Movement in his peripheral vision caused Jack to look up from the monotony of his work emails, it looked like someone was moving in next door. Outside a forty-something man was unloading a set of kitchen chairs from the back of a truck. Behind it a larger delivery van was parking up and two men in overalls has jumped out. Distraction over, Jack looked back down to his monthly expense reports, inwardly sighing.
Later that day Jack rang the doorbell, a four pack of beer in one hand. He hated being sociable, but found from pst experience it was better to get things like this done as quickly as possible. He stared vacantly at the porch ceiling, curls of old white paint peeing off the lawyered wooden frame. Inside he heard the scuffling and bumping of boxes, he rang again. A minute or two later, still without anyone coming to the door, Jack struggled, places the beers on the porch and headed back home.
Finishing up his work for the day he shit the lord of his laptop and turned off the lamp, leaving the room dark. It was early November and the nights were getting darker earlier. Jack rubbed his eyes to ease the grittiness and considered his dinner options. As he pondered he happened to glance up, noticing a light on in his new neighbours side room. Curiosity got the better of him and he moved closer to the window, careful to keep to the shadows.
The man he’d seen earlier was moving back and forth through the room, wearing a hooded black robe. At various points throughout the room he placed a small candle down, lighting it with a match from a box he carried. As he did this he bent his head a moment as if in prayer, before carrying on to the next.
Eventually the man disappeared into another room and Jack stared blankly into the candlelit room, before the man returns carrying a small kitten. Holding it by the scruff of the neck, he held it up above his head for a few moments, appearing again to be in prayer. He lowered the kitten down to the floor, disappearing from Jacks view from the window. Moments later he appeared with a large knife, holding it up to his palm and slicing across it. The man squeezed his fist and held it out in front of him, dripping blood over something below.
Jack panicked convinced the man was about to murder the kitten. He ran to the next room to grab his phone so he could film the event. Darting back into his office he arrived at the window, but the Holden man was nowhere to be seen. He waited for a few minutes, eyes focused on the flickering light from the candles as it played against the walls of the room, but he didn’t see any more movement.
For Michael it was love at first sight. It was always love at first sight. He met June at a conference for work, she smiled politely and held out her hand to shake. The moment their fingers touched Michael felt electricity course through his body. He nearly let out a little involuntary sigh, but managed to clamp his mouth closed. She appeared unaffected as she maintained friendly eye contact, but he knew that couldn’t be the case. She was feeling it too.
A week later he saw her again, this time in his office. Their companies were partnering on a project and June was assigned to support them. He’d already told his closest colleagues about her, this encounter told him that it was not chance, this was fate. The stars had aligned and they were to be together. Dave had told him not to build a girl up based on a thirty second conversation, but what did he know about love. His wife was older than him.
The next day Michael spotted her talking to Jared by the water cooler. He couldn’t help himself, he was so angry, how could she. He spent the next three days deliberately being short with them, or avoiding them outright. It seemed to cause some tension within the wider team, but he wasn’t in the wrong so he didn’t let it bother him.
A few days after he sat down with June at lunch. Her smile was perfect, her eyes sparkled, her hair was so shiny, he knew it’d be soft as cotton. He almost licked his lips in anticipation. Michael made sure he maintained eye contact to show her he was interested, his penetrating gaze mysterious and enticing. June had to leave shortly after to finish building a slide deck for a meeting next week, but he knew he’d made his mark. She was intimidated by the chemistry between them, it was understandable.
He started drawing pictures of her in his spare time, the process helped her come alive to him in even a more significant way than real life. It was like she was a real anime character now, innocent and yielding, needing of a brave knight such as he to keep her safe. He dreamt of rescuing her from a jock, in his dreams he stood up for her and she was grateful.
In the office their relationship was not going so well. She spoke more to Jared, she didn’t understand she was fated to be Michael’s. She was scared of it. He couldn’t help making snide comments, if only she’d treat him the way he deserved. Women never went for the nice guys. It was always the Jared’s of this world who got the girl.
One day he’d show her, when she was old and dried up, when she finally wanted a nice guy. Then he’d turn her down, he wouldn’t need her when he was rich and she was old and used up. He’d have his pick of the hot girls then. Women didn’t know what was best for them.
“It’s you! It’s really you!”
Brenda positively vibrated with excitement. Veronica Davis was sat right here in front of her, in HER coffee shop, drinking coffee. Just like a normal human.
The woman looked up, her eyes raising quizzically above her thick rimmed reading glasses. She gently placed her book down on the table and cross her hands in her lap.
“Hi. I’m surprised you recognised me, it’s never happened before.” She replied, a small smile cracking at the corner of her mouth.
“No ones ever recognised the author of the tenants of the good housewife? I don’t believe it.” Brenda fumbled around in her handbag, she always carried the small book with her, her bible, something to live by. The tool that landed her the husband of her dreams. She pulled the book out the jumbled mess of her bag and thrust it at the author. The woman’s face fell, she sighed slightly and took a deep breath.
“Oh, that book. That was a long time ago. I was a different person, I don’t believe in that stuff now.”
Brendas stomach flipped, she saw the disappointed look in the woman’s face, the book held in her outstretched hand suddenly felt heavier. This book had taught her how to be a good wife, to be subservient, to support her husband. It even let her land Gary, the stockbroker with a mansion and a Lamborghini. How could she not believe in this? It worked!
“But, I’ve followed everything you said, it’s worked perfectly for me.” Brenda pleaded with the woman, the book now held against her chest, close to her heart.
“Look. I’m glad that you feel you got something from it I guess, but I’m ashamed of that book. I was a different person, in a different place then. If I’d I known the damage I’d have caused to females across the country writing that I never would have written it. Everything I wrote in there marginalises you, me, our entire gender. You should throw it out right now.”
Brendas hands dropped to her side, she felt crestfallen. If the book was wrong, then everything about her life was wrong.
The author smiled awkwardly, picked up her book and stood to leave. She stepped quickly past Brenda and towards the door. Brenda turned and lifted her hand to say something, but she didn’t know what. She watched mutely as the Veronica exited the coffee shop, her arm dropped back down to her side. She felt herself visibly deflate.
She put the book down at the table where Veronica had been sat and turned to leave. Suddenly she didn’t feel like a coffee.
Mable stood and looked up at the tower, cocking her head at an angle to line up her vision to the slant of the tower. How did it even stand standing up at that angle. Looking at the path up ahead it was hard to believe the tower was even occupied, but the faint light in the window and thin tentacle of smoke trailing from the chimney spoke to its current occupation.
She started off down the winding path that lead through the jagged rocks at the base of the tower, using a minor fire incantation to clear the brambles from around her ankles. She noticed her hair waving slightly in front of her face as if in the breeze, but she felt no wind. Something about this place wasn’t quite right.
About twenty minutes later she reached the base of the tower. The large wooden door stood slightly ajar, the undetectable breeze pulling a latch of grass outside the doorway into the portal within. Mable side stepped through the open cavity, avoiding touching the door as she did so. She stood for a few moments inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior.
Casting a minor light incantation, she started towards the stairs. The small bauble of warm yellowy light floated a few feet in front of her. It casted king shadows over a foyer that had obviously been empty for some time. Whoever was here clearly didn’t use the ground floor very often.
Walking up the stairs she proceeded to climb up towards the tower true. The spiral staircase got narrower as she climbed, worn stone steps seemed to twitch beneath her feet as her hand gripped the rickety rail that looped around the outside of the stairwell.
As she reached the top she looked to the door ahead. The landing was dark, cold, barren. However, she could feel the energy radiating from the room inside and saw the crack of light around the edge of the doorway. She let the light bauble fade from existence with a flick of her finger and focused on trying to feel the energy through the door.
Suddenly the door exploded, a million tiny shards of wood hurtling towards her in a hailstorm of inevitable death. She barely had time to drop to her knee and form a quick energy shield around her before the shards pierced her body. The splinters bounced off her shield and dropped to the floor harmlessly, a gentle clattering sound announcing their arrival on the stone floor. Mable looked up at the black clad figure now stood in the doorway.
“I was wondering when you’d arrive” it said, the voice gravelly and low. “I’d almost given up.”
Mable smiled a grim grimace as she got to her feet. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Robert turned a corner in the garden. Ahead of him lay a path as far as the eye could see, right to the horizon. On either side of the path lay rectangular manicured bushes. Waist high, a literal wall of green. Wooden frames at at regular intervals, intertwined with vines who’s leaves hung down over the walkway. Together they creates a tunnel through which there was only one direction, forwards. A fountain lay about twenty metres ahead, from this distance he could tell it was identical to the one he walked past fives minutes ago. Identical to the two he’d seen before that too.
Still, he started on. He’d been stuck in this garden an hour or two now, but the only thing he could think to do would be to carry on. He had no idea how he’d got here, he just came into consciousness, already standing, in a tunnel just like this one. It was almost like he came into existence already walking this path. He felt the panic welling up in him but tried to push it down, that wasn’t going to help him. He deliberately kept his pace measured as he continued walking towards the fountain.
As he reached it he could see a smeared red hand print on the edge. Was that blood? The water was a deep red, as if someone had lost a lot of blood leaning over this pool. A small involuntary whimper left his mouth. He took a few deeps breaths as he stood staring at the red abyss in front of him. What did this mean, what was going on?
He started to jog, past the pool, down the tunnel, along the endless rows of manicured bush walls. He needed to get out of here, now.
Martha stopped in her tracks as thunder rumbled it’s way into existence somewhere in the distance. She looked up at the sky through the patchwork of pine trees above her, hairs on her arms standing on end. She’d always loved thunder storms. The electricity, the primal power of them, she always felt most alive when exposed to the elements in this way. When you were in a storm nothing else mattered, whether you were embracing it or running to get out of it, you weren’t worrying anymore about the work presentation or the grocery shopping.
She could feel the electricity in the air, smell the ozone. The sky was grey, but no rain yet. She paused for a moment in anticipation, savouring the feeling of expectation within her body. She definitely wasn’t dressed for a storm, jeans and a shirt, but then rain never really hurt anyone.
She felt the wind pick up on her face, the noble pines above her started to sway as if in dance. The gentle creaking of their movement spoke of the years they had endured such storms. Patient, immovable, permanent.
Martha perched on a large rock, the sweater wrapped around her waist acting as a cushion for her behind against the cold stone. She leaned back with her hands supporting her weight against the rock and felt the first tentative drops of rain fall on her face. They were small, inconsequential things, but a portent of the greater squall to come.
Lightning crackled suddenly, close by. She jumped slightly, not expecting it so soon. It was close, powerful. Her vision danced slightly as the image burned off her retinas. The thunder rumbled again, this time a herd of giant celestial buffalo charging over the top of her. It encompassed her, flattened her, illustrated to her the total lack of importance she held within the universe. She embraced it.
Then the heavens opened. Fat drops of beautiful mineral filled water fell from the sky, splashing her like tiny cannonballs. It felt cold at first, goosebumps rose over her body and suddenly she felt a few degrees colder. She held her arms out as she was overtaken by the storm. This was nature at its finest.
Harold stared down at the cuts on his hands, numb to his surroundings. As he examined the multitude of cuts and scrapes that covered them he marvelled at his ability to do so. Just four hours ago the idea of him sitting outside in the street and his attention being on anything other than the crushing weight of the outside world on top of his head would have seemed an impossibility.
The day has started like the one before it, and the one before that. And we’ll, each one before that really. It had been two years since he’d left his apartment, opening the door even only to food deliveries and the occasional family visitor. Harold wasn’t sure how it had started. He’s had a tough year or two for sure, somehow he started leaving less and less. The pandemic hadn’t helped, but he couldn’t really blame just that. Eventually it’s been weeks since he’d left the house and he’s realised he’d started to fear the prospect. By that point it felt too late though, the pattern had been established and the behaviour set. He didn’t know how to change it, so he just carried on. As humans tend to do he supposed.
After his breakfast he’d sat at his desk, checking his new sites and feeds. A like warm coffee sat on the edge of the desk, gently cradled in his left hand as he absorbed the final remnants of heat from the ceramic. Then all of a sudden it was as if the very world had exploded. Harold was thrown backwards, as was his desk, to the other side of the room. Every inch of his body felt as if a thousand tiny daggers had been hurled into him. He was subconsciously aware of the sounds of exploding glass and pulverised brick even before he hit the floor. Everything went black.
He awake a short time later, pain everywhere, crushed Beamer his desk on the floor. Everything was coasted in plaster dust and debris and his head felt like someone was pounding his skull with a blacksmiths hammer. He slowly stared around him, the realisation of his situation sinking in. A bus has gone out of control and smashed into the front of his building. He could dimly hear the screaming of the travellers and caught ima glimpse of them as they exited out through the back of the mangled bus carcass.
He took a few more moments to try and collect himself, slowly he became aware of the smell of petrol fumes and the sound of sparking electricity. In that moment Harold almost laughed, it was just like a movie. Loose wires sparking, petrol pouring out of a wreck, a ticking time bomb. You couldn’t write this stuff. Still, danger was danger, Harold gathered himself together and slowly pushed the brown desk off himself. Time to get out of here.
He worked his way through the wreckage, squeezed past the bus that was stuck in his front wall and exited onto the street. The scene outside was just as bad as inside, but with more people. And sirens, lots of sirens.Harold stumbles to what he guessed was a safe distance and sat on the curb. Around him people rushed around, but weirdly he felt totally calm.
Harold stared down on the cuts on his hands, numb to his surroundings.
After a week of hiding in a cave Devan was miserable. He was even starting to question whether enslavement was better than this freedom. Of course it was too late now, if he went back he’d be killed. So he was committed, didn’t mean he had to like it though.
Service to the overlords was all he’d ever known. He’s been born into it, grown up in it and would soon be sent to the reproduction farm to mate with one of the women. For some reason as the date got closer to his seventeenth birthday he felt this panic welling up in him. He knew reproduction was expected but deep down within him it felt like something significant.
As the time got closer and closer the feeling built, like it was about to explode out of him. Eventually he ran. He took an opportunity whilst moving between his factory job and the sleeping pods and ran. He was still in the young adult groupings so security was light. He got lucky and somehow he don’t think any of the overlords even noticed as he dashed over the nearest hill. He ran for what seemed like hours and eventually found the cave he still found himself in, probably a couple of miles from the encampment. Since then he’d been surviving on rainwater and plants he found. Also one night he ate a dead rat, not his proudest moment but his body needed the energy.
He knew they’d be looking for him, when he didn’t scan into the sleeping pods, it would have alerted security immediately. The drones would have been dispatched and would have been circling twenty four hours a day since, it was only a matter of time.
As if on queue he heard the scraping of something against the rocks. He froze, mid breath, unmoving. All his senses turned up to eleven and he stared desperately at the light of the cave opening, the home made bowl of water paused halfway between his lap and his mouth.
It rounded the corner, a Hunter unit. Light armour, most of its carapace showing, pale underbelly visible peeking out to the top of its torso covering. It’s eye lit up at the sight of Devan hunched in the corner, shaking with cold and fear.
It approached him, the rhythmic clacking noise of its language mocking him, he was sure it was laughing. It unhinged its jaw and opened its mouth wide like a snake, it’s three lizard like tongues writing around within, ready to grasp him.
Devan panicked, stumbled backwards and thrust the bowl of rainwater at it. The bowl smacked it in the mouth, water splashing everywhere. The Hunter screamed a piercing cry of pain, smoke started to escape from its jaws. It closed its mouth, dropped its electro-rod and grasped vainly at its mouth with its claws. More smoke poured out of its mouth, along with some blood and strange green goo. To Devan it smelled like burning hair and rancid meat.
Suddenly he realised, it was dying. Was it this simple, rainwater killed them? The beast fell to the floor, a stranger groan emitting from it as it writhed on the floor. Eventually it kicked one last time, then stopped. Thin wisps of smoke trailed from its mouth. Though now it couldn’t really be called a mouth, half its face was missing and the water was starting to burn its way down its long neck.
Devan breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to get back somehow, he needed to share this news. But how.
When you think about purgatory you might imagine a waiting room. In my head it was always like the doctors, nice but very plain. White walls, uncomfortable chairs and maybe a stack of magazines. Purgatory isn’t supposed to be fun, right. You wait there, presumably bored out of your skull, until someone above or below, decides to accept you. I think I was expecting the same feeling as when I got my high school results that decided what college I was going to end up at.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Turns out only the very best get to heaven and the very worst go to hell. Literally everyone else is stuck here. Apart from the ghost crew, but I don’t want to get into the complexities of those guys right now.
Purgatory is a lot like being lower middle class on earth. It’s nice enough, you’re doing OK, but it’s never quite what you wanted for yourself. Sure things could be a lot worse and you’re grateful for what you’ve got. But like, is this all there is?
It was fourteen years ago that I died. A tragic car crash, not my fault. I was coming back late at night after a long weekend fishing. The drunk driver who’s fault it was? He’s here too. Turns out he was basically a good guy, but he was drunk driving, so he can’t expect to see the pearly gates anytime soon. Equally it seems one bad mistake doesn’t write you off entirely and send you down to the basement either. He’s made peace with that I think, he’s a lifer, a term people here use to describe the residents who are going to be here for eternity. The irony of the term is not lost on us, believe me. Even the Americans understand irony in purgatory it seems. The afterlife gives you some real perspective.
Anyway, my chances are quite good I think. I wasn’t a saint, I didn’t do much that was that good, I just lived my life. I haven’t got any black marks against my name either though. Judging by the current rate if I’m lucky I’ll be here for a few decades. Then I might get the chance to see heaven.
There’s a queue, you see. Heaven got filled up back around the time of the First World War. Ever since then it’s been one in one out. You don’t stay forever in heaven either. There’s this new initiative, they train people up to be better, then reincarnate them back into the world to be even better than before. I guess the objective is to make the world a better place. So us lot in purgatory, we just gotta wait our turn.
Of course with the people who already got into heaven once being almost saints it means they’re much more likely to fast track straight to the penthouse again when they do die. So there’s that to deal with. But hey, it’s not like any of us are going anywhere in the meantime.
If I had to give purgatory a rating I’d say 3.5 stars. Pretty ok, better than I’d expected even, but nothing to write home about. Not that I can write home at all anymore.
The day you’ve been dreading has finally arrived… I’m here.
You knew it was coming, you’ve always known, but you haven’t prepared yourself. Sometimes, when something is an inevitability, it’s easier to ignore. Possible to discount, minimise, to continue living your life in deliberate ignorance. But pretending something doesn’t exist doesn’t make it so.
But I’m here, I’m not going anywhere and I’m here to collect my toll. Now the panic sets in, that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, those icy fingers closing around your throat. Those are my fingers, my presence. Inescapable, inevitable, permanent. You can try to reason, to cajole, to barter, but really it makes no difference. At this point the decision has been made, the outcome is decided. All that matters is how you handle the next few minutes. Your final few minutes before it happens.
I rap gently on your proverbial door. A gentle whisper of dread entering your home. Your eyes rest uneasily upon my message, you can’t bear to look but you can’t avert your gaze.
The only sure things in life are death and taxes. And I’m here for you.
I am the tax man.
I’ll see you in court.
