The Merest Fraction of a Soul

"I don't know about this," said Brenda. She glanced nervously behind her as the incubus pushed her chair in. He winked.

"Hon, it's fine," said Jon. "It's like fast food. A little bit every now and then won't hurt much."

"But it does hurt?"

"Madam," said their waiter, materializing in a puff of brimstone, "there is no pain at all here. We offer the finest earthly pleasures in a strict transactional mode. The most succulent meats, the most delicate glazes..."

"I'm vegetarian."

"How wise. Healthy and moral." The waiter smiled, revealing razor teeth. "Shall we start with a salad, then?"

The Old Standby

It is cold where they are. The warrens are full of movement, full of fur and ears and twitching noses, but cold nonetheless. They do not groom. They do not quarrel. There is nowhere to go; the warren has no exit.

At intervals, the Glove appears. It selects a rabbit at random, and they await it in frozen silence. The Chosen is both lucky and cursed. Lucky, because once above the Hat's brim, he is able to feel warmth and see light again. Cursed, because he hangs for that moment above the Hat.

The Hat, and the icy tunnels within.

Plan B

There was a rumble in the distance. One of the immense skyscrapers crumbled and fell in on itself as pale fire leapt upwards to paint the sky. The moon flared red as blood. Rogmund stood before the window with his hands behind his back.

"Bad news, sir," said Jeff the intern. "We've broken through into the ravenous Hell dimension three months prior to projections."

"What's the impact?"

"Down for the next quarter before we can mobilize the weapons, ammo, and medical divisions."

"Hm."

"We'll be down after, too. Population losses."

Rogmund watched the streets burn. "Cash my stock options. Backdated."

Ensure Your Meat Is Fresh and Preferably Free-Range

Viv and Rinny slumped against the oven door, gasping for breath, Rinny somewhat over-dramatically. Viv had long, thin cuts down her arm, three lines like fingernail tracks. Rinny's bangs were scorched to nothing. From inside the stove, something shrieked and gibbered in languages long dead. From the tone, they were curses of the most dire sort.

"Where did you get that cookbook again?" asked Rinny.

Viv ignored her. She hauled herself upright and limped to the counter, where the stained tome rested. "Now that we've basted the imp," she said, "we just have to bake the Hell out of it."

Nor Hope of Heaven Nor Fear of Hell

Long one today. I felt like there were too many ideas to fit this one into a hundred words, and it's one I really wanted to write. Hope y'all find it interesting.

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It was a pitiable corner of Hell, a singular accomplishment in a landscape whose very existence was a lament and a curse. He tried not to feel too sorry for himself as he listened to his soul-flesh sizzle on the hot rocks of the cave; he'd certainly endured worse in his time here, and this, at least, was quiet.

After a time that might have been ten minutes or might have been a half-century, he became aware of a niggling sensation... of boredom. It grew from a momentary itch to an appalling fire in what seemed to be only moments, no matter how he distracted himself with new and interesting burn patterns on his singed buttocks. Perhaps that was the ultimate horror of this part of the Pit: to drive souls back into torment as into blessed release from the grip of ennui.

That was when he heard the sniveling.

Straining to see in the sulfurous fumes and amid spires of pitch-black rock, the soul saw a tiny blot of something still darker. A demon! Albeit one as sad and uninteresting as its tiny demesne. Perhaps a demon as puny as that would be able to inflict only similarly puny tortures; and that, he reflected, would be more interesting than crouching in a dark corner.

"Hallo!" he called, with cheeriness that surprised even himself. "It appears I've lost my way."

Red eyes flashed briefly, quickly covered once more with a scaly hand. "Go away."

"Hardly welcoming," said the soul. "It's not as though you've any other souls to flay."

The demon's voice was like rusty wire and sour milk. "Go away. I have neither pity nor anger to spare for you."

"Of course," said the soul. "Yearning for Heaven, whence you fell. Do you crave readmittance or simply destruction? I've met all sorts."

"Neither."

"Neither? You're happy here?"

"Of course not," the demon snapped. "This is Hell. But I prefer it here, where I know I am meant for suffering."

"And is Heaven not conversely meant for pleasure?"

The weary red eyes flickered into view again, momentarily. "Not for everyone."