bullet. I was angry and seeking relief. On the other side, I had my old man who I never came to know, who stood in front of me alive, mercifully explaining his heart out, and showing me a different side to what I thought I knew all my life. What could I do?

I moved my mouth to speak, but could not formulate words. I got all choked up. He was right, I was a passionate fighter, but that passion could go both ways. I lifted my thumb to the cocked hammer, pulled back, and eased it forward. I lowered my gun and holstered it. My father stood still, but you could tell a sense of relief moved through his body. Tonight, I chose compassion.

“Pa, I reckon we’re gonna need a drink after this one.”

He took a moment, nodding his head in agreeance.

“We sure as hell are, son”

The End

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Too often, our minds become the battlefield for good and evil, quickly turning into ground zero for self-sabotage. It’s a brain parasite, eating away our resilience like piranhas. This illusion of love and self-hate creates an abomination resembling a snake eating its tail—except there’s no rebirth, just the recurrence of resentment and regret. We feast on indulgence and self-deception, lying to our reflection, knowing that this cycle is poisonous. It’s perpetual and agonizing, yet we keep making these revolutions, revisiting the barren wasteland of false hopes, and returning home with nothing but destruction and toxicity, assuming we’ll achieve a different outcome. So, here we are again, ending where we started, in a place that feels uncomfortably familiar—lapping infinity.

Some of us love playing the same song on repeat because it’s our anthem, our identity, all we know. But deep inside, we each want something more...

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'til next time...

Tantric coil—friction.

Ember glow. Thermal ignition.

Tameless firestorm.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you take the time to really look at yourself? To spend a meaningful moment with yourself?

What do you see?

Is it beauty, success, greatness—a future best-selling novelist? Or do you see a monster: unhappy, fearful, a failure? Perhaps a procrastinator, a fraud, a “fatty” undeserving of love and praise, or something else. Maybe it’s a bit of everything.

Maybe you see nothing at all.

And when I say look, I mean peering through those dazed pupils deep into your soul, having an unspoken conversation with yourself. A head check. A state of the YOU-nion with your subconscious.

Be honest. What do you see?

---

I rarely look at myself, but when I do, I see a...

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Helplessness is a dagger, leaving behind the nastiest scars. Its trademark: dual edges, cutting everyone involved and killing them simultaneously, with nothing anybody can do about it. It’s uncalculated, irrational, and sporadic—the worst kind of killer. At least, that’s how it feels when you’re knee-deep in shit, wondering how you’re still alive and struggling to understand your life’s purpose. It’s misery on a plate, and you’re forbidden to leave the table until you’ve swallowed every last bite.

You may feel like you’re stuck in a relationship, drowning in debt, losing your mind, addicted to drugs, or a slave to alcohol. Maybe you’re jobless, carless, homeless, and feeling like a burden to those around you—or yourself. Helplessness is knowing you inevitably need help...

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The inferiority complex is damaging and toxic, and if left unchecked poisonous to the blood. It quickly seeps its way into the brain and tarnishes all of your thoughts and every decision. It destroys your functionality, ruins relationships, and diminishes the potential to achieve the best version of yourself. It affects your self-esteem, self-worth, and self-confidence. It affects your Self and any sense you may have of it. It disorients you and leaves you stranded in the world, never knowing where you belong or where you stand. It acts like an ego and begs you to seek attention through any means possible. It’s narcissistic and its byproduct is the welfare state of mind. But like all things, our perceptions and our reactions those perceptions have drastically different outcomes depending on one’s life experiences and perspectives.

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Here we go. There’s no turning back now. I’ve officially added yet another thing to my “I’ve taken on too much” list and I'm now obligated to entertain you fine folks.

My newsletter is finally here after tons of procrastination, fighting over what to write, and struggling to believe no one will care to read it.

As I write this, I’m still winging it, so expect this thing to transform and progress over time, but regardless of the journey, I appreciate...

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'til next time...

there is no face in the window.

asylum.

a·sy·lum

/əˈsīləm/

noun

1. the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.

shelter or protection from danger.

2. an institution offering shelter and support to people who are mentally ill.

how confidently i announced

that ghosts were nothing more

than figments

of an imaginative (or perhaps deluded)

mind.

$2,000. help wanted.

i thought,

what the hell? why not?

the cameraman never dies.

it never crossed my mind

that the cameraman

could suffer a fate worse than death.

there is no face in the window.

they even provided me a camera;

some fancy gadget

they ordered off of amazon

that claimed to be able to record

the paranormal.

it was heavy. i figured if a ghost came at me,

i'd go down swinging 300 dollars

worth of equipment at their dead face.

we saw nothing.

honestly, as much of a skeptic as i was,

i've always hoped something

(or someone)

would prove me wrong.

as we walked through the hallways,

grainy, dim-lit footage marking our path,

i found myself hoping:

show me something, anything.

we marched along for hours,

with a kid four years younger than me

narrating the scene.

"12:34 p.m., eastern standard time...

no signs of any activity yet. my name is

kevin schumer, i'm here with my crew

and tonight we are joined by..."

he pauses.

"the cameraman," I finish,

which prompts a few uneasy giggles.

yep, that's me,

the eternal watcher.

i see and i record

for posterity.

there is no face in the window.

we were there until four a.m.

our eyelids had grown heavy.

our livestream had exactly one viewer.

perhaps that was why

i felt like i was being watched.

nothing had happened. no doors

had slammed, no windows broken.

we were alone.

yet i could not shake the feeling...

there is no face in the window.

i drove myself home.

headlights lit up the parking lot.

yellow lines. black asphalt.

then darkness again

as i made my way up

three flights of stairs

to my apartment.

my lights refused to turn on.

a power outage? or had my power

been cut?

i did not know. i was too tired to care.

tomorrow, my check would hit

my account

and then i could solve the problem

of late rent.

i laid down,

in nothing but boxer shorts,

awaiting the release of sleep,

and found that

i could not hold my eyes shut.

a feeling was sinking into my spine

like a numbing injection

and i found myself tingling with

some unseen awareness.

i was being watched.

there is no face in the window.

it has been

three weeks

since i had looked outside

that night

to reassure myself

that i was alone.

there is no face in the window.

yet the feeling did not leave.

it only grew.

more and more, i believed

i was hunted. haunted.

there is no face in the window.

each night i check the door,

the closet, the bed, the window—

wait, the window—

tonight,

(one last desperate cry,

the moment before the mind

shatters)

THERE IS NO FACE IN THE WINDOW.

it has followed me home.

now i will follow it home.

to my sanctuary.

to my asylum.

i am the face in the window.

you will feel me watching,

just as i felt it.

when you look outside tonight,

do not trust your eyes. trust

your instincts.

there is a face in the window.

I was home alone when they came. My boys were trekking up Mount Kyanjin Ri in Nepal and I was getting a little staycation. No cooking, minimal cleaning, reading, writing and sleeping without being awakened by earthshaking snores or multiple visits to the bathroom that didn’t coincide with my own.

I always thought I would have a heart attack and die if someone broke into my home in the middle of the night. Alternatively, I saw myself grabbing the surprisingly sharp pocketknife I keep by the bed and shocking said invader with a nicely placed jab to the neck…or wherever my flying fist might land.

I did neither.

It was my third night alone and I was sleeping like a baby when a hand covered my mouth, startling me awake for the seconds it took another set of hands to put pressure on my carotid arteries. At least, I assume that’s what he did. All I know is one second I was ready to bite a hand and scream, the next I was waking up in what appeared to be a one-room cabin. I was laying on a cot, hands and feet bound, while seven men sat watching me.

“I hope you don’t think you can actually get a ransom for me. We own a small business. We don’t have major profits. We pay our bills and have no debt. That’s it. You seriously chose the wrong side of town. You know we live on the blue and pink-collar side of town, right? I mean, you saw our house. What were you thinking?”

I babble when I’m nervous. Needless to say, I was nervous.

“You have been chosen,” said the only un-bearded fellow.

You can imagine where my mind went but all I said was, “Is this some kind of religious thing?”

“No,” replied a different guy.

“Kind of,” said a third.

Right. “What have I been chosen for?”

“To kill us.”

I giggled, also a nervous habit. “Great. Give me a gun and the keys to a car.”

“It is not that simple.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“We were sent here long ago as punishment. We had to live and suffer as you humans…”

“Whoa, what. Wait. You humans? Um, I am sure I don’t really want to know, but, if you are not human, what are you?”

“There is no word for us that you would understand.”

“Fallen angels?” I said, giggling again while my skin had goosebumps and a sheen of sweat.

“More like gods, than the angels that come to your mind.”

“Well, if you are gods, how did you get sent here?”

“We angered the Creator. Our punishment is eternal damnation. Eternal damnation is living and suffering as a human without end. We cannot die.”

“Then how am I supposed to kill you?

“It is the night of the seventh moon in the seventh year of the seventh century since we were relieved of all that made us gods and forced to be but men.”

“Okay.”

“On this night alone, and not again for another seven hundred of your years, the barriers between this plane and ours will open for seven hours – from now until dawn. In that time, if we are killed, we will finally throw off the chains of our earthly imprisonment and return to our true existence.”

“And if I kill you, I get to go home?”

“Yes.”

“So, give me a gun.”

“As I said, it is not that simple.”

“Yeah, I remember. So, what’s the deal?”

“We cannot just let you kill us. We must run away from you, and we have to try not to die. You have to catch us and stab us seven times with this dagger,” the un-bearded one said, pointing to a very pointy knife with a bejeweled handle that I hadn't noticed on the cot next to me.

“Well, I guess you’re stuck here because there is no way I can do that. Have you looked at yourselves lately?” They were seated, but it was obvious they were all in the over six feet, six pack, I eat steak for breakfast and bench-press your mom group.

’While the barriers are down, you will be able to tap into energies and powers you’ve never dreamed of. But you must figure it out on your own or else it would be considered cheating, and we will continue to rot in this hell.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I did.”

“Oy. Anyway, I have never killed anyone, and it is not on my list of things to do. Couldn’t you take me home and get someone else to do it? Why not hire a contract killer or something.”

“We cannot hire someone. That would be cheating.”

“And this isn’t?”

They looked at each other.

“You have been chosen by the Creator.”

“You are fricking kidding me. You must have really pissed him, or her, off.”

“Clearly since we are here.”

“No, I mean, I am the last person in the world to choose to kill someone. Seriously.”

“If you do not kill us, you will die.”

“As I said, last person. I’ve been suicidal since I was 12. Get it over with. Just shoot me now.”

“You do not want to die.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I definitely don’t want to stab seven men.”

“If you do not find and kill at least one of us an hour for the next seven hours, you will lose a finger each hour. If you do not kill us all by dawn, those you have killed will rise as we have ever done these last seven hundred years we have tried to die in the many wars that have plagued the earth, and you will be beheaded – by seven strokes of seven angry immortal men.”

“That sounds horribly painful.”

The only one who hadn’t spoken looked at me with haunted eyes and said, “It is.”

I wasn't certain we were talking about the same thing.

“Fine, I guess I have no choice. Untie me.”

They looked at each other with a sense of hope or dread, not sure which. “You must free yourself. And you must do it without one of your fingers.” As he said this, one moved quickly to flip me on my side and, using something that must have been made for cutting off fingers, he snipped off my pinkie.

I was still screaming when they left the cabin.

I wasted fifteen minutes of the first hour whimpering. Then I started to think. Okay, if the walls are down, so to speak, and those guys were supposedly like gods, I must be able to tap into some powerful energy.

Why would I be chosen? I thought. Well, because it had to be someone who didn’t want to kill, who had a healthy fear of a painful death if not death itself…what else? Maybe also someone who wanted to believe in other worlds and beings or varying layers of existence… who wasn’t power hungry.I suspect someone who sought power would have a field day figuring out what powers he could get tonight and how to hold on to them.

I just wanted to get home so I could see my boys again. I might even take off from work and hop on a plane like they’d wanted.

A half hour had gone by before I thought, so, if the walls are down, on this amalgamated plane, my pinkie is not gone and the bindings on me do not exist.

And it was so.

I took a deep breath. OMG, I thought. I wanted to think myself anywhere but there, but figured I would end up fingerless and headless, so instead, I grabbed the dagger and went out the door. I thought myself into the form of an owl, carrying the dagger in my claws. I flew above the surrounding forest and began my hunt.

I found the first within minutes. I landed in the branch above where he hid, retook a human form and landed a death blow before he knew I was there. And then I added the six to complete the seven stabs.

And yes, I meant “a human form.” Why take my normal, five foot seven, 120-pound form when I could be six foot six carrying two hundred fifty pounds of pure muscle?

I thought myself into owl form and set off to find the other six.

I found all but one within the first three hours, but I hunted all night for the seventh, flying miles of circles around the cabin. I finally flew back to the cabin to rest and think. As I was landing, I saw him through the window. He was sitting, looking at the door, a gun in his hand.

Hmmm, I thought. Either he doesn’t want to go back, or he has to make a good showing.

I flew up to the roof. I heard him speaking.

“I know you are near. I can feel you. You will not be able to kill me, and my brothers will come back, and we will have to stay here. We will take your head and we will have life still. I don’t want to return to the ether. I have grown to love this world. I do not want to leave it.”

Great.

I wondered how to get in the cabin without being seen. Then I thought, why go in the cabin? If there were no air in the cabin, he would suffocate and die. Bingo!

I could hear him choking from my perch on the roof. Within moments, there was silence.

I flew down and peeked in the window. He was on the floor, unmoving. I thought restraints onto his wrists, just in case, and removed the gun from the room. Then I entered, dagger at the ready. As I stabbed him for the seventh and last time, his body faded away or perhaps it was just me, for I found myself standing over my bed in my home. Alone.

The dagger was still in my hand.

To sit in silence is to face oneself. A break in conversation to hear what the other has to say. The other: your feet. The other: your organs. The other: the pain in your back whose cries are stifled by social anxieties each day when you leave the house. A locking door to an empty room, a place of silence. A place of overwhelming complaints, of longings, of terrible, horrible things. To sit in silence is to sit in chaos.

To sit in silence is to reflect into the mirror that is the undistracted heart. When the room floods, what is it that rises to the surface? What sinks? And which will you remember to move to a higher shelf? Do not fret though. The sunken and forgotten with age will become treasure that will be most novel to rediscover. By someone else of course, not you. The next tenant, hypothetical grandchildren, or a sparrow to use for their nest. To sit in silence is to scramble to the top of the trash heap.

To sit in silence is to gaze into the crystal ball you have spent your life creating. To revel and to mourn. To anticipate and predict. To worry and to dread. To sit in silence is to be assured that all is factual that is broadcasted from you and if the forecast is dire, you need to take shelter soon.

To sit in silence is to levitate in a spacious moment. At the counter between customers when the store is empty. On the near-empty bus late at night between stops. On a walk as the battery on your phone finally runs out. To sit in silence is not to sit at all.

To sit in silence is to squirm uncomfortably in your chair, in your clothes, in your skin. To sit in silence is to notice you are physically alone, and to realize the music, the podcasts, the radio are not your friends after all. To sit in silence is to notice silence. To sit in silence is to remember how untethered you are. Levitating, cartwheeling, sleeping, gliding, landing and launching. All you do to feel as though you are going somewhere, reaching something, reaching someone. To watch time pass and feel it pass to always arrive at the same place. To sit in silence is to face oneself.