My short story “The Messenger” follows a conflicted angel of Death as they contemplate the morality of their job.
Coming March 2019
Proceeds from this book benefit Authors’ Tale.
This anthology delves into the many possible connections, both physical and intangible, between ink and dreams.
an excerpt of “The Messenger”
I delay the inevitable by looking anywhere but forward. To my left, I squint down a short, dark hallway that extends to what I assume is a bedroom. The door is cracked open just a hair, allowing the soft, dulcet notes of a piano to drift through the house. To my right, I can make out a dim living room with moonlight streaming in through an open window. A chilling breeze sends sheer curtains billowing out into the room like ghostly dancers in a romantic tragedy.
I’m just stalling now. Best to get this over with.
With a shiver that reaches my bones, I drag my eyes to the doorway before me. It holds a simple door made of cheap, processed wood. I can smell the fresh coat of pink paint that must have dried just this week. Though I’ve never been through this particular door before, it resembles so many others whose thresholds I’ve crossed. Some were also fresh and new, while others were worn and aged. A few were made of bars, more of cardboard, and others of guilt.
I take a deep breath and straighten my spine, lengthening my torso and lifting my chin. For a few minutes I simply hold that pose and focus on my breathing. I heard somewhere once that if you stand tall and feign courage, you will in fact feel courageous. I can’t say for sure whether it works, but I think I feel a little bit braver. Not enough, though. Never enough.