Not Gary Paulsen's Hatchet, Ashy Blacksheep
Jacob and I
used every utensil and tool
in our father's garage
at least twice
though likely never once
for its intended purpose.
And so it was
with the hatchet.
It felt top heavy to me.
"It's supposed to be like that,"
Jacob says
and demonstrates
raising the hatchet high
and letting it fall
with an easy downward stroke.
The little axe head rested
in some scrap wood
and wrested free again
without rattling loose.
For that, we took it with us
from the garage.
We wouldn't use it
to chop firewood
shave kindling from bark
or strike a stone face to spark a fire.
No, Jacob held it halfway
up its handle, hacking
at the outer back corner of the garage
where he spied a black widow
who so boldly let herself be spied
and he tried to destroy her
destroying only her home
which was always
temporary digs at best
to her.
No, we took the hatchet
to the top of the hill
took turns taking cracks
at the trunk of a young tree
which was bigger around
than Jacob's bicep
making it no more a sapling than he.
It took us days to cut it down
where it had taken our whole lives
to grow that big
and we did it
just because
we could.
We stole an oversized
Teletubby doll
Po the red and small
from our pseudo stepsister
and took it too
to the top of the hill
where the tree once grew
and we used the rusty hatchet
to decapitate it.
Maybe we were just bad
at chopping
but eventually there was just one
shred of polyester
holding the Teletubby together.
Jacob and I took turns
holding the head and body apart
and using the hatchet
like the world's shittiest
shortest handsaw.
At dusk we'd done it
and decided we'd bury
the two halves separately
under tomorrow's sun
at the top of the hill.
For the night
we'd put away the hatchet
stash the Teletubby parts.
The following day
we grabbed up rickety shovels
retrieved the Teletubby remains
and we brought the hatchet too.
It was just as much a part
of the dismemberment
as we were.
We spent the day scouting
burial plots, ones we could find again
to revisit and remember.
Once decided, we dug
‘til again it was dusk.
We said some words over it
before collapsing his stuffing
with dirt.
We comforted Po
letting him know
he likely wouldn't be missed
that no one would notice he was gone
and we had such a good time
hacking him apart
we nearly pissed our pants
laughing.
But then we still had the hatchet
and for some reason
we didn't feel right having it.
I handed it to Jacob
who smashed the axe head
on a rock until
the hatchet’s neck broke too
and we threw the blade
in the pit with Po's face
and the handle
with Po's body
knowing somehow
it wouldn't be missed either.
Ashy Blacksheep is a writer, veteran, and undergraduate senior studying Literature and Creative Writing. Having grown up nomadic, traveled the world with the Navy, and adventuring on with her husband and two cats, Ashy fuels her writing with life experiences and introspection. Find her musings on Twitter and Instagram @ashyblacksheep