The valley was peaceful. Cows lowed, birds twittered and the breeze rustled the leaves of the jacaranda tree, as lilac petals floated to the ground. It was a Sunday, so the little school was closed, no sounds of laughter or awkwardly played musical notes drifted across the road. The ginger cat in the converted church, sat at the door and stared out. Occasionally, a 4WD would thunder through town. Sometimes, one would stop at the little café, grinding to a halt. The bell would tinkle, like glass, then voices would drift around the tiny town.

You could hear the growl of motors approaching long before you could see them. It might have been a tractor, or a helicopter flying low. The growl began it's slow crescendo until it was a roar and the whole valley reverberated with the sound. Then they appeared one by one, two by two, three by three. And the peace was broken.

Dozens of shining metal machines. Scores of leather clad limbs. They rumbled through the town like smoke roils through a chimney, startling the birds, alarming the grazing cattle, causing the ginger cat to skitter and hide under the bed.

They didn't stop in town - they stampeded right through. The sounds of the engines echoed around the valley long after they were gone and then a silence fell. In the café, the owners sprang to life. In an hour, the café would be thumping, pulsing, slammed with orders. Cakes were sliced, coffee was ground, food was prepared. Tables were wiped, glasses polished and cutlery laid out.

The hour swept past on a wave of activity and adrenalin.

The rumble of the motors followed close behind. It was louder this time - as the entire motorcycle club rounded the final corner and began parking along the asphalt street. Some stopping beneath the jacaranda, others before the low metal gates of the school. Bike after bike - lined up like cursive dominoes.

Then the motorcycle club descended on the café. Orders for coffee flew in and for half an hour the machine hissed and ground. Cake was served on delicate floral plates - grasped in big bear hands and eaten with dainty forks on the back deck. Local delicacies were perused and purchased, everything from chutney to lemon curd eventually making it's way back into the saddle bags of the riders.

The valley was filled with laughter and mirth, as riders basked in the sunshine and supped on their coffees and teas.

Finally, they streamed out and their metal machines roared to life. One by one, two by two, three by three, they hit the road and headed back out to the highway. The echoes of the rally were still reverberating through the lush green fields when the café owners closed their doors, smiles on their faces. They loved it when the rallies came to town.

A limp dildo slices through frigid air like a katana. A frayed man wields hardened silicone as guttural desperation tears his throat, spit spewing—the boulevard, a battlefield; his tent, the last fortress. The only thing he owns is surrounded by badges carrying out the mayor’s re-election campaign on Christmas Eve.

The slogan “Clean Streets by 2025” holds firm at sixty-four percent.

The man pivots on one knee, guarding his home, his life—the warthog’s last stand against jackals closing in with gas masks and batons, quotas, and guns. A flashback to the war, the ambush, and the narrow escape that led to the helicopter crash behind enemy lines.

Canisters become mortars. Orange vapor sears his lungs. The sky rains fiery tears as he swings the dick blindly, a crazed Saul of Tarsus.

With nothing to lose, he bares a toothy grimace and gnaws the air. He’s rabid—a street mutt tangled in chain-link, going down biting, fighting just as he did against the Viet Cong, relentlessly.

His knotted, mangy hair floats with the snowflakes caught in the breeze, both suspended in time.

Guns drawn—knee-jerk reactions. The pigs order him to drop his weapon. Their trigger fingers twitch, hungry for a reason to shoot, but somehow, he’s the ticking time bomb, the one who brought soft plastic to a gunfight and must be removed for everyone’s safety.

He holds his ground, threatening them with his floppy dagger. Wide-eyed like Manson, he twirls his martial dance on an asphalt stage. His magic wand casts a spell over a dozen myopic egos too blinded by fresh ink on their paychecks—a mercenary’s wage—to notice his madness, his suffering.

But before he’s sent to the grave, a woman’s voice cuts through the chaos from a fourth-story balcony.

“Enough,” she demands. “Leave that man alone. He’s never hurt nobody…”

The mayor’s soldiers ignore her, preparing to swarm until more neighbors join in. They come to their balconies, spilling into the streets.

“Let Crazy Dave be!” the crowd chants, growing louder. “The streets are his home!”

The mob soon outnumbers the force, standing behind the man swinging and missing, spitting and hissing—He’s a zebra, a unicorn—an untamable horse, oblivious to the neighborhood standing behind him.

“His home is our home!” they chant in unison, stepping forward to mirror Dave’s advances.

The riot shields withdraw.

Dave yowls a battle cry as they retreat, then charges after them. The crowd slips back into their homes, content to let Dave be.

When he returns, he sheathes his sword like a true samurai and checks the perimeter of his tent. He defended his home and rights and fought off the enemy.

Crazy Dave stands tall, proud—invincible.

And that’s the way the town remembers it, the way he remembered it.

In that moment, he protected the entire world. At that moment, he'd won the War.

He was The Phallic Samurai, the warrior who fought off an army with his Last Magic Sword.

End

©2024 Chris Sadhill

The boy watches. He always watches. It’s what he does best.

His father, Jimmy, is slouched at the kitchen table, bottle between his knees, glass in his hand. Bourbon—cheap, dark, a stink that fills the room and seeps into the walls. He drinks the way some men breathe. His eyes are small and mean, but dull from years of this, decades maybe. He’s muttering something about respect, something about how the world used to be different. The boy only half-listens. The words don’t matter. The rhythm does. A lullaby of collapse.

His mother, Carla, is draped over the couch in the next room, barely visible from the boy’s perch in the doorway. A track mark peeks out from the crook of her elbow, fresh and angry. The TV is on but muted, the blue glow making her look waxy. Her breathing is slow, deep, like she’s sleeping underwater. She probably is.

And the boy, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum, absorbing it all like a sponge, like something born to be soaked in it.

Jimmy takes another drink, wipes his mouth with his sleeve. The bottle tips, spills a little on the table. He lets it drip onto the floor.

“Come here,” he says. His voice is rough, like he’s chewing on gravel. The boy hesitates. He knows better than to move too fast or too slow. He gets up, drifts over. Jimmy holds out the glass.

“Try it.”

The boy is eight, maybe nine. Not that it makes a difference. He takes the glass, lifts it, sniffs. He doesn’t wince. He learned that already. He takes a sip. It burns. He swallows anyway.

Jimmy nods like that means something. “See? Makes you strong. Makes you a man.”

The boy sways a little. His body protests, but his mind clings to it, studies it. He’s learning. Everything here is a lesson.

In the living room, Carla shifts, mutters something in her half-sleep. The boy glances at her, then back to his father.

Jimmy laughs, short, sharp. “Don’t end up like your mother.”

The boy doesn’t answer. He stares at the floor, at the stain spreading from the spilled liquor, soaking into the tile, becoming part of the house. The house that has never been just walls and a roof. The house where lessons unfold in ways he can't ignore.

Tomorrow, he will sneak a sip when no one’s looking.

Next week, he will start talking like his father.

Next year, he will hit someone for looking at him wrong.

One day, he may realize where his path began.

But tonight, he drinks.

Let’s call it what it is. This is an assault on chocolate with the goal being its elimination. Nothing more, nothing less. It may sound far-fetched, but I formulated this theory by scrutinizing the rationale behind replacing Valentine’s Day with Friendship Day. Turns out, it doesn’t have anything to do with promoting “friendship.” Or preventing the terminally lonely from having their feelings hurt after being ghosted by Cupid for the umpteenth year in a row. Looking at all the facts, I turned over the final stone and unearthed the culprits behind this scheme.

With or without chocolate, I’ve always been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. When the only measure for a successful celebration is impressing just one other person, what could go wrong? Aiming at a target consisting of a solitary bullseye taking up your whole field of vision increases accuracy by like 100-fold. With minimal effort, who can’t be an Olympic marksman on Valentine’s Day?

And we would be stupid not to pick some random date in the middle of February to express our undying love to whoever is our plus-one at the time. What better way to break up the weeks between New Year’s and Arbor Day?

I also fervently subscribe to Valentine’s Day’s credo: Forced, sentimental materialism is key to a solid relationship. I willingly torpedoed my budget by maxing out my credit card on time-sensitive, overpriced meals along with flowers and spa days and jewelry that will be eaten or tossed or forgotten or pawned (when the relationship comes to its inevitable rocky conclusion). That’s fine.

These tasks were completed in anticipation my “loved one” would monetarily reciprocate in kind. Or God willing, equated The Cheesecake Factory, roses, a mani/pedi and earrings with foreplay, signaling spontaneous coitus. The accumulated receipts were offset by the chance I’d be culminating three and a half minutes of euphoric bliss before Sportscenter started. Six if I thought about the possibility the charges wouldn’t be posted on this month’s Visa’s statement. How is this bad?

The build-up to 2/14 isn’t protracted. That’s a bonus when you’re single. The implication that only couples can enjoy this special occasion isn’t shoved in your face for weeks prior like Christmas or my birthday. And the pain of not being an active participant in a Valentine’s Day lovefest subsides within 23 hours. Chocolates discounted up to 80%, even if in the shape of a heart, are the sutures that close my soul’s deep wounds. At reduced prices, when’s a better time to be Pro-Valentine’s?

It was the bargain-priced chocolate that brought everything into focus. That was the linchpin enabling me to wrap my head around who would benefit from introducing Friendship Day. Since GET RID OF CHOCOLATE couldn’t possibly be the #1 priority on Congress’ “To Do” list, the government was eliminated. There had to be another nefarious force spearheading the quest to abolish Valentine’s Day.

Proponents of Friendship Day would have to reap something from Valentine’s demise. Like all good sleuths, I followed the money which led me directly to Haribo and the Jelly Belly Jelly Company. It’s always the ones you least expect.

Here’s the rationale. Chocolate dominates Valentine’s Day sales. Gummy Bears and Jelly Belly jellybeans are tied for distant second. Destroying Valentine’s Day forces the sugar-craving public to seek other options for placating the milk chocolate monkey on its collective back. GB and JB will Pied Piper the downtrodden right to Friendship Day with its corresponding treats laden with elevated fructose levels. This guerrilla marketing results in a bigger piece of the moolah pie.

Although I’m impressed with the tactics employed, obviously inspired by Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War, I can’t idly sit by while a sinister plan to eradicate the beloved cacao bean is executed. My conscious (and sweet tooth) will not allow such a travesty. I am willing to risk my life or limb by unveiling the perpetrators.

It’s always about the Benjamins. And paper portraits of dead presidents are amassed by either crushing your competition or through a hostile takeover. Both are bad PR. It puts corporate greed in the spotlight and your company in the headlines. However, if a business does not appear to be involved with the competition fading from view, it doesn’t get its hands dirty. Wearing a clean cape of righteousness, it can come to the rescue by filling the void left behind. The company assumes the persona of a confectionary savior to those hurting. A genius Machiavellian strategy.

Corporations don’t want their consumer base to sour if profits skyrocket due to unscrupulous dealings. It needs to be more covert. Sure, the major grocery stores’ CEOs getting nondescript packages containing bits of multi-colored, crushed M&M shell sends a clear message. Such intimidation can even extend to getting Little Debbie and the Keebler Elves pulled from stores. But it’s bad optics.

Loyalists to Quicky, the Nesquik rabbit, will notice when he goes missing. Unvetted blogs pop up, raising awareness of his absence. A GoFundMe page starts. Rumors will swirl that some men in black suits forcibly hippity hopped Q’s furry butt to a cosmetic testing facility operated by Revlon or L’Oreal. That reflects poorly.

Nobody wants to know how many licks from a metal baton it takes to reach the middle of Mr. Owl’s skull. If he had abandoned his Tootsie Pop research when asked, he wouldn’t be tied up in the basement of some Hoboken stash house. He should have accepted the Avian Protection program offer. Now he’s getting fitted for concrete shoes. Could of, would of, should of doesn’t help.

And what about the disappearance of the two lobbyists from Big Chocolate last month? The media glossed over this. The only detail mentioned was they never rendezvoused for a scheduled meeting with their lawyer and the delegation from Lindt. Within two days, the story was buried, found only when scrolling through many pages. Chilling to think those two hard-working men were recipients of what I refer to as the KST (Karen Silkwood Treatment). Highly concerning.

But these tactics are very heavy-handed. Executing them will ensure the FBI will start snooping around. Much better for a business to come across as benevolent and bask in the afterglow of chocolate’s implosion.

And that’s how Friendship Day came about. I now fear Easter is on the chopping block. Someone should alert the Cadbury Bunny.

Why’s this happening? Why am I being chased through a bayou? How did I end up ankle-deep in a foreboding swamp that is inundated with what first appears to be blood but upon closer inspection, is actually salsa? And no matter how hard I try; little forward progress is made. My legs aren’t responding to my panicked demands. Lifting my right foot, I see an oversized boot. Where are my Sketchers?

Growing concerned, I glance behind me. A shrouded figure seemingly floats unimpeded over the red quagmire. Pending doom sets in as the gap closes. Looking for help, I recognize my eighth-grade Spanish teacher among the crowd of gawkers to my left. Why is Mrs. Hernandez shaking her head while holding a gato in her arms? I try screaming for help but can’t formulate words. The ominous presence now looms over me. I frantically gesture for mercy then cower as an arm extends towards my head.

Waking up, I’m sweating. My legs are cocooned in the top sheet. Lying there, reality comes into focus. I take a moment to slow my heart rate. Sooooo, now let’s add enchiladas to the long list of food I can’t eat after 9 p.m.

Existing in this world can feel akin to finding oneself lost in a fever dream. Like drifting at sea, floating in delirium, while simultaneously floundering with increasing certainty. Awaking, yet dreaming. Disoriented and desperate, grasping for something beyond one's current reality. How quickly the years and moments flash by and yet also drag on at the same time. Memories washing away, like waves on a beach dragging sand out to sea, the incessant passing of time that strips away so much of our lives and pulls us closer to eternity. Yet many memories remain, small fragments that cling to the consciousness and make one question their sanity. Am I remembering or imagining? Moments in time that slowly lose their clarity, as fragile as seafoam, eventually dissipating completely. Vanishing into a place just out of reach. These are the pieces of our lives that have shaped us, the people and places, the joys and the losses. Childhood and adulthood, overlapping and clashing- who we once were and what we once knew. Floundering in an ocean of forgetfulness, grasping at the memories ever cherished and seeking to hold to them tightly so that they never slip below the waves and beyond remembrance.

A lady walks down the street with a little girl in tow. She looks at her daughter’s face as it morphs into that of a wolf. Frightened, she lets go of her hand. “What’s wrong, Mummy?”, says the girl. “It’s okay, dear. We just need to get you home soon”, says the lady. They hurry along. The girl runs ahead, then her legs turn into flippers. Her mummy picks her up and shrouds her with her coat.Even then she knows it’s too late. The metamorphosis has taken root earlier than expected. A beam of light shot right through her daughter’s chest into the heavens. Frantically, she ducked into the foliage. She tried to shield her from the rays, nearly smothering her girl in the process. She could feel her body lift underneath her. She was losing her grip on her torso. Screaming hysterically, she dug her heels in but there was no traction. Now it was just her arms she held onto. “Don’t worry, Mummy. I will be back soon” said the girl as droplets of gold ran down her face. As her fingers slipped away, she watched her girl float off towards the sun. “What will you be?”she whispered.

Mrs. Patel’s knees nearly touched her chest as she sat on the miniature blue plastic chair. At the edge of the circle, Logan rocked back and forth on his heels, his hand stretching so high it threatened to detach from his arm. His eyes darted between Mrs. Patel and the construction paper hearts scattered across the tables, mouth twitching with barely contained information.

“Okay, Logan.” She smoothed her skirt, voice soft as a library whisper. “You wanted to tell us about Valentine’s Day?”

Logan’s entire body became a nod, his mop of brown hair flopping in his face. “Uh-huh. It’s all gone.”

Tommy’s mouth dropped open. Maria crushed her paper heart. Zoe stared.

Mrs. Patel’s hand froze mid-reach toward the glue stick bucket. “Gone?“

“Yeah.” Logan bounced on his toes. “Daddy says we can’t do it no more ’cause it makes people sad.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Mrs. Patel’s mind raced to process this proclamation, delivered with all the gravity of a breaking news report before snack time.

She leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath. “Makes people sad?”

Logan’s face scrunched up, his lower lip jutting out. His fingers twisted the hem of his dinosaur t-shirt. “Like... like when Tommy has a cookie? And I don’t got one? And my tummy feels all yucky looking at his cookie?”

Mrs. Patel’s chin dipped slowly. “Like snack time?”

“Yeah!” Logan’s arms waved everywhere. “But it’s hearts and stuff!” His fingers spread wide, then squeezed tight. “Some kids get lots and lots of hearts, and some kids don’t get any, and they cry and get mad and stuff. So now we got Friendship Day instead!”

The only sound was the gentle whir of the classroom hamster wheel.

Ethan’s eyebrows squished together, his crayon stopping. “But... but my mommy and daddy still do Valentine’s.”

Logan shrugged his shoulders. “That’s okay. Like... like...” His face pinched. “Like how some people got fish and some people got dogs. And both is okay.”

Mrs. Patel’s teeth caught her lower lip, her head tilting to one side.

She cleared her throat, voice climbing an octave. “So what do you do on Friendship Day?”

Logan jumped up and down. “It’s super cool! You pick your bestest friend and give them a hug! No yucky kissing—” he stuck out his tongue, and giggles erupted around the circle “—or fancy stuff that makes grownups all grumpy. Just friends!”

Mrs. Patel’s fingers drummed against her knee. “That sounds... kind of nice, actually.”

“Yeah!” Logan grinned, showing his missing front tooth. “Daddy says nobody’s sad on Friendship Day ’cause everybody’s got a friend!”

The classroom grew still, like the moment before snow falls. Twenty small faces turned inward, trying to understand.

“Move! That’s MY spot!” Jason lunged forward, both hands shoving Mia.

She toppled sideways onto the carpet.

“Jason!” Mrs. Patel’s voice snapped through the air.

Mia’s chin trembled. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, darkening spots on her pink unicorn sweater.

Mrs. Patel’s eyes found the rainbow-shaped clock. 9:07 AM. One hand reached for the tissue box, the other for the behavior chart. So much for Friendship Day.

So I sat under the old apple tree looking at some strange curved thing like something out of H.R Gigers fevered dream.

The trunk was hollow while the branches bore apples still of the old crab apple variety no good for eating maybe cider.

A bottle of red I found fit perfectly in a hollow branch like it was made for it as the branches gave me shade from the heat of the sun.

I craned my neck and the branches brushed it giving me comfort like an old friend.

This was all I needed right here right now as I sat for hours and hours by the gnarled trunk riddled with holes and still living an ancient thing.

A beautiful thing must have been over a hundred years old.

If it had words to speak perhaps I heard them if I listened carefully not whispers or voice but a communion somewhere in my mind in the hidden places where thought goes.

All sorts of thought entered my mind as I wondered if trees had thought did they think the same as us I sat silently giving my offering to the old tree.

On this strange summers day a thinking.

A dark figure stood in the corner of the room, tall and slender, its eyes dark yet somehow faintly glowing. It stared at Dianna. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic surged through her, a cold wave of terror that left her paralyzed. The shadow smiled a smile so wide it's teeth could be seen even in the darkness of the room. Long thin fingers reached into a tiny ornate sack.

It stood there, watching, eyes burning into her. It slowly removed it's long twisted hand from the sack. It came up to it's face, still grinning that impossible grin, laid one finger against it's mouth with a "shhhh". It then opened it's palm and blew sparkling sand at the bed.

The world shifted. The figure vanished, leaving behind only a lingering sense of dread.

Dianna jolted back up, her heart still pounding, her mind racing. She couldn't shake the feeling, the images, she could sense something still watching her. She kept staring at the corner, she swore she could feel a presence. But she had to let the irrational fear go, let it fade, as all nightmares do, back into the darkness from whence it came.