The Sacrifice
By
Tom Busillo
“Daddy, why are the birds flying upside down?”
He looked up at the sky and saw she was right, which meant only one thing.
He tried not to show any alarm in his voice when he responded, “Maybe you’re the one who’s upside down.”
“Daddy that’s not true.”
He reached down, picked her up, and held her upside down in front of him.
She laughed.
“The birds are flying the right way now,” she said. “But who’s that man in the sky?”
He didn’t have to look up to know who she meant.
The only question now was whether he could save her life.
“He’s in black, but his head is red. He’s dressed like a magician. Is he a magician doing a trick?”
He didn’t know how to respond in a way that wouldn’t frighten her.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, as the unmistakable smell of rotten eggs filled his nostrils.
Soon, he stood before them, causing her father to step in front of her to shield her.
“She has your eyes,” said the goateed, red-faced man.
“Why are you here?”
“Why do I ever come?” he smiled. “To collect more of my debt.”
“I’ve paid my debt and more.”
“Oh John, you say that every time. And yet you know it can never be true.”
“You know this man?” asked his daughter.
Her father, unsure what to say, had the task taken from him.
“Your father and I go way back.” He smiled, revealing a front row of yellowed teeth. “We first met when he was your age.”
“Are you a magician? Or an alien from another planett?”
“Such an inquisitive girl.”
He crouched down to her.
“Let’s just say I’m someone from a different place,”
“If you hurt her, I swear,” warned her father.
“Oh John, I’m not going to hurt her,” he chuckled. “You are.”
#
She cried, shaking her head against the surface of the flat rock where she was tied, the ropes biting into her hands.
“No Daddy! No!”
Her father looked down at her.
“I’m sorry honey. Just close your eyes and count to ten and this will be over soon.”
She kept crying with her eyes wide open.
Her father moved his hand behind his back and soon the blade of a large hunting knife glistened in the morning sun.
“I’m sorry, my little girl,” he said, raising it above his shoulder.
“No! No! Please!” she screamed as her father took a deep breath and quickly brought the knife down toward her heart.
“STOP!” boomed a voice.
She turned her head and saw the red-faced man approaching her father.
“Well done John,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
He turned to the girl lying on the rock, “And someday we’ll meet again.”
#
David turned to his wife, who had suddenly started to sob.
“Honey? Honey, what’s wrong?”
She looked up at him, wiping away the tears from her eyes.
Before she could say a word one of Yellowstone’s famous geysers went off again, the noise causing her to shudder.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Did I do something?”
She looked at him and tried to force a smile.
“No, no. It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “It’s just, well, this smell.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty foul isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it - ” she stopped.
“It what?”
She looked at him, wiping her face again.
“It just reminded me of something,” she said. “Something when I was little, something I just remembered.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, no. It was nothing,” she insisted. “Really.”
He could tell she was lying but didn’t press.
“Well, you know I’m always here.”
She looked hard at him, then blurted it out, unable to keep it in.
“Promise me we’ll never have children.”
“What?”
“Promise me.”
He looked back at his wife, who seemed so vulnerable, and decided to avoid the question.
“We’re twenty-five. We’ve been married a year. I’m still working on my doctorate. You’ve got a promising career,” he rattled off. “Besides, I’m having too much fun just the two of us to change anything right now.”
She hugged and kissed him without a word, then said softly, “Thanks so much.”
As they hugged, her chin resting on his shoulder, she saw a raven fly out of the trees, then bank sharply, almost turning upside down, before going off on its way and leaving them.
Tom Busillo's (he/his) writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Calliope, Dark Harbor, Weird Lit, and elsewhere. He's also the author of the completely unpublishable 2,646-page conceptual poem "Lists Poem," composed of 11,111 nested 10-item lists. He lives in Philadelphia, PA, wth his wife and son.
By
Tom Busillo
“Daddy, why are the birds flying upside down?”
He looked up at the sky and saw she was right, which meant only one thing.
He tried not to show any alarm in his voice when he responded, “Maybe you’re the one who’s upside down.”
“Daddy that’s not true.”
He reached down, picked her up, and held her upside down in front of him.
She laughed.
“The birds are flying the right way now,” she said. “But who’s that man in the sky?”
He didn’t have to look up to know who she meant.
The only question now was whether he could save her life.
“He’s in black, but his head is red. He’s dressed like a magician. Is he a magician doing a trick?”
He didn’t know how to respond in a way that wouldn’t frighten her.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, as the unmistakable smell of rotten eggs filled his nostrils.
Soon, he stood before them, causing her father to step in front of her to shield her.
“She has your eyes,” said the goateed, red-faced man.
“Why are you here?”
“Why do I ever come?” he smiled. “To collect more of my debt.”
“I’ve paid my debt and more.”
“Oh John, you say that every time. And yet you know it can never be true.”
“You know this man?” asked his daughter.
Her father, unsure what to say, had the task taken from him.
“Your father and I go way back.” He smiled, revealing a front row of yellowed teeth. “We first met when he was your age.”
“Are you a magician? Or an alien from another planett?”
“Such an inquisitive girl.”
He crouched down to her.
“Let’s just say I’m someone from a different place,”
“If you hurt her, I swear,” warned her father.
“Oh John, I’m not going to hurt her,” he chuckled. “You are.”
#
She cried, shaking her head against the surface of the flat rock where she was tied, the ropes biting into her hands.
“No Daddy! No!”
Her father looked down at her.
“I’m sorry honey. Just close your eyes and count to ten and this will be over soon.”
She kept crying with her eyes wide open.
Her father moved his hand behind his back and soon the blade of a large hunting knife glistened in the morning sun.
“I’m sorry, my little girl,” he said, raising it above his shoulder.
“No! No! Please!” she screamed as her father took a deep breath and quickly brought the knife down toward her heart.
“STOP!” boomed a voice.
She turned her head and saw the red-faced man approaching her father.
“Well done John,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
He turned to the girl lying on the rock, “And someday we’ll meet again.”
#
David turned to his wife, who had suddenly started to sob.
“Honey? Honey, what’s wrong?”
She looked up at him, wiping away the tears from her eyes.
Before she could say a word one of Yellowstone’s famous geysers went off again, the noise causing her to shudder.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Did I do something?”
She looked at him and tried to force a smile.
“No, no. It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “It’s just, well, this smell.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty foul isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it - ” she stopped.
“It what?”
She looked at him, wiping her face again.
“It just reminded me of something,” she said. “Something when I was little, something I just remembered.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, no. It was nothing,” she insisted. “Really.”
He could tell she was lying but didn’t press.
“Well, you know I’m always here.”
She looked hard at him, then blurted it out, unable to keep it in.
“Promise me we’ll never have children.”
“What?”
“Promise me.”
He looked back at his wife, who seemed so vulnerable, and decided to avoid the question.
“We’re twenty-five. We’ve been married a year. I’m still working on my doctorate. You’ve got a promising career,” he rattled off. “Besides, I’m having too much fun just the two of us to change anything right now.”
She hugged and kissed him without a word, then said softly, “Thanks so much.”
As they hugged, her chin resting on his shoulder, she saw a raven fly out of the trees, then bank sharply, almost turning upside down, before going off on its way and leaving them.
Tom Busillo's (he/his) writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Calliope, Dark Harbor, Weird Lit, and elsewhere. He's also the author of the completely unpublishable 2,646-page conceptual poem "Lists Poem," composed of 11,111 nested 10-item lists. He lives in Philadelphia, PA, wth his wife and son.
