I was arranging the pages I made into the zine, trying to create a good narrative, when I realised I really was seeing a scene – from start to finish – in my head. I scrambled to open a sticky note and wrote, scrolling through my zine as I did so.
This piece is not merely anchorage: read alongside the zine, you can read the zine in a completely different way. Upon reading it back, the mood is a bit Gaimanny or Pratchettian – tongue in cheek, very human but still fantasy.
Naughty List
“Good morning. Ah – wait. Is it still morning?”
The proficient Demon checked its watch. You weren’t sure how it could see the time past all the hair. It lowered its wrist.
“I’ve just remembered – time doesn’t matter down here.”
It took its seat at the head of the long, white office table. Its reflection gleamed symmetrically back up from the wipe-clean surface. So too were the fluorescent lights reflected from the ceiling, down to the table, holding the office hostage in a cool diffuse light.
The demon’s suit fitted it well – was it Italian? You had no idea how different suits were tailored. All the fear had you thinking nonsense.
It caught you looking at the plant in the corner – a serene, healthy office plant, propped up on a tasteful glazed planter.
“A peace lily,” it commented. “They flower all year, you know.”
As it spoke, its face seemed to change. Whenever you looked at it directly – reluctantly – it seemed to shift, its features arranging and rearranging into expressions of human suffering. You weren’t sure where its voice was coming from.
Behind the demon, the office wall was made entirely of glass. You really, really wished it wasn’t.
The demon pushed a clipboard toward you. You had the unfortunate privilege of being acquainted with this board already, and you knew the drill.
You took a pen from a generously full pot sitting on the table. Each pen had the word HELL written across it in a thin golden serif. Did Hell merchandise? You wondered if anyone ever tried to steal one of the pens. If someone was already down here, perhaps one more sin wouldn’t matter.
“Oh, no,” the demon hummed, reading your thoughts clearly. “We have a special, separate part of Hell for people who steal pens. But you’re down here often enough: just enjoy them while you’re here.”
You sighed and skimmed your form. The demon tapped its nails on the table, in no rush.
BERNARD HARTSON 1942-2022
THEFT
ENVY
GREED
In signing as the Guardian Angel of this soul, I agree that the above sins are correct as listed and cede this soul to Hell, where judgement will be passed as It sees fit.
SIGNED ______________________
The demon laughed: it must have read your thoughts again.
“Don’t be so pessimistic. Perhaps you’re just unlucky with your souls. You can keep them as safe as you want, but you can’t protect them from themselves.”
It snapped its fingers and the clipboard disappeared from in front of you, reappearing in its hand.
“…Until next time?”
You pushed your chair back, making the metal joints squeal. The demon flashed one more smile as you turned away.
“Oh, but it is funny. And I didn’t think angels used that kind of language – even in their thoughts.
“Perhaps one day it will be your name on my little naughty list.”
SEASIDE ILLUSTRATION 