$150

For many,

That wouldn’t be much.

But I’m a poor little kid.

And I have one day left.

I think I can count the number of times,

I have seen that amount,

On one hand.

One finger,

Probably.

The most important finger,

Obviously.

“Gol-ly! Mr. Farmer!” My new farm hand said with unreasonable enthusiasm. I think his name was Timmy, or Jason, or Robert? God, I can’t remember. They just come and go so fast. “I can’t believe I get to start work on the farm today.”

I took a sip of bourbon from the bottle and eyed the horizon. Waiting. “Aye. But, ye best get your pitchfork ready there, boy.”

The boy looked up at me with innocent eyes. “Why?”

Staring at him, I realized I would kill to be able to go back to that same level of nativity he has. I took another sip of bourbon, letting its vanilla and caramel flavors coat the back of my throat. My eyes are different now. Thick, black, bags underlined thick. My irises, once a warm brown, now a ghostly grey. And my pupils, closed slits that only spied for incoming threats. They've seen too much, and because of that they chose to remain fixed on the horizon. Waiting. “Adventurers.” I replied in a low, rumbling voice that was roughened from years of smoking cheap cigarettes to take the edge off.

“Mr. Farmer…” The boy picked up the old farm hand’s pitch fork, examining the handle closely. “There’s blood on this.”

“Aye. If you’re lucky, yours won’t join it.”

I heard a faint clatter of hooves. Not horses. Not yet. The sound came from behind us, in the barn. It was Bessie, my prized cow--and the reason all those pesky adventures come ’round here. Bessie’s special, ya see, she has golden milk. Great for potions and whatnot, but not so great for the farmer, i.e. me, that owns her and has to protect her from adventurers.

I took another swig of bourbon, then I glanced down at the boy. He was so young. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. I doubt he’s ever had a good liquor in his life. Offering the bottle to him, I said. “Here, boy, have a sip.”

“Oh, no thank you, Mr. Farmer. I don’t really drink.”

I chuckled at his rejection. “Not yet.”

Suddenly, my stomach pinged with anticipation. They were here.

There was a new stampede of horse hooves in the distance, towards the horizon. “Best stand up, boy.” I ordered. “Here they come.”

comfort

in grey skies

love

in cold mornings

joy

in fresh snow

Let’s get one thing straight: This isn’t Hell.

Well, yeah, it looks like Hell. And sometimes we call it that. But it isn’t “Hell”.

Let me explain. Everyone dies. Pretty obvious. And when you die, you have a choice of your afterlife.

All the good, pure, incredibly boring souls choose Oasis, a paradise where nothing ever changes and nothing you do matters. Enjoy your eternal reward, losers.

All the interesting people choose Inferna. Which is not Hell. I promise.

Inferna is more like a second life. We’ve got gamblers and addicts and murderers, movie stars and prostitutes and one guy who looks suspiciously like the pope from a hundred years ago. There are no consequences here. You can’t kill anyone, so stabbing someone is perfectly fine. You can’t lose your life savings and end up homeless and destitute, because belongings don’t matter. Your addiction isn’t a problem, since you’re not gong to die and neither is anyone else. Sin isn’t real, not in Inferna.

Awesome, right?

Anyway, once you end up in Inferna, you lose your old name. Instead, you becoming an “imprint” of the last thing you saw or heard before you died. Its not that cut and dry, but that’s the basics of it.

For example, my friend Dragonfly drowned in some lake in the fifties. Technically, the last thing she saw was the water, but the image she latched on to was the dragonfly buzzing above the surface. Now she’s blue, and she has cool wings and stuff. And Kiss was stabbed to death at a ball sometime in the 1300s, where the last thing she heard was the music at the party. But she was focused on the lips of the guy who stabbed her, who had kissed her moments before while they were dancing.

You’re going to love it here, trust me. Sure, it takes some getting used to, the whole “morals don’t matter” thing, but once you do, this is way more of a paradise than whatever those guys are doing up there. You’ve got plans to make, ambitions to pursue, and an eternity to spend on whatever you want! And fear is a thing of the past, since you can’t die.

Enjoy your time in Inferna. Just, don’t call it Hell. Those guys in Oasis are annoying enough without the superiority complex.

I could feel my brain expanding.

Stretching itself to the edges of my skull,

Threatening to leak out my ears.

Drip, drip.

I could hear it hit the tile floor.

Drip.

Drip.

I stared at the puddle.

Growing, growing.

Flowing into the cracks in between individual tiles.

g to the corners of the room.

Faster and faster it came.

It filled up to my toes.

Ankles.

Knees.

Hips.

Waist.

Chest.

Shoulders.

I got one last breath before I was engulfed by my own mind.

I bolted awake,

sitting up in bed,

the sheets clinging to my soaked thighs.

I climbed sorely off of my mattress,

sweat dripping off of me.

Drip, drip.

I could hear it hit the tile floor.

Drip.

Drip.

My stiff back,

Leaning against the rough wood.

Legs pulled into my chest,

As if to get away from the cold stone floor.

Flies buzzing,

Around my stinking,

Half dead body,

And dirt,

Getting caught in the spaces between my ribs.

Dreams of the sky,

I no longer see.

Hatred of the water,

Which I used to love,

But now sit in,

Day,

After day.

Cold wind blows in through the high slit,

That doesn't show the sky.

Not an inch.

My way out blocked by a barrier;

A large,

Unforgiving,

Metal door.

Opening,

Showing the time is midday.

A single piece of bread,

Every other day.

More water spilling onto the floor,

As if drinking water off the floor,

Can somehow make me more pathetic.

The door opens countless times,

Showing the passing of hours,

Of day,

Of Weeks.

Considering trying to escape,

But hearing only the coughs of other dying prsioners,

Outside the door.

Coughs.

Just like mine.

Door opening,

Meager food shoved in,

Time passing endlessly,

Pointlessly.

A small soggy pile of old,

Rotting bread,

Because caring about my world,

About my miserable existence,

Is so far beyond me,

That I no longer even bother.

Ribs protruding more,

Death coming faster.

Caring less and less,

As the haze of starvation,

Dehydration,

Lack of sleep,

And complete apathy,

About my situation fills my mind.

Time still passes,

I think,

But they've stopped opening the door.

Death comes soon.

Words might just be blots of ink on a page, but they have power. They might be simple sounds carelessly uttered from a mouth, but they can crush confidence and provoke anger. Words might be soft and emotional, cried in the midst of war, but they have the power to arise courage in the hearts of men. Words might be sung from the bottom of a hurting heart with no one listening, but they have the power to reach the ear of a great God who can turn sorrow into dancing. Words might be little things written on a little square piece of paper, but they have the power to bind hearts or separate them. They have the power to start wars or end them.

Will you walk with me,

Just for a mile or two?

I can show you the stone shaped like a heart

That makes me think of you

I'll take you by the university

Where someday I might learn

Where the ever-expanding bubble of knowledge

Is what I aim to earn

I can show you the way to the florist's

Whose roses and hibiscuses smell so sweet

Or the cafe down the avenue

Where we may grab a bite to eat

And finally we'll go to the park

And we'll sit by the trees

We can watch the passerby

As we sit calm, content, and at ease

I vow

In future

To say

"You're on your own,

"Good luck."

Instead of sacrificing myself.

Again.

She flew a thousand miles to meet me.

I never imagined anybody would ever want me enough to do that.

She insisted on taking a cab from the airport rather than have me pick her up. Miss Independence.

Her feisty nature had been obvious in our messages and emails. She was warm and humourous. But from our first meeting on line I had felt her underlying passion. Her eroticism, bubbling below her calm exterior. Wild and imaginative, the same as me. But somehow, always controlled. Unlike me. I always let my feelings run away with me, pushing the boundaries too far and making a fool of myself in the end.

If I’d had my way, we’d have arranged to meet after our first week.

But Della was smarter than that. More measured. She kept me in check. And although, of course, we had erotic conversations, and eventually calls and video calls, she never let me push too far. Our conversations were increasingly sensual but never pornographic. Much more Lady Chatterley’s lover than Debbie Does Dallas.

That was one of the many things that drew me to her. Of course her bobbed blonde hair, lipstick red smile and deep blue icy eyes where the initial attractors. I was smitten. But it was her intelligence, humour and controlled passion that made me think this could be something real.

So, one year on, she flew a thousand miles to meet me. I’d taken two weeks annual leave from work and spent all day cleaning and tidying to make sure the house was ready.

Even the spare room. The room that gave me my only unease about this crazy visit. Would it be needed? Or would we share my bed?

I had no idea. We hadn’t discussed it. Of course we had become intimate at times. But always appropriately so. Our pictures were sometimes sexy. But never sexual. I occasionally went topless. Della flashed her bra sometimes. But nothing more. Thank goodness.

We had kissed down the phone sometimes, a strangely erotic thing to do, it turns out. But our decorum held firm.

So, here I was, putting the finishing touches to dinner as her cab brought her ever closer.

I remember Jerry Lee Lewis came on my random play music player. The Lewis Boogie. But I was too nervous for rock n roll.

I turned it off just as the door bell chimed.

My heart beat faster as I headed to the door. I steadied myself before opening it to the warmth of the evening.

Her smile shone bright as our eyes met for the first time in person. I stepped back and she stepped in. Eyes locked.

Closing the door behind her, she laid her suitcase down. We smiled again.

“Hi”.

It was the only word. Said together. Before we stepped into each others arms and kissed an eternal kiss.

Our hearts united. Our souls entwined. Our worlds became one.

Della never saw the spare room in that first fortnight.

And she never went home.

Jenna was born on our first wedding anniversary. Parents at forty-four!

And we lived.

Happily Ever After.

https://youtu.be/c31qo7xio3Y