Afterlife

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

Lies.

There is no tunnel. No welcome by ghostly outspread arms. No river of milk and honey.

Instead, I see a river of blue. Vertical lines of binary code, scrolling endlessly in the void. The emptiness is so vast, it tugs at my soul, a remembrance. Grief.

I begin to walk, seeking. I push back the lines of code like a curtain. And then there you are. Your ocean eyes, your quicksilver smile.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker

The Mist

One morning, Mayor Baffels woke up to find a dark mist had descended upon the city.

His first thought was on how the mist would play in the upcoming election. People would look for him to have the answers. Was it caused by pollution? Had there been an explosion? Were their lives in danger?

Baffels would use the opportunity to bolster his leadership credentials during a crisis. He expected it would ensure his reelection.

In the end, he did win, but the hellfire and destruction that were unleashed by his deal with devil made his victory rather pyrrhic in nature.