Anitha sits among the wasted bodies of her tribe. She is in the Blackwoods, barren trees whistle in the wind as they bend and sway, heavy clouds dragging across the sky in a moroseness unlike any other. It is always dark here. Dark and heavy. The atmosphere strains at Anithas lithe body, pressing upon her heart the worst of memories— the memories that bear the rotten fruits of war.
Across the abyss are the ruins of Clearwater castle, the disheveled bodies of both king and queen, peasant and servant, all remnants of a fight that lasted little more than an hour. Those who had survived had fled. Not Anitha, she couldn’t bring herself to move, only to clutch the limp hand of her lover, his face that of one in a peaceful slumber and not in the strangling world of death (maybe it was a better place. Maybe Anitha ought to go with him.)
At Clearwater there had always been rules. Anitha and her kind would not be welcome, the bridge that had run across the abyss had been destroyed long ago and if they were to somehow breach the void, then they’d be hung up like sweaters for all to see. It was a sort of cosmic joke, the bickering of human kind. They’d had enough problems without bringing in the consequences of cruel and unusual punishment.
The war had started earlier this morning. Clearwater had decided Anithas kind were to be gotten rid of and brought out their best cannons, machine guns, daggers, ran through their herd like a slaughter, only it didn’t stop! No, it didn’t stop! For Anitha, it would never stop. The screams ripened in her ears in rising intensity so that she herself wanted to scream, wanted to drag her lover back to life and run off deeper into the Blackwoods until they found… well, whatever was beyond this wretched place, a place that had once been home and now lay a deserted land of the vengeful dead. She clutched her lovers hand harder. Squeezed his hand like it was her crutch to sanity.
Blood bleached the darkened grass in all directions, the wind whistled maddeningly. Bodies contorted in strange ways and limbs outstretched as if they were reaching towards something, unstaring dark eyes folding into oblivion.
And through all of this, Anitha could only sit and clutch her lovers hand, the last of her kind.
When Octavius Phillips got murdered the only thing he could think about was not of his life but of those serial documentaries (“why he was such a nice man!” And “he seemed perfectly normal to me”) as the blood poured in alarming amounts from his stomach.
He wondered if he would get a documentary, if there would be anyone to cry and say “what a beautiful man, that Octavius. I will miss him dearly.”
It was a silly thought, not the kind of thing that should be your last thought. Yet it was. Here, Octavius, killed only to be robbed of his 20 bucks and the off-brand bike he was riding. Ha! What a goddamn joke.
He’d always believed in God, too, in the idea that there was a meaning to life
The afterlife was not what he’d thought it’d be
“Where’s my heaven?” He tried to speak but his tongue got tied halfway through the sentence and it remained silent. Goddamn joke indeed! A man dead AND mute.
How long had he been dead now? A week? A few days? The memories burned in his mind, that terrible blade plunged into his stomach, the fingers of a man he didn’t even know the name of pilfering through his pockets as life left Octavius’s body and fuck, hadn’t it been cold? He didn’t know anymore.
He’d quickly taken to stalking his killer— he learned thus far that his name was Bruce, that he couldn’t keep a job for the life of him, his girlfriend Penelope was a real winner (“Can’t fucking do anything right, can you, Bruce??”) and he was flat broke. Well, other than a dead man’s 20 dollars and some odd ins and outs he was going to sell, including Octavius’s precious bike.
What a mess, Octavius thought, I’ve always wondered what could drive a man to murder.
Octavius stood, invisible, next to Bruce as he cried into his drunken bottle. He’d be much happier a spectator, he’d be much happier dead
Octavius kicked the bottle into the wall so that it smashed. Bruce jumped back and screamed a pathetic scream, cutting his hand on one of the glass shards that reverberated. “Who’s there??” His neck craned wildly from side to side.
Octavius took the shard and engraved on Bruce’s skin a single word: Octavius. He would always be reminded of the man he’d killed.
Now, the worst thing of all. Octavius would let him live with that guilt of what he’d done. And it would haunt him, more than any ghost ever could
A waiting room in the afterlife.
By now, I had heard more ridiculous things such as shoes that walked themselves, peanut butter that consumed those who ate it, and of course the really tacky guy with the black teeth and suspenders that manned the front desk (Joe.)
“Hey joe?” Someone shouted out, a voice that seemed to come from behind me but I didn’t dare turn around cause last time I did I’d made awkward eye contact with this phantom toddler. I shivered at the memory and focused my vision on the marble floor.
Joe put on a smile, light glinting off his full set of black teeth: “Yes?”
“Joe mama!”
Everyone broke off into laughter and I wondered, not for the first time, if I’d hit my head and was now in a coma. It seemed likely that my immature mind would conjure such an awful, overused joke—
“Sabrina Williams?” Joe called out to the huge room and suddenly everyone went quiet. The person beside me, who I hadn’t even noticed, stood up. Her hair was blonde and it looked like she’d gotten electrocuted, the way it curled in a 100 different ways. And her eyes, sapphire blue, so bright that they were hard to even glance at. She walked to the front desk, putting her elbows on the table.
“Yes, Joe?”
“They’re ready for you.”
“Oh I sure hope so, I’ve been waiting for 6000 years.” She rolled her eyes and Joe laughed.
“Haven’t we all?”
6000 years?!?! Panic overtook me and my feet seemed to launch themselves out of my seat on their own. I almost ran to the front desk, pushing Sabrina Williams aside and glaring into Joe with full menace, a menace that surprised me.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
“Wait, hold up, lemme check.” He clicked some things on the computer in front of him, sighing. “God, this thing is so slow. It’s like 200 snails were put inside of it without my knowledge!”
Sabrina looked guilty. “Yeah, that’s my fault.”
Joe raises his eyebrows but Sabrina cut him off before he could ask: “I borrowed some snails from the bug room and had someone hack them into your computer.”
Joe narrows his eyes. “You’re going to hell.”
“Yep.”
Without another word, Sabrina leaves through a wall, as if inanimate objects had no hold on her life and well, they probably didn’t.
“Ugh finally, ya file pulled up! Seems like you’ve been here… about 2 days. And you have about another 5000 year wait. Oh wow, that’s not that bad!” Joe says nonchalantly.
“Not that bad? What am I going to do for 5000 years?”
“I don’t know, probably sit around a lot.”
I grimace, a thousand thoughts that didn’t matter sitting heavy on my shoulders, as I headed for my seat.
Greg had never had a boyfriend. And yet, often enough, when the subject of relationships approached, he’d find himself saying he did.
“I am in love with a man I have never met.” Greg would say, his tone dreamy and far off as if imagining his nonexistent but very real lover.
He’d only met the boy, Tim, in his dreams but he was sure he was out there somewhere in the world, waiting for him. Greg’s heart ached at night with the sadness of passing another day without the love of his life, and somehow happiness at the realization that he might find him in his dreams (he didn’t like using the term dreams because that implied he wasn’t real when Greg knew nobody realer than Tim. It was a matter of the heart.)
Tonight was one of those nights where Greg laid in bed, on the cusp of a warm dream, a dream that hid inside the love of his life, the sun to his moon, the happiness to his aching heart.
Greg found himself seeing red. He was in the woods and the first thing he’d noticed was the mass of red on the leaves and across the ground. He decided it must be a dream because in front of him was no other than Tim. Tim wore a grey shirt and skinny jeans and on his face was the most beautiful smile Greg had ever seen, it was his favorite feature of Tim’s actually, he found his worries melting away as a few leaves floated softly to the floor.
A single spanner of light glowered over them like a spotlight on a stage and Greg half-expected an audience to appear and clap, but instead all he could hear was the slight breeze of the wind.
“So we meet again.” Tim motions to the surroundings with his hands. “This is so much better than last dream where you almost got eaten by a shark.”
Greg laughed at the memory, “Yeah, I’m sticking to the land from now on.”
Tim wrapped Greg in his arms, closing the distance between them. Greg’s heart hammered in his chest and he was sure it would pop out like a jack in the box as their lips collided and the dream began to fade.
Isabelle Windsor had spent her life as a shadow.
Many had often thought her as mysterious, as if she had a secret life or a dark trauma-filled past. The truth was, there was nothing all that interesting about Isabelles life. She worked at a library, she lived in a small apartment with her cat, she ate takeout every Wednesday, sometimes, on ‘spontaneous’ days, she would go out to a bar with the few friends she managed to accumulate throughout high school.
Her life was routine and a routine she had been stuck in for a very long time until it all came undone.
The phrase wrong place at the wrong time had never been all that real in Isabelle's life but now, as she stood painfully still over the unconscious body of a woman who looked exactly like her, she found herself wishing she had stayed home.
She crouched over the body and squeezed her eyes shut hoping that when she opened them she’d be at home, with her cat, eating her special Wednesday takeout. Instead, when she opened them, she was still there trapped in this nightmare, a nightmare where she’s dead.
Police sirens sounded and police flooded the scene along with ambulances and Isabelle's world had gone silent. As she screamed and cried for help, she found no one could hear her.
No one could help her.
Isabelle Windsor had died.
