PARDISE HELL

I live in Paradise, Hell. It’s one of those off-the-map, subterranean cities. You have to take thousands of backroads to find the person who knows the person who knows the gate code to the gates of Hell. Most days here, it’s killer-digit weather, but the sky is a permanent ombré of orange, red, and yellow. The sky reminds you of your youth, savoring a pineapple cherry swirl popsicle with no worry in the world. The sun beats down on you like roughhousing friends, both inviting and painful. The palm trees are runway model tall and hypnotize you with their swaying limbs. Here, it’s strangely beautiful. The mail delivery here is abysmal, but you deal with it. However, the people make it worth dying in Paradise, Hell. Here, everyone has each other’s backs, tediously tending to one another’s scorched skin. Also, there’s a “Living in Hell” support group that meets Friday evenings, followed by a scrumptious potluck. With these good people, it’s easier to live in and love Paradise, Hell. I hope you consider living in Paradise. It’s one hell of a place.

RULER OF THE HILL

This afternoon I received a letter. I love receiving letters. The letter explained that I had been appointed the new ruler of the hill. I didn’t love this letter. Before I could process the news, there was rapid-fire knocking at my front door. Upon opening the door, I was stupefied at seeing a long line filled with a plethora of people. The line wound down and deep into the valley below my house on the hill like a multiple-headed, monstrous snake. People lobbed their complaints at me with spittle and spite. What had I done to deserve this? I nearly drowned in the tidal wave of the people’s loud and lewd cries. However, I quickly devised a defense strategy. I slapped a sign on my front door. The sign read: Apologies, I’m unavailable until further notice. Satisfied with my first action as ruler of the hill, I closed the door and waltzed away from the sea of poisonous people outside my house on the hill. I ruled the rest of my day in peace.

THE BAT

On my morning walk I saw two red dots glowing in the distance. As I approached, I saw a three-foot black bat hanging upside down from a tree branch. Underneath the bat was a rusty sign that read: I see all, I tell all. I asked the bat to tell me my future. He said I had to first pay a fee. Without hesitation, I paid the fee. Clearing his throat, he tapped the branch he was hanging from three times, he screeched once, and he spat at my feet. Disgusting. The bat proceeded to ominously warn me about a strawberry cream croissant. He told me it was a hell of a killer. He told me to leave immediately. Disgusting and rude. I waited with bated breath for the bat to continue, but he tried scaring me away by bulging his beady bat eyes at me. What a weirdo. Standing surprised, I demanded the bat to explain more. The bat stared at me like I was a simpleton and screamed with the fury of a thousand tired parents. He mumbled something about unappreciative people. Then, as if it was the end of the world, he shakily packed his sign and skived off with lightning speed. Confused, I scoped my surroundings to see if anyone else had witnessed this abysmal service. There was no one around–except for a strawberry cream croissant killer monster who would murder me. Today, I met Karma. She was a strawberry cream croissant killer monster.