The Pathless Garden

by Edd

Hemmed in on three sides by the blank walls of buildings and on the fourth by an unbroken fence, the garden is never less than perfect. In spring, there are hyacinths and daffodils, in summer lilies and geraniums, and in autumn chrysanthemums and violas. In winter, nothing grows there.

There are no entrances, no paths.

And no weeds.

Mark, my husband, says the garden was put there for us and the other thirty or so families in our apartment building across the street. He says God put it there, and that angels hover over it, weeding and sowing. It might, he says, even be the Garden of Eden.

Mark says a lot of things.

And when I ask where the apple tree is, he just scowls.

Winter comes, and still no one enters the garden. The flowers drop their petals. Overnight, all the empty stalks disappear. The garden is a flat expanse of dirt ready for spring.

Mark frets about it. I wait for fresh color to enter the world. On Valentines Day he brings me a silk rose. Our fight that evening is over something inconsequential, something tiny. Something that means everything. He leaves.

It’s not the first time he has left me, but he doesn’t return. A month later a tender sapling sprouts in the center of the pathless garden. I watch to see what fruit it will bear.

Past Due

by David

Tito always meant to return the demon. Thing is, it was so darn useful when Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door. Plus, the demon did the laundry and other chores while Tito was at work. Everything was fine and dandy until he got the overdue notice.

“Holy sh*t! This can’t be right! This is the first notice I received, and it says I already owe a fine of 1.5 souls. I don’t have 1.5 souls.” He rubbed his bare scalp with one hand and shook the offending postcard in the demon’s face with the other.

The demon sneered. “Bureaucrats. Emasculated worms. I’ll take care of this.”

A month later, Tito got a second postcard. 2.0 souls, and the case was being referred to a collection agency called “The Sole Source.”

“I thought you took care of it,” he screamed. The demon was vacuuming the drapes.

“What?”

“Collection agency! And turn off the damn vacuum!” He was almost as red as the demon.

The demon took the postcard. “Oooo! They must really have something on you. These guys don’t pick up every sorry hellbound Tom, Dick, or Harriet.”

Tito was pacing back and forth. “I haven’t done anything. Not really. We need to take care of this before they get here.”

“Too late,” the demon said. The picture window exploded inward, shards of glass flashing and tinkling as they hurtled across the room. Four or five creatures hopped in. They were about the size of adult men, covered with patchy fur and what looked like scabs. Their wings were feathered. Their teeth were huge and brows low.

Tito put up his hands. “Look, this is all a misunderstanding. Here’s the demon. You can just take him now.”
“And how do we get our commission then?” the monkey asked.

“I never got the first notice,” Tito quavered. “Can’t this bill be resubmitted?”

“Sure,” the monkey growled. “But that has to be done in hell.”

“Tell you what,” Tito said. “Why don’t I send my servant here down to wait in line and get this straightened out. When the final decision is made, just let me know and I’ll pay whatever I owe.” There must be even more red tape in hell than above ground. Most likely he’d be dead before the infernal bureaucrats figured out what to do with him.

Today was Saturday. He was going to get stinking drunk tonight, and repent tomorrow. There was a Catholic church just around the corner.

The end