Stephen Gordon: Family Law Specialist

Annalise told me she could see me in dreams. That her spirit flew free when she slept, and she flitted from mind to mind, from viewer to viewer. I did not believe her, not initially. Not until I felt her gaze upon me, peering from the eyes of a stranger. From many strangers, as it turned out.

In all my wanderings, in all my so-called 'philandering,' Mr. Gordon, I have loved only one woman. You will never find a more loyal, a more devoted lover than myself.

Ah.

Yes, well, there is that. My wife will not be pleased either way.

Meh

Marty's soul made a squelching sound when he pulled it out. It didn't come from the heart; more the kidney area, really. Possibly the appendix. He held it up in both hands, cradling it like it was delicate blown glass. It was certainly precious to him; it was the core of his being, the quintessence of everything he was and could ever be; it defined him as he defined it, and there could be no dividing line, no separation, no point where one left off and the other began.

"Is that all?" Louise asked. "I thought it would be cuter."

Light Above, Shadow Below

The City of the Damned is a dark place to a visitor, though the inhabitants move about the streets as if they are lit by noonday sun. At every corner, there is a stout oaken pole outfitted with a rough hemp rope. Each rope is wrapped around the neck of a virtuous soul. They hang, eyes bulging, the unlucky few still slowly strangling, and below, the accursed throngs chatter gaily, in utter darkness save for faint traceries of molten rock.

"What light they give!" the passersby say. "So pure and fine!"

The lowering shadows of the city swallow them all.

If You Love Something, Let It Go

When the demons came to take our souls, most people were quite upset. The only faction unopposed were the strict materialists, who maintained that they'd never needed souls before and the demons were welcome to them and would you like a glass of Coke before go, Mr. Elzebub?

"You can't do this!" everyone else cried out, as black and dripping claws plucked the damp shreds forth to dry in the sulfurous heat. "Those are ours!"

The demons heard this and laughed, great bellows of hilarity like cannonfire and lightning. Overhead, the pale scraps of soul danced on the burning wind.

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."

Cobbler

The little old man with the extravagant mustache remained in his elegant, obsolete shop, serving his dwindling customers as best he could. They left with mended shoes and a bounce in their steps that they couldn’t quite explain, a cheerful, joyous, expansive sensation. Panhandlers knew the blocks around the shop as better than average, though they’d never have guessed why.

The only clue was the hand-lettered placard below the shop’s name in the big window. Most chuckled when they read it. He’d expected as much, but he was incapable of deception, even by omission. It read: “Shoes repaired. Souls resurfaced.”