Logan dragged Elena up Tenth Avenue clasping her fingers tightly.
He led her through the crowded streets of ghosts, bulldozing through their gaseous forms. They dispersed like lingering smoke from a blown out candle, then congealed once again a few steps away.
Elena’s grasp felt warm yet lifeless, like a fresh corpse rapidly fading away. Logan knew he only had minutes to get her out of Purgatory, to save her or would lose her forever.
Mephistopheles could renege on their contract, but if they left quickly, before he changed his mind, then perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
A desperate pact made by a desperate man.
Ten more earth years with Elena for the eternal damnation of his soul.
Read The Rest…
On a crisp October evening, Ngabo was sitting on a bench near Lennon’s memorial in Central Park.
He was reflecting on an old, faded memory. One from over twenty years ago, when he and his father had sat on this very same bench. It was their first time in New York City and Ngabo’s father had brought his worn Panasonic Discman with him.
Ngabo remembered his father jamming an earbud into his six-year-old right ear, and the other earbud into his own. He cued up his Discman and the thick muddy piano chords of “Imagine” began.
Being six though, and somewhat socially maladjusted (not unlike his father), Ngabo didn’t pick up on the importance of this small, modest moment his father was trying to create for the two of them.
When his father asked if he liked the song, Ngabo simply said, “I don’t like it.”
His reminiscence was interrupted when an older Eastern European man in a woolen pea coat sat next to him.
Read The Rest…