When the ax falls, we stand perfectly still, as is expected. We don’t close our eyes. We don’t take a step back to avoid the splatter. We stand off to the side, breathing through our mouths, tasting the stench of chicken shit and sweat. We can hear the chimes of the ice cream truck in the distance. We ignore it. If we were other kids, our bodies would still be wet from sprinklers. If we were other kids, our fingers would still be sticky from watermelon. We are not other kids.

Our grandfather acts as executioner. He is enormous, indomitable, godlike. We know what will happen: the thwack of the ax, the violent jerk of the body, the spray of blood. We know and yet do nothing to warn her – our sister, baby fat still cushioning her cheeks and knees – it is only fair, we think. No one warned us, we think. The day is hot. The sun is high. She is crying. She struggles to hold the squawking bird. We hold our breath. The world shrinks to just this moment, and if we could, we would fold it up and slip it into our pocket, forget it is there. But. We can’t. So, we hold glee and shame tightly in our fists instead. This is the logic of children.

The ax cuts straight through the chicken’s neck, as we knew it would. She doesn’t expect it. She lets go. The chicken runs. She screams. We can’t tell who is chasing who. There is blood on her brand-new sneakers. We bear witness like statues wearing death masks, voiceless.

Years from now, when we have so much to say to each other and yet nothing to say, when we stare down into our grandfather’s lifeless face, when our little sister is turning and walking away, and we want to grab her hand, run out of the church, crying and pulling our hair yet laughing, knocking over tasteful flower arrangements, tearing pages out of hymnals, clawing through yards of black tulle, out the main doors, down the steps, spinning wild-eyed and panting in the parking lot, in the radiant heat, sprinklers on the lawn, ice cream truck in the distance, we won’t, instead we will stand perfectly still, as is expected, returning to our childhood, back into the moments trapped deep in our pocket, where we hold our breath and no one comes to take our hand.

Eventually, the chicken topples over. Our sister collapses, wet-eyed and trembling. Grandfather turns and walks away, ax slung over his shoulder. We stay right where we are, feeling sour and bruised, like rotting apples under a tree. We stand vigil, waiting for her to get up, lock her knees, and dry her tears. Will she have nightmares, we wonder?

We do.
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Rena Willis is a writer and an educator. Her fiction work has appeared in South Florida Poetry Journal, Headland Journal, Five on the Fifth, New Flash Fiction Review and others. She loves new ideas and encourages different perspectives. She teaches creative writing at the Sarah Selecky Writing School. She is also the Founder and Director for an International K-12 school in Costa Rica where her passion for writing and her love for learning intersect. She strives to make a positive difference in her community and in the world. She believes we succeed together.

Artwork by Tyler Haberkorn