They lifted the hacksaws, stepped forward, and brought them down. Samson experienced every sharp lick in slow motion. Is that what the cloud folk felt before they became cloud folk, before he’d sent them there by sawing them apart, starting while they were still alive?
Several times he thought he might pass out, but losing consciousness seemed impossible, even when they cut most of the way through his neck and used their blood-covered hands to pull his head the rest of the way off, to a full break.
He was dead. He was awake. He was dissected. And he felt everything.
This isn’t Heaven! he thought on a loop. This isn’t Heaven! This isn’t Heaven! This is—
Sparky appeared before him, wearing the same stupid grin he’d been wearing just moments before Samson kicked the dog into the backyard pool. With only ladders and no steps to exit, the dog had swum itself to exhaustion before succumbing to the waters. Those waters, as he recalled, had been an awful lot like the strangely shimmering sky his severed head was now facing.
Mom doesn’t know, he thought. His mind—now as fractured as his body—was going back to his youth. Mom can’t know. I’ll tell her he fell in and I didn’t see it. She’ll believe me.
But Sparky knew the truth. He had let the cloud folk know as well, with a single bark. Samson was eight when he kicked his dog into the water and watched with a curious grin as it drowned. That was almost two full years before a semi truck plowed through his sister Vivian’s car and tore her to pieces.
The dog’s dumb grin transformed, just as the mouths of the cloud folk—Samson’s human victims—had widened moments ago. Sparky’s jaw fell freakishly slack, almost detaching. Its teeth grew impossibly long and sank into Samson’s temples.
Sparky carried him far, far away from the others, who were exchanging celebratory remarks following the task of detaching his limbs. It was an unusual sensation, for although the pieces of his body were left behind, he could still feel their portions of a collective pain.
Finally, Sparky stopped and dropped Samson’s head. Facing the sky, which continued sparkling that brilliant blueness, he watched the shape of a tree sprouting upward like a magic beanstalk. Something started forming between the branches, and he realized in horror that it was a treehouse.
It’s my childhood treehouse, he thought. My dad built it for me, but I barely played in it. We buried Sparky just beneath it.
It was now Sparky’s turn to bury him. He could hear the dog’s paws, likely transformed like its mouth, digging in the clouds. Staring into the shimmering sky—a cloudless sky, haha—the executed man felt foolish for thinking that someone like him could ever make it to Heaven.
“This isn’t Heaven!” Samson blurted through the tatters of his voice box. “This is Hell!”
The dog used its snout to nudge his severed head into the hole. It fell in such a way that the dead and decimated serial killer was looking up at his former pet. The monstrous maw had returned to that adorably infuriating grin, the same canine smirk that once upon a time drew out a young boy’s murderous ire.
“Oh, you made it to Heaven, alright,” Sparky said, a blood-infused string of saliva dripping onto Samson’s forehead. “It just ain’t your Heaven.”
THE END
NO ORDINARY DISORDER
By J.J. Smith
The backup of mail had filled Mrs. Bagley’s mailbox, leaving no room for any more letters or magazines, and that so worried Ernest Smallwood that he found himself slowly opening the front of the Bagley residence to check on the old lady. He was sure that entering a client’s home like this was against the duties of a Postal Service delivery carrier, but he did so anyway because he liked Mrs. Bagley. She always had a warm smile and “hello” when she came out of her home to collect her mail. But for the last week there hadn’t been any sign of her, and the accumulation of mail in her letterbox led him to believe Mrs. Bagley might need help, and Ernest decided he wasn’t going to wait for the police. Rather, he’d take a quick look inside and call the authorities if needed. That the front door was unlocked, allowing him easy access, both relieved and unnerved him. He was relieved because he didn’t have to break a window, and unnerved because, despite her advanced age, Mrs. Bagley was still sharp enough to realize that an elderly woman who lived alone was a target, so she’d keep her doors locked.
Ernest waited until he crossed the threshold before shouting out her name. There was no reply. He then stepped through the foyer into the living area and was shocked to find the room full of old and yellowed newspapers that were stacked from floor to ceiling, creating a real fire hazard. In addition to the newspapers, there were boxes and crates, as well as clothes and items ranging from old televisions to toys, to tools, to old computer parts and stereo equipment, all of which were peppered throughout the room in massive piles. To get around those piles, Mrs. Bagley apparently created pathways through the mountains of junk, which caused Ernest to be watchful for “stack collapse,” a hazard the Postal Service warned carriers to be aware of. Letter carriers were trained to be prepared for unusual clients and houses on their routes, including houses in similar condition to Mrs. Bagley’s. Plus, Ernest had experience with the disorder known as hoarding.
In addition to stack collapse, carriers are warned of other dangers lurking in such a house, including rats, squirrels and other rodents nesting among the debris, as well as roaches, silverfish and fleas, and just as dangerous as the vermin, there was the possibility of biohazards hidden under the trash. With all those perils, it is stressed that a carrier do everything possible to avoid entering such a dwelling, but if they had to enter, to know the locations of the exit nearest to them at any one time.
Ernest pondered leaving now and calling the police to let them check on Mrs. Bagley, but something stopped him. He didn’t know why, but he needed to press on, certainly to find out what had happened to the woman who lived there, but just as important to Ernest, he needed to find out what was going on in this house, so he moved deeper into the trash dump Mrs. Bagley called home.
Ernest stepped onto a path that lead around a stack and into the dining room. Once there, he was faced with more of the same, but that’s when he noticed something even stranger. The items seemed to be used to construct a network of smaller stacks that resembled walls, or dikes. He was amazed by the intricate detail of the structures, and thought, Mrs. Bagley must be an architectural genius, but he then recalled that at one time Mrs. Bagley had a husband. He found out that information when, not long after taking the route, he delivered a box containing the ashes of Mr. Bagley. Because they were human remains, the box had to be signed for. As Ernest held out the box, Mrs. Bagley said, “So that son-of-a-bitch is here.” While her words were angry, her eyes became glazed with tears. As she signed for the package Mrs. Bagley related how her husband had been living out of state with another woman for the previous fifteen years. However, they never divorced so she was his next of kin. Therefore, all the decisions concerning his remains were made by Mrs. Bagley. I suppose Mr. Bagley could have made these, he thought, pondering the structures. Or, they could have done them together, or maybe it’s all her and that’s why he left. The only thing to do was continue to follow the dike-like structures and see if they led to Mrs. Bagley. He called out to her a few times, but there wasn’t any reply. Ernest followed a structure into the kitchen, and that’s where he found the opening to the tunnels. In the kitchen, the structure ran through the middle of the room where most homes would have a kitchen table and disappeared through a doorway. But as unusual as that was, what made it stranger still was there was an opening in the wall; Ernest investigated and saw the tunnel was split into two directions. He knew instantly that he had to check these tunnels for Mrs. Bagley, but he didn’t have a flashlight, and looking in he found the section of the tunnel leading to the right was dark, but the section of the tunnel leading left was emanating light. So, the choice was made for him.
He dropped to his knees in front of the tunnel entrance and leaned forwa
rd so he was on all fours. He then crawled in the direction of the light, and after a few yards he wondered if his imagination was playing tricks on him, because the tunnel seemed longer than it should have been. He also thought, I’m going TOWARD the light, which isn’t usually considered a good thing. The thought made him smile, and he then pressed on. As he noted earlier, the tunnel seemed longer, and while that couldn’t be true, what was true was it took a lot longer to crawl the distance of the tunnel than to walk it. However endless the crawl seemed, it wasn’t endless, and Ernest found himself at the entrance to a chamber that must have been the structure in the dining room. The interior of the chamber was larger than a pup tent, and able to hold at least two people comfortably, and in the chamber were two occupants, but neither looked comfortable.
One of the occupants was a woman: it was Mrs. Bagley, who, along with the second occupant, was nude, and she looked to be in distress if not dead. At that instant, Ernest discovered something even more surprising than finding out Mrs. Bagley was a hoarder who used trash to create an intricate network of structures and tunnels in which she likely died. The real surprise was finding out who her companion was. Ernest wasn’t a religious man, and had never been so, but he recognized an angel when he saw one.
The angel was on its knees, slumped, as if tired or, more likely, depressed, and it cradled Mrs. Bagley’s head on its lap and stroked her hair as tears rolled down its cheeks. Ernest was terrified, and his fear left him paralyzed. Nonetheless, he internally debated what to do next when he realized he was interrupting the angel’s mourning period and was about to back out of the tunnel when the creature turned its head toward the letter carrier. Ernest froze and was going to scream, but the scream that had formed in his diaphragm was now stuck in his throat. Just as quickly, his fear evaporated, and while the angel didn’t speak, Ernest knew that he was…welcome. Now sure that he didn’t have anything to fear, Ernest relaxed and slowly entered the chamber to join them. He crawled to the opposite side of Mrs. Bagley and sat on his knees facing the angel. Ernest had seen angels depicted in everything from paintings to commemorative plates to comic books, and by marble sculptures and ceramic figurines, and they all shaped his imagination as to what such a creature would look like; this angel did not disappoint for it had a large set of white wings that dominated everything about him. Is it right to call it ‘him’? Ernest wondered. Does such a creature even have a gender? To start with, the angel lacked telling genitals, and while it did have masculine features—its body was “V” shaped with broader shoulders, but its torso lacked nipples—its structure was both delicate and tough in a way Ernest had never seen in humans. The last time he could recall seeing such a structure on a living creature was on a Siamese cat. Other domestic cats mostly had thick, brutish legs, but not the Siamese; those felines had legs that seemed so delicate that their bone structure looked to be made of porcelain. However, the legs of those cats were very strong and tough, enabling the Siamese to run, jump and pounce as well as other kitties, and that porcelain strength seemed to exist within the angel, indicating that the creature could run, jump, and fly just as well as the rest of them. But rest of who, and what was he doing here? the postman asked himself.
While Ernest wondered about the angel, the creature’s gaze remained fixed on Mrs. Bagley, but it then lifted its head and the letter carrier’s vision was pulled to the angel’s soft, sad eyes. After nearly a minute of silent staring, Ernest said, “Why are you here?”
The angel paused a few seconds and then its wings moved from behind the creature so that the tips gently caressed Ernest’s face. At first the postal worker thought it was a gesture of friendship, the way humans shake hands, or hug each other, or give a kiss on the cheek, but he soon found out it was much more.
Ernest suddenly found himself in a cramped, dark place, and it increased his fear to the point that he was on the verge of panic; but, just as suddenly, some light flooded into the “enclosure,” which was all he could think of to call whatever it was he was in. However, the introduction of light and the strong stink that invaded his nostrils made it clear he was sitting on garbage, and further examination confirmed he was in a dumpster. If that wasn’t surprising enough, the person who opened the dumpster’s lid and was looking down at him was none other than Mrs. Bagley. She smiled and offered her hand, and the next “memory”—he called it that because that is what the visions felt like—was of being covered by a thick piece of cloth. Turned out it was her coat, and he was pushed down the sidewalk in a shopping cart. That memory was quickly replaced with one of being in Mrs. Bagley’s living room and viewing the mountain of trash that wasn’t in any type of order, but just thrown into piles. That was followed by images of the trash being organized into the series of structures and tunnels that Ernest had found, and was now kneeling in. Those images were then replaced with images of Mrs. Bagley spending many hours with her unusual houseguest, including bedtime when she would shed all her clothes and join the angel in the enclosure so she could sleep under the comfort of its wings. The visions revealed a Mrs. Bagley who was happy and joyful, with not the slightest bit of bitterness, and, in a surprise to Ernest, she called the angel “Bob,” (Was Bob short for Robert, the name that was on the box of remains that he delivered? In another surprise, a voice said, “Yes.”) But then those happy moments abruptly ended during a memory of Mrs. Bagley in which she had settled in next to Bob, and suddenly she was shaking, and moaning. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the visions were gone. Exhausted by them, Ernest slumped back onto his heels and looked at the angel, who never stopped stroking the woman’s hair. That’s when the postman noticed the not so subtle transformation of the angel’s body. As beautiful as it was before, the angel was now gorgeous in a way that it sparked deep arousal in him. It was no longer masculine in nature, rather, its thighs had become plump, its slender frame had become smaller, with its wide shoulders considerably decreased in size, and nipple-less breasts had grown out of its chest. It had become feminine, but it didn’t stop there; when it lifted its head, Ernest recognized its face as the face of a girl he had known decades before in high school, and whom he was attracted to. Her name was Partridge Denhart, and he hadn’t seen her since graduation, but the unresolved feelings he had for her flooded through him causing him to ask, “Partridge?”
The face of Partridge Denhart smiled, and while Ernest was happy to see that smile, he knew it wasn’t real, but at the same time he wanted to continue to see her smile at him, so he said, “You’re aware that I have to report her death to the police. But because you’ve been hiding here, I don’t think you want to be here when they come. So, if you want, you can come home with me.” Partridge replied with a beautiful smile.
Ernest told Partridge they would have to wait until dark to sneak out of Mrs. Bagley’s house, into his car, and to his home. He then departed the house and completed his route, returning to the dwelling that night. With him he carried a flashlight, a pair of sandals and a caftan. The street on which Mrs. Bagley’s house was located was a busy residential section, and the clutter of cars forced him to park a few houses past the deceased woman’s home, a situation he didn’t like, but had to endure. He was sure to leave the door unlocked when he left the house hours earlier, and the flashlight provided enough illumination to quickly find the tunnel entrance, which he again crawled through to find Partridge still cradling Mrs. Bagley’s head. Despite the darkness outside the enclosure, the area was filled with light. Ernest said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have to go now to take advantage of the dark.”
The angel seemed to understand, for it kissed Mrs. Bagley’s forehead and gently set the deceased woman’s head down. And then, in the blink of an eye, the angel passed by Ernest and was standing by the tunnel entrance when the letter carrier emerged. Partridge was already wearing the sandals and caftan and led Ernest to the front door before relinquishing the lead. Ernest then said, “I had to park my car a few houses down. I’ll go first to make sure the street
is clear.” The angel stepped back, and Ernest exited the home. Once on the sidewalk, he looked up and down the street, and not seeing anyone, he turned and said, “We can go.” Partridge then followed Ernest to his car, and they were soon speeding through the city.
* * *
The drive to Ernest’s home was just under thirty minutes and ended with the postal worker parking in his driveway in front of the garage. Partridge waited in the car as Ernest checked the street to ensure no one was walking or driving on the block. It was empty, so he quickly led Partridge from the car into the house where he then gave a sigh of relief. After a brief pause, during which Partridge looked confused, Ernest led the angel through the house into the garage. He turned on a switch and light flooded the room revealing that the parking bay was full of undelivered mail, a mountain of it; Ernest estimated it weighed about two tons. While it was comprised of all different sorts of mail, it was mostly junk mail, but also bills, some personal letters (that he didn’t read) and official letters from government agencies that he believed were better spent as part of his “collection.” He didn’t really want to call it “hoarded mail.” He just knew it was his. Accumulating that much mail took years, and he didn’t take all the mail from his route, just a few letters that caught his attention. The rest came out of the mail processing and distribution center where he worked. He often marveled at how easy it was to walk out of the center with mail that wasn’t part of his route. Why did he do it? Why would he risk his job, public disgrace, and a possible prison sentence, for something as seemingly silly as stealing mail? That’s a question he did not have an answer to, and probably would never be able to answer. But the look on Partridge’s face as the angel examined the mountain of letters made the years of risks worth it. After a few moments, Partridge, who didn’t speak, asked, “This is for me?”
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