Welcome to The Bluebird Paradox, a gritty MicroZine written by me, Chris Sadhill, that explores the coexistence of light and darkness, focusing on social issues and the human experiences we often overlook, presented through various short stories, poetry, and other creative arts.
The Bluebird pays homage to Charles Bukowski’s poem Bluebird, which delves into themes of vulnerability, repression, and the struggle to express oneself authentically.
Often, the Bluebird symbolizes hope, love, positivity, and renewal; however, throughout my life, I’ve observed the presence of darkness where there is light, leading me to believe in a paradoxical relationship between the two.
The Bluebird Paradox embraces the inherent contradictions and complexities of our existence and seeks to reveal deeper truths about society, emotions, and the human experience.
As always, thank you for being here. Please enjoy the read.
What does it mean to be American? To be free?
Can it be defined in the inspiring words of the Declaration of Independence? Is it our food? Our sports? Our pretentiousness? Our plastic faces and Botoxed asses? Or our military influence on the world?
Why are we not like the others? Why do so many countries hate us? Shouldn’t they be groveling at our feet—at the marvel we are?
Are we a cultural experiment? Perhaps an experiment gone wrong? Can freedom be defined in a song?
“Cause I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m fre—”
We call ourselves free. But are we really free from anything? Or have we just traded one master for another?
I’d wager the future of all humanity on a big fat NO! In fact, I believe the human race will never be free—especially Americans.
And if America isn’t free, well then, the world is fucked.
I see subsequent generations becoming so regressed and restricted that we inevitably evolve into senseless, mind-controlled meat vessels—cattle for the elite, or worse, robots or aliens.
When I look around, it seems the future is nearer than we think.
“We are manipulated and controlled—and we know it. You can try to deny it, but deep down, there’s something inherently wrong with the world.”
People are slaves to their identities, self-righteous causes, political parties, races, cultures, and lifestyles. Our countries. Our sports teams. Our eyes glaze over as we watch television, doom-scroll social media, and consume all-you-can-eat entertainment and biased news.
We’re entirely distracted, twenty-four-seven.
Marketing ads are served up by corporations, Big Pharma, and the government to control the people. We’re all slaves to money, to jobs—working until we die, paying for the dream others are living because of us. Many will never reach the minimum level of freedom we aspire to.
We are manipulated and controlled—and we know it. You can try to deny it, but deep down, there’s something inherently wrong with the world. And even if you oppose my view, you can’t help but acknowledge the faint, putrid smell of doubt when you begin to think—or say—it.
We’re too loyal to our labels, our clans. Too tone-deaf to listen. Too proud to change our minds or accept new information. Too arrogant to learn about the world. About others. We’d rather drown on our sinking ships than swim to shore, just twenty meters away.
Most of us accept our fate with little resistance—for what? Convenience? Comfort? Immediate satisfaction? Another dopamine hit? Another donut?
“We are too focused on each other, too blinded by rage, to notice the real problems.”
As a species, we assign labels to everything—or we accept the ones assigned to us without asking further questions. Hell, I’m guilty of it. I proudly identify as a poet, a writer, an outsider—a man of the fringe, by the fringe, and for the fringe. Amen.
But those are just labels. Maybe cooler ones—the black-label-with-sunglasses-and-leather-jacket type. Ones that let me associate with a tribe of fewer, smarter, more open-minded folks—but still, they’re just labels. Who’s to say my name tag is any better? Well, I do. But there I go, being close-minded and pretentious again—being American.
Why do we do this? Hell if I know.
Maybe it’s because, despite our intelligence, we still don’t have all the answers—and we need them. Or at least, we think we do. It bothers us not knowing the universe’s biggest secrets—like what swims in our deepest oceans, what hovers in outer space, what those closest to us are thinking, and worst of all… death.
But small things bother us too, even when nothing directly affects us. We feel compelled to form an opinion, to develop an opposition, and to create rules—or write laws—condemning what we don’t grasp or agree with: same-sex marriage, religion, taboo lifestyles, cultures, food, and sex.
We fear what we don’t understand. We take our discomfort to the extreme. We form clans of like-minded people to eradicate the clans we’ve taught ourselves to hate. We are too focused on each other, too blinded by rage, to notice the real problems.
It seems our species has a propensity for exclusion, violence, and war.
Hell, as I write this, President Trump smugly announces the bombing of Iran and the uninvited spreading of more “America” in the Middle East—this time in the form of seventy-five precision-guided missiles.
All in the name of “freedom” and “peace”, of course.
‘Merica the brave—spreading dependence like herpes wherever we go.
“…despite there being over eight billion people on the planet, we remain desperate, depressed, and profoundly alone.”
The funny thing is—we all share commonality. At the core, humans seek inclusion, connection, and validation. We try to relate to one another, to share a part of ourselves with others. Even I, an outsider, seek approval from other outsiders. I often ask myself, Am I fringe enough? Am I anti-establishment enough? Is this piece on brand for Chris Sadhill? We all try to fit in. To find our place—something to measure our value in this short, mundane life.
After all, we’re a species that evolved from tribes. It’s in our DNA—our double helix, double standard for living—requiring that we belong to something larger than ourselves.
Yet despite there being over eight billion people on the planet, we remain desperate, depressed, and profoundly alone. It’s more evident now than ever before. Maybe that’s why we turn to our vices, our addictions, our disillusioned escapes.
Maybe that’s why people kill themselves.
It’s certainly a modern disease. Perhaps an American disease. One that’s growing exponentially.
“There may be too much in this issue to digest at once. That’s okay. It’s overwhelming, I know. Eating the RED pill really upsets the nervous system.”
Soon, we’ll be celebrating our 249th Independence Day—a day that is, quite ironically, less about independence and more about distraction. A day that should remind us of our escape from tyranny and our pursuit of something better: freedom.
Instead, we are more enslaved than ever before—by a system that holds all the power and control. They’ve perfected the art of serving us bullshit on convenient little platters, and we eat it all up. We lick our plates and wash the dishes for them too. We gorge with our eyes closed until our bellies are fat and our brains are dull.
We love their convenience. We drool over their entertainment. We medicate with their distractions.
On a day when we should be more united than ever, we are more divided than ever. We are more unhealthy, malnourished, and uneducated. We are kept in glass cages, sipping from hamster bottles, fed pellets made of garbage and seasoned with crude oil—all while staring at the beautiful projection of the American Dream on the wall, just out of reach. Not reality—a projection.
It’s right in front of us. The answers have always been on the other side of the glass.
There may be too much in this issue to digest at once. That’s okay. It’s overwhelming, I know. Eating the RED pill really upsets the nervous system.
But here’s the takeaway—on this dreary Fourth of July:
When we celebrate “freedom,” we are actually celebrating our enslavement.
When we are distracted by the shiny bombs bursting in the air and the flag so gallantly streaming, we are bowing to corporations’ chokeholds on us. We are allowing the corrupt officials who vowed to represent us to keep widening our asses without lube.
When celebrating freedom, maybe we should do so side by side, without division—because that’s when we’re strongest.
We should be less like the rats our government assumes us to be.
Maybe it’s time we started thinking like our forefathers.
Maybe it’s time to define our red stripes again—not just for valor or bravery, but for the blood.
Happy 4th, America.
This month’s theme is inspired by a piece I wrote in 2023 titled American Hero. I wrote most of it in one short session, just after arriving home from a baseball game with my wife.
Let’s just say I was prompted—or rather inspired—by my fellow Americans, who were very much pursuing happiness all around me.
Please enjoy.
American Hero I’m daydreaming of crackerjacks and temporary tattoos when the organ suddenly stops mid-song and the announcer's voice echoes throughout the stadium... “Today’s game is brought to you by Liberty Dick Hot Dogs offering a two-for-one combo on processed pig lips and bleached buttholes. Stop by your nearest concession booth to get your jumbo-sized cancer cocks all day long. For your convenience they’ve been pressure-cooked and formed into steaming tubes of garbage so, all you fatties who love tossing America’s salad can enjoy your favorite pastime uninhibited while filling your gaping pie holes in one convenient bite. To optimize your experience we offer dump truck rides to your limo-stretched seats, à la carte delivery of carbonated IVs, and tiny pillows for your mid-game naps if of course, you find yourself falling asleep.” --- Section 117, row 10, seat 6. I have a first-base view to observe my fellow Americans like rats in a barnyard scurrying in and out of sunlight, while nibbling on rodenticide. I too gnaw along with them as my neck beads with sweat. I lean to my wife to discuss how the Romans two-thousand years ago designed a special shade for their arenas to protect their patrons from the sun and how this stadium’s engineers obviously dropped the ball. The crackle of a microphone switching on from the off-key-never-made-it-big-weekend singer alerts our eyes to the limp-dick flag draped over a thirty-foot pole which remains stagnant in the summer heat, but we rise anyways and our brainwashed hats cover our tits— some fake, some flat, and some men’s. It’s not long before we finish circle-jerking freedom onto the backs of those in front of us and we seat ourselves in preparation for filling our faces with a pair of dogs and a bucket of fries— our savory salute to the fallen soldiers granting us today’s opportunity. Next to me the crazy lady with season tickets seems more concerned about where I worship rather than the score or my hopes of eating in quiet. So, I tell her "I worship between my woman's legs," and now I feel I need God more than ever. I also assume her new-found silence means she’s praying for me, but doubt it’ll work. Behind me, the nearest smoking section turns into a ticking time bomb as a group of hover-round rough riders plugged into oxygen tanks balance the thin line between life and death while lighting cigarettes for one another. Unfortunately for us, we are close enough to take on some shrapnel if it all goes south. A young mother passes by shoving ice cream smoothies down her toddler's throat preparing him to be among the next generation of baseball fans, and in a full-circle irony her child's future is foreshadowed, when a fat man in row three chokes on a bite taken too large to swallow only to chew it back down again after being donkey-punched by someone trying to save him, and I don’t blame him, because these hot dogs have gotten fucking expensive. I nod in approval as I look around thinking Fuck yeah, this is Freedom and as sick as it is, I’m proud, yet at the same time I’m entirely scared of our future because if we’re ever invaded, America is certainly fucked. But my thoughts are interrupted by the crack of a bat and a foul ball ascending just above my section. It blocks the sun for only a moment, it's then that I declare this fucker’s mine! If I’ve done one thing right with my life, is that I’m a man of my word even to myself, so, I pull the wild cherry IV from my arm, toss the spud bucket to my old lady, and jump out of my seat toward destiny. I push through the cult lady still praying for my soul somersault over the hoover-round gang coughing up their remaining lungs and extend my arm high toward the sky ready to receive the American Dream until I’m surrounded by short feeble bodies tugging at my clothes and fighting for position against me. But I'm unfazed, determined, and much taller. I shrug them off standing strong for my country and hold my ground like the Ft. McHenry banner the woman just sang about and I follow the ball until it lands into my greasy palms over a half dozen disappointed heads. What a win! To celebrate, I raise a single hand showing off the stitches, inviting the crowd to honor my victory alongside me, but when there are no cheers I’m forced to savor it alone and I do, but it's then that I notice everyone scouring at me with anticipation, as if I am supposed too give up my hard-earned prize, to one of these failed loser kids. Fuck them! I grip my souvenir with pride while being followed to my seat by boos from the stadium attempting to shame me into submission, but I have no shame— I am an American. The best thing for those kids is to learn how to fight for what they want earn what they get, and that there are no participation trophies in life. If anything, I am an American Hero. You can all thank me later. …and when I get home I’ll throw this token of triumph into the backyard for my dog to chew on, because I prefer hockey and think baseball is shit. Plus, I was never rooting for the home team anyway. ©2023 Chris Sadhill
Sadhill’s Music Minute
The System by Tom MacDonald is the epitome of this month’s theme. It might be one of the most unapologetically American songs out there—loud, chaotic, and drenched in red, white, and blue rebellion.
It’s brutal. It’s brilliant. But most importantly, it’s an honest critique of present-day America. It dives deep into the heart of our corruption—government and culture alike—and the plastic food we’re spoon-fed through our teletubes and celescreens.
Tom MacDonald isn’t a household name, but he should be. He has millions of views and followers, yet he’s still not mainstream—and I think that’s for the better. In fact, it’s exactly what he wants. MacDonald is a true independent artist and is committed to keeping his brand that way. He’s been dropping self-produced bangers ever since exploding onto the scene in 2017.
MacDonald isn’t just making noise—he’s making art. And everything he delivers is deliberate.
Read his lyrics. Watch his videos. He’s a phenom when it comes to writing social critiques and creating stellar content—and he doesn’t give a fuck what you think about it. MacDonald’s brand is in-your-face, outrageous, and honest.
That’s just my style.
Like all his songs, The System exposes the truths about our country in a way that forces you to think—to be confronted with the reality of our current state. It makes you look at yourself and your place in the world. It’s more American than a pair of fake tits dipped in corn syrup and wrapped in the American flag, while guns and rockets blast willy-nilly in the background.
It has a hard beat, a catchy hook, and keeps you so invested that you’re hanging on the edge of his next words. However, I recommend focusing on the lyrics and the message. That’s where this track shines the most.
The System hasn’t been featured on any mainstream TV shows or films—but who gives a shit? MacDonald’s music videos are top-notch productions in themselves. I urge you to watch them a few times to catch everything you missed the first go-round.
Whether you love him or hate him, Tom MacDonald isn’t asking for your permission—he’s demanding your attention.
Sadhill News
I’ve been a ghost these past few months—but you should’ve expected it. As promised, I’ve pulled back from most writing competitions, focusing on just a few to keep the writing muscles active.
And by changing the Bluebird Paradox to quarterly, along with the weather dictating I do outdoor projects around the homestead (yes, this includes riding my new motorcycle), I haven’t written as much as I’d like, but I have had a few small wins. Some I can share. Others—soon enough.
Elegant Literature:
A few months ago, a writing friend suggested I submit my flash fiction piece, Canary, originally written for a different contest. Their theme at the time was Sinister Sanctuaries—a perfect fit.
Taking her advice, I looked them up. They’re a fantastic zine dedicated to new and up-and-coming writers. I dig it! Plus, they got some dope ass cover art for each issue!
I subscribed for the year (which is not required), reworked Canary, and sent it off. The good news? My friend was right. Canary earned Honorable Mention, landing 11th in the Top 35—just one spot shy of being published—out of hundreds of entries.
Needless to say, I‘ve been hooked ever since, and soon after submitting, I officially partnered with Elegant Literature.
I haven’t written for every month since joining, but I am currently waiting to hear how my short story, The Roach and The Butterfly, performs for May’s theme, Wishes and Warnings. And I’m working on something for June’s Dreaded Destinations.
Every month, they offer a new theme and the full month to submit a 500-to 2000-word story. It’s versatile, challenging, and exactly my style.
Wish me luck. I hope to see you over there too!
Seriously, if you’re an unpublished writer looking for a new contest, consider checking them out.
Globe Soup Micro Competition:
Recently, I joined Globe Soup’s private writing group, and one of the perks is that I can participate in their monthly 100-word (Drabble) challenge. Last month, I wrote a piece titled The Farmer’s Daughter, a prequel to my two-time winning piece, The Funeral.
This world I’ve created for these two stories struck a chord with the judges, yet again, and I placed as a Top-Tier Finalist out of hundreds! I am seriously considering what an expansion will look like based on these two stories and the characters within.
It was my first contest with Globe Soup, and I plan to enter every month, as Drabbles are quite fun to write.
Other Contests I’m Entering:
Press 53, Apex Magazine, Furious Fiction, and soon I’ll be checking out Flash Phantoms.
I guess I’m not keeping it light after all, but I am picking and choosing what I want to write and where I submit. All of the above are free, except my choice to pay for Elegant Literature. Yes, they have a free option too (for publication only, though).
Publications
It could be any day now that Eye Contact Magazine makes their announcements for the next issue, with the theme Experience and Genre: Historical Fiction. I don’t want to spoil much, but let’s just say I’m pretty damn excited about the 2025 Spring Issue coming out.
Stay tuned for some BIG news!
Upcoming Events & Contests:
2025 Elegant Literature Monthly Writing Contest Jan-Dec
2025 Apex Magazine Flash Fiction Writing Contest Jan-Dec
2025 Furious Fiction Monthly 500 Word Writing Contest Jan-Dec
She Left Him Series—News
Each month, I’ll update my progress, share parts of my process when possible, and use this space to stay accountable—both to you and, more importantly, to myself.
The Update:
Well, as I hinted in my Sadhill News section above. I’ve written nothing for this series since we last met.
But I have racked up plenty of miles on my new motorcycle, knocked out a ton of projects, and expanded the garden around the homestead.
Sometimes we need to take a step back to gain perspective, so we can adjust how we move forward. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. Ha!
But trust me—something is happening. Damnit. I will produce a book. I promise. Keep your faith in me.
If you’re interested in joining my beta reader team, drop a comment, find me on social media @ChrisSadhill, email me at ChrisSadhill@gmail.com, or apply on my Beta Readers page at www.ChrisSadhill.com—I’ll consider adding you to the list.
Now, together, let’s write this fucking book!
Thanks for your support!
…and please leave a comment. I love hearing from you.
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