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Writer who might post her prose.

[secret-ghost-writer]

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[secret-ghost-writer]

God's Accountant

1481 words. Flash fiction.

The last thing Noah remembered was crossing the road to his grandma’s place. He cooked for her every day since her vision failed her. Now he thought he might have inherited the impairment because what he saw couldn’t have been fact. Before he could assess the situation, he felt a harsh sting in his lungs, disabling his body. He collapsed, but met the ground gently. The air was as thick as water. With the burning sensation spreading to his skin, he squinted for a clear vision, but it appeared his surroundings weren’t very defined. All he saw were brown and red artifacts blending into each other. It matched the watery-esque air density. He hasn’t drowned, has he? That didn’t compute. Although he was boiling inside and out, there was something to breathe.

“Hello?!” he shouted. “Is anyone here?!”

“Why, yes!” a raspy voice answered from afar. “Are you new?” 

The growing noise of its steps resembled the sound of claws rather than feet. Noah swallowed hard, racking his throat.

“AAAAAGH!”

“You are new!” said the voice, much closer now. “It’s been quite a while since I got to do this…” It burst out wheezing, too loudly to be more than a meter away. Noah covered his eyes and mouth. 

“So,” the thing composed itself, “you died. On Earth you were a murderer, therefore--” It couldn’t help but crackle as he awaited to hear what had happened to him, but had a guess in mind.

“You’ve been sentenced to Hell.”

“I’m sorry,” Noah swiftly muffled, “That’s not right.”

“They all say that,” it snorted.

“I wasn’t a murderer. I lived a normal life.”

“Did you though?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,” he could hear it itching its slimy skin, inches away. “That’s strange. A year-long walk to the north will get you someone to talk to.”

The noise of its claws scratching the ground returned. Once Noah could barely hear it anymore, he fluttered his eyes open. In the distance was a wide-shouldered creature with seven seemingly broken limbs, dragging them around as if they were bags. Each limb was clawed and repeatedly pierced the alleged demon’s lower torso, which was thinner than a small tree trunk. Where the head could’ve been located was beyond his comprehension. He almost yelled out a shriek, but wisely, his hand still covered his mouth. The sound was quiet and indecipherable.

It took him a month to begin progress somewhere. At first he thought he’d have no choice but to crawl north, but after a month of his environment mingling through the “air”, he started paying close attention to the details that stuck around. He hardly moved and wouldn’t make it to the help in a decade. He then resorted to walking on four. Standing on four was an achievement of itself; it took him an indiscernible amount of time to make any motions. Nevertheless, he got the hang of it. The trick was to relax his torso and let his limbs carry him in a never-ending plank, making him deeply remorseful for not exercising when he was alive. On one unfortunate occasion he had hiccups, rendering him a plant whenever they struck him.

He didn’t require sleep, nor did the red hues around him change. He didn’t know how long had passed until he came across another human soul, but once he thought he’d seen one, he was desperate.

“Hey!!!” he called out to a human-like shape.

“Yes?!” a woman’s voice replied.

He pushed through the substance around him more intensely than ever. She wasn’t nearly as far as he initially thought.

“Hello!” he said, now kneeling before her. “I’m sorry. I haven’t spoken to anyone in a really long time.”

“Oh my, someone apologized to me.”

“Ahaha!”

She sighed. “Why are you on four?” 

“I’m not sure how not to.”

Scowling, she grabbed his hand and lifted him by force. He immediately teared up in agony; she didn’t seem to care and trudged away.

“Does the pain go away?” He asked.

“No. We’re being punished here, fool.”

Noah’s eyes widened. “What are you punished for?”

Not bothering to stop moving away or face him, she said, “I was a cannibal.”

Momentarily he feared for his life, but ultimately caught on to how absurd that is. A long journey was still ahead of him. Now standing up, he spotted a plethora of demons on his way, and deduced he’d likely crossed paths with plenty he couldn’t have seen from the ground. At first, they frightened him into freezing solid until they were out of sight; they’d noticed the living statue avoiding their gaze, but didn’t seem to care. The most response he’s got from them were a few chuckles. Along the tormenting navigation, he became less and less fazed, later even finding commonalities between them to keep himself occupied. 

By the time he got to the help, he’d understood the ropes of Hell. He’d gotten used to the liquid fire that burnt both his skin and his innards, and the sight of grotesque monstrosities was mundane. Despite that, he frowned at the building it was in. It was indistinguishable from a small office building, had no more than five floors, and was covered top to bottom in beige. The interior didn’t bring him any clarity either; the layout was just benches on one side, counter desks on the other. He was bamboozled when he spotted the dusty machine that gave him his number in line. The number was far too long to memorize, and a stranger picked up on his vain attempts.

“I’ve been here for over eighty years; you cannot memorize this,” said the stranger.

“Eighty years? Is the line that long?” Noah answered.

“No, these nitwits just keep dismissing my concern. See, I don’t belong here.”

“Neither do I!” Noah beamed. “They said I’m a murderer when I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

“We’re on the same boat. I told them I was just following orders, but they wouldn’t listen.”

Noah got off the seat after that. He was sitting alone on the floor when he realized the number repeatedly called was his. On the desk in front of him was the most human-like demon he’s ever seen, but its voice was still off-putting. He politely explained the error and rebuffed the demon’s insistence that he was a bad person. To his surprise, that wasn’t enough to get him out of Hell. The demon outlined that his claim needs to be verified by God’s accountant, who initially judged him as a murderer. From down there, reaching God’s accountant was a prolonged and tedious procedure since in the past, Hell had issued an overwhelming amount of prank calls. Thus, a decade-long wait ensued.

There was not much to do in that building. He’d learned his lesson not to try conversing with the people keeping him company, and their constant scuffles ensured he wasn’t missing out on anything. Every so often he’d tune in to their quarrels out of boredom, but soon nothing could’ve surprised him. At one point he realized the hideous material he’s breathing could be compressed, and built tiny balls to play with. Despite how they stung his fingers, over the years he began crafting various shapes out of them; even developing complex sculptures after training his eyes to see them through the liquid. The sculptures gained the attention of a few lowlifes who touched them and inquired how he swallowed the pain, to which he wasn’t eager to answer.

Eventually, God’s accountant went over his case and reported its slip up. Heaven’s officers apologized profusely, but Noah wanted to hear the remorse from the one who sentenced him. In no position to refuse, the officers escorted him to its chamber. It could hardly contain them all inside and was filled to the brim with disorganized paperwork. In the center, inking in haste, was God’s accountant. He didn’t plan to, but once Noah saw it, he slapped it across the face before the officers restrained him. In a flash, the accountant was back flailing its brush on the countless papers. It couldn’t afford to meet Noah’s eyes, but it could hear them tearing up.

“I’m so, so sorry,” it cried, “This hasn’t happened in 210 years--”

“It’s happened before?!” Noah cut him off.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m all alone here. So many souls die in such little time,” it gulped. “I tried my best. I’m sorry.”

Noah turned downwards. He noticed that the floor beneath them was countless layers of spilled ink.

“Now, I’m already behind. I must continue. But Heaven is yours to enjoy.”

The officers opened the cell door and unhanded Noah, but he didn’t leave the room. In fact, he never did. Instead, he spent the rest of eternity lending a hand to the incompetent fool; dooming himself to never-ending bureaucracy alongside God’s accountant. No virtuous soul has been misjudged since.

[secret-ghost-writer]

A Pigeon

212 words. Micro fiction.

Since Ruth’s husband went on a prolonged work trip, the only one keeping her company was the house’s messenger pigeon. Her loud presence irked her neighbors; they haven’t invited her to a social event in years. With her spouse gone, her visits to feed the pigeon lasted hours. Often she caressed its feathers and told it stories, both real and made up, with an enthusiasm that’s usually exclusive to humans. It was with great sorrow she caged it to transport a letter to the husband, Darcy.

Upon receiving it, Darcy sank. The letter found him as he was packing his belongings to flee their bloc with his lover, Ludwig. His hand shaking, he penned a profuse apology for committing adultery with another man. Ludwig grew concerned upon hearing the cries, but a fight broke out once he read the message. The written admission infuriated him, but Darcy refused to budge. He insisted Ruth would keep their secret until Ludwig was drained.

After Darcy’s tearful hands repeatedly loosened the knot on the pigeon’s leg, he sent it away. Ludwig peered at it soaring until it’d become a dot—invisible for Darcy and a discrete aim for his bullet.

When Ruth’s neighbors started gossiping about her failed marriage, she didn’t have her new pigeon friend.