(Hello People! There Is A Reason I Didn't Post Writing Things For A While And It Is Partially Because

(Hello people! There is a reason I didn't post writing things for a while and it is partially because of this! Enjoy the fruits of my brain!)

Kel stares at the next door. "I just go in? Again?"

"Be lucky you get this sort of reprieve," I warn them. Then, I launch into the compulsory speech: "You have passed the test relating to the sin of Wrath. The next test begins whenever you step through that door. You have six tests remaining. Sixteen people have made it out so far. Will you be the seventeenth?"

"Sixteen?" they ask. "Wasn't it four? Oh god, how long have I been in there?"

I want to tease the answer to that question, and yell at them about their deity name use, but my contract allows me to respond with two things only. "Sixteen people have made it out so far. I am not able to answer your test-related question."

They huff. "Why not?"

“Reasons,” I respond, also huffing. This, of course, pisses them off, but I shove them into the test before they can do anything they'll regret.

This test is called THE TEST OF ENVY, which should be painted on the door in bold letters. But unfortunately, we can't do that, because it would tip the person taking the test off.

When Kel was seventeen, they applied for a few jobs as a DJ in their hometown. They arrived at one of them, only to realise that the job had gone to the person who arrived fifteen minutes earlier. His stage name was 4GuysIn1.

This job, obviously, should have gone to Kel. However, they saw 4GuysIn1 playing a few days later, and he advertised his social media. So Kel went on it.

And damn, he was good. Kel hated that. They hated that someone could be this famous and take the job they could have had.

Kel made a few anonymous Twitter accounts, went on his Twitter, and sent him hateful messages. The accounts kept getting blocked and banned, but Kel made more.

They sent so many that 4GuysIn1 set his account to private and canceled one of his shifts. But a few days later, he was back, showing no outward sign of distress.

Of course, most of Kel's accounts were found and banned, but they didn't care. They didn't use Twitter that much anyway. And they had (probably) achieved what they wanted to.

They had. 4GuysIn1 was stressed out beyond belief. He had five seperate panic attacks while Kel was sending the messages and two panic attacks the day Kel stopped sending the messages. He only calmed himself down when he realised the accounts were all made on the same three days.

But we're not here to talk about him (he's currently on his third test, going remarkably quickly). We're here to talk about Kel.

Kel stumbles into the room. They're suddenly immaculately dressed, in a mustard yellow suit and tie, and a white dress shirt. They blink at the colour, but don't stay like that for long before taking in their surroundings.

They're at a press conference, or something that looks quite like it. People dressed formally wander around the room, exchanging words with other people. There's a low buzz of calm chatter.

The room itself is quite large, with maybe one hundred people in it at once. There's a few paintings on the walls that are clearly copies of famous artworks. The floor is carpeted with an intricately decorated rug. There’s enough space between the ceiling and the people's heads to have a chandelier and a few feet of room to spare.

But the most shocking thing is the stage that takes up nearly a third of the room, complete with spotlights everywhere. There's a few instruments scattered around in seemingly no particular order. (One of them is a DJ mixer, but it's a good one, full of everything Kel knows how to use and I don't.)

Wherever Kel is, it's rich.

Kel looks around and is suddenly approached by a man. “Kel Averon?” he asks very politely.

“What is this place?” Kel responds, awestruck. They gesture to the chandelier.

“Your show starts soon,” the man tells Kel. “You'd better prepare for it.”

Kel starts asking a question, but the lights suddenly dim, and a person walks out on stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says as Kel flinches, “we've got a few people who will be joining us today to play some excellent music. Up first is the brilliant White Slime!”

Kel had thought about their stage name for a while. They wanted one that was gender neutral and preferably with no connections to famous icons, so they chose White Slime and stuck with it.

The crowd claps for just long enough for Kel to collect their wits and scramble up. “Slime will be remixing a few songs picked by the audience today. The first one is on the screen. Everyone ready?”

Kel waits as the first song comes on, “All I Want For Christmas Is You” covered by Mariah Carey. They start doing something, but nothing happens.

They flick the ON switch to be greeted by a large blast of sound. They stumble back. It's static, but so loud the audience winces.

Kel turns the volume down, but the dial turns it up instead. They gape and flick it the other way, which works. Now they can get on to doing the important stuff.

They flip a switch, and the song loops just as it hits the word “snow”. The last second plays again, and as Kel pushes a button, repeats again and again.

Kel stabs their finger onto something else, and a perfect middle C plays.The song stops looping.

The next few minutes are one disaster after another. Nothing Kel tries to use comes out right. They flick a switch and “Oh Christmas Tree” overlays the song. They flick a different one and “Oh Christmas Tree” turns off.

When the next song comes on, Kel has a faint idea of where everything is. They mess up, and it's still a shitshow, but not as big of a shitshow.

But everything finishes. The announcer coughs and tells the audience to give Kel a round of applause.

No one claps. Kel nearly falls off the stage, shamefaced.

They don't, though. They hold it together so they can creep out into a restroom.

They open the door, stumble into the hallway, and find themself back in the same room. They're near a completely different door. The announcer is announcing someone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present… 4GuysIn1!”

Oh, no. Not here. Not when Kel's so vulnerable.

But there's no escape. The person who Kel harassed walks onstage, and he's looking as good as ever.

“Hello, ladies and gents,” 4GuysIn1 says casually. “It's such an- such an honor to be here with you today, especially on such an important date. Now, before I begin, I do think that there's a person here who ought to apologise to me for past offences. Kel, are you here?”

Kel doesn't realise people are staring at them until the muttering starts. They hold their head high and refuse to mutter a word, even as they crumble inside. They have plenty of practice staying stoic on the outside, after all.

People are still staring at them when the music starts. But everyone turns away from them when it does, because somehow, someway, playing the same song that Kel was, using the exact same DJ mixer that Kel was using, 4GuysIn1 is rocking it.

Kel's letting the tears drip down their face now. It's not fair. It's not fair. Why does 4GuysIn1 get a DJ mixer that works and an audience that listens? Why, when he had all of those things in his life? And why, for the love of god, did he feel the need to call out Kel in the middle of everyone like they were in middle school?

The crowd cheers, flagrantly and excitedly. One song - one disgustingly, abhorrently, damnedly really good remix - has ended. And the crowd loves it.

All these important rich people dressed up in their important rich clothes love him.

An icy ball coalesces in their heart. They feel it, just as their emotions fall away. They will upstage that person. They will beat 4GuysIn1 for the final time. And they will figure out how to work that damn DJ mixer.

The MC calls Kel up again. They've got this. They have no emotion, right? They remember where the skip button was, and what the volume did, and oh, dear lord…

This might be harder than they thought.

They completely fumble their chance, skipping half of the song somehow, and putting part of it in reverse. And it's still the same song. Kel is starting to get tired of “All I Want For Christmas Is You”.

And of course, when 4GuysIn1 plays again, he's perfect. Utterly perfect.

The cycle repeats. Over, and over, and over, Kel gets called out and humiliated, and then can't get the hang of the mixer. Until one repetition, they dry their tears, and devote all their time to getting the hang of it.

The controls are consistent, if mixed up. The loop button presses a note ranging from A to G in bass, seemingly randomly. Three note buttons control the speed.

They stop caring about 4GuysIn1. He's just another person taking a turn on the mixer. At least that's what they tell themselves.

But sometimes, seemingly randomly, a pang of sadness will hit Kel. And they'll be back to the horrible emotional state they were in when they started the test.

They learn to master it, though. They learn how to stop the panic attacks, even when everyone's watching.

They fully figure the DJ mixer out after three months.So they play a really good remix. They play one of the best of their life.

It takes them completely by surprise when the crowd starts booing.

They, in fact, get booed out of the hall and into the hallway, which isn't a portal back anymore.

The hallway is fancy, covered in a red floral carpet and dark wood paneling. They break down and collapse to the floor, sobbing great ugly tears of anger.

The world is against them. An entire crowd of people, all hating what they worked so hard for, so hard to understand -

They aren't stupid, of course. They figured out what sin they committed the moment 4GuysIn1 stepped on the stage. But they don't understand the scenario. Why give them a wonky DJ mixer? Why use the wrong pronouns in the addresses? Why make everyone seem important and fancy?

They grumble as they realize the answer. I never erased their memories. They remember me saying "Welcome to Hell." This hell, they think, is doing its goddamn job.

As their brain processes the endorphins released by all the crying, they remember what got them out in the last test. (Maybe I should have erased that memory, but there was no reason not to.)

They apologized. They fixed their messes.

They're quite surprised they didn't do anything in the test to make it worse. Unless they did and they don't know about it. Oh god, what if they did and that's why they've been thrown out?

Kel, stop those thoughts, they berate themselves. You can probably fix it. You just need to get back in there and apologise.

So they do so. It's messy, and there are a lot of tears, and a lot of important people staring. But they get through it and feel sort of better afterward.

And I'm quite surprised when Kel and 4GuysIn1 do a duet together, truly rocking the stage. (The apparitions are more human than I thought.)

Everyone claps, some people hoot politely, and one person throws a dollar bill onto the stage. Both people smile.

After that, Kel doesn't do much. They interact with all the apparitions, answer a few questions, and get to know 4GuysIn1. He's pretty cool, according to them.

Their attention is brought to the stage when the announcer says “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to our show tonight.” He then says a bunch of words about a foundation for children with Tourette's and gracefully announces the show is over.

Kel files out of the room with everyone else, but finds all the people vanishing the moment they step out into the hallway. I am now visible to them, of course, and they startle the moment they see me.

“Human, age 78 at time of death, stage name White Slime, gender nonbinary, owned approximately five dogs and four cats over the course of their life, mortal designation Kel?” I ask, even though we both know the answer.

“It's you again,” they say. “Did I pass?”

I repeat my question.

“Yes, I'm Kel. Did I pass?”

Why are they so impatient? I adopt a similar tone with them. “Yes. You passed the test. Time for round three.”

“Oh, sweet,” they mumble.

(For @toastedpotatoes and @crownamedblue, who like my brain words apparently)

“Welcome to Hell. To leave, all you must do is finish seven impossible tasks decided by your seven greatest sins. Four people have made it out so far. Will you be the fifth?”

the souls of the innocent

Guys, let's make a sandwich. I'll start:

Bread

Imagine an alien sharing a cool human fact they just learned like ”hey guys did you know that the silvery markings on humans actually aren’t true stripes? They’re called stretch marks, they happen when the human is growing fast enough to actually outgrow their skin, which is apparently something that just fucking happens to almost all of them at some point of their life.”

and another one is like ”wait so you’re saying humans don’t have stripes.”

”actually they do, but the stripes are invisible. There’s genetic code that’d give them stripes but they’re just the same colour as the rest of the skin. So the visible stripes are not real stripes and the real stripes are invisible.”

”I swear if you tell me one more weird human thing today I’m beating your ass.”

I was always sort of sad when they left.

I knew their names, of course. But they faded out like nearly everyone did. I scribed their first names on the back of a dresser the first one gave to me when she met me.

That was so long ago. I watched as the names filled up the space. Josie and Matthew, Bo and Luke, Arlie and Gibson. I've filled up a full line across the top in my tiny cursive.

They are all memorable in their own ways. Gibson had the sweetest dimples when he was little and marginally less sweet dimples when he got older. I can no longer remember the top half of his face, but I remember the dimples.

Luke liked wheels. He would whittle tiny little wheels out of branches from a fallen oak and give them to me. I would put an axle in them and give them back. We would trade making parts until we had a tiny little wagon.

Matthew was tall and dark. He didn't speak often and preferred to be outside. When he got older, he spent most of his time in his rocking chair on the porch. But he was always humming a song if he wasn't talking. I no longer remember his face but I remember his voice.

And Josie was the first of them all. She was the one who charmed me with her smile and wits. She was the one who had my kids, and we raised them together. And it is Josie who I remember now, no matter the generations since she went. Josie whose face I still remember. Josie who still speaks in my mind, telling me not to do something in that carefree tone she has.

Better watch out, you don't want to fall into the gully!

The words may be modernized somewhat, but it is what she would say. And it is exactly how she would say it.

For her, I raise her kids and her grand kids and her great-grandkids. I raise the family until I can barely remember how many greats go before grandkids. And still, I see her.

She is in little baby Arthur in the way he babbles. In Arlie's stare and the way she moves. In the footprints long swept away that materialise in the feet of Charlie.

She is here. Why would I want to leave?

Most immortals become the angsty “everyone I have ever loved is gone” kind of immortal. You, on the other hand, instead took it upon yourself to be a loving presence to entire generations of your chosen family, because they are descended from someone you once loved long ago.

You can get 1.5 liters of Jarritos at a grocery store very close to me for cheaper than the individual bottles.

So in answer to your question: ABSOLUTELY GREAT WHAT'S ON YOUR END

The urge to bother my mutuals

Something had been strange for a while. You were traveling to work faster. You started getting more odd looks, more confused ones. You stopped eating as much and didn't get hungry.

For a long time, you thought it was just a coincidence, or maybe that new haircut you tried out didn't work.

Then it happened. You were cuddling with your girlfriend, when she murmured into your ear. You listened to the words and felt a rush of happiness, of power, and your hair set on fire.

The words were "I love you, sweetie. I wanna be with you forever."

The condition of your head was excellent after the fire went out. Not a scratch, not a singed hair.

But both of your romantic moods were gone as you tried to figure out what happened.

Turns out you were a god. You're a pretty pleasant one, you can do lots of godly stuff, but you also have with powers comparable to the ancient Greeks... in a very, very scaled down fashion.

You can bring the storms, but they're always pleasant. No showy lightning or thundering rain, instead it's light pitter-patter and damp everywhere.

You can raise the dead. But they're all so cranky. They're irritated that you brought them out of their sleep just when they were starting to get good. And if you don't put them to rest, they'll follow you around the house bringing a very putrid smell with them.

And yes, you can set things on fire. Fire is already extremely destructive. If you concentrate for long enough, you could raze forests. But you don't, because your girlfriend wouldn't like that and besides, the birds like it there and it's pretty and green.

Your next question is, what do I do next?

With the ability to conjure money out of thin air (but only Canadian dollars, and you're not in Canada) and the ability to get away with tax fraud (the number always shows up a little bit smaller than you would like it to be), you could be anyone. Do anything.

But you can't forget that rush of euphoria when your girlfriend compliments you, or when she brings you little trinkets from the woods like a crow, or when she simply smiles at you.

She knows you're a god and she doesn't care. Her love to you is unconditional, almost like she's been enchanted. She hasn't, though, you've been very careful to not make any lasting promises to her or about her.

(If she is doing that of her own free will, she's a keeper. She's a lovely woman. It's your job to keep her from harm - not from humans, but gods. She is yours and your... follower? Yes, follower works. She is your follower alone.)

You decide to talk to other people, maybe expand your followers, hope for even more euphoria than your girlfriend - now wife - gives you.

As you expand your following, however, you feel less and less happy. Your subjects start to be dissonant. They start cluttering your mind with all of their feelings that drag you down and make you angry. And when you're angry, you bring out the fire.

It might have been your fault that you burned their houses to the ground. It might have been your fault that some people were caught inside. It might have been, it might have been. Nobody here knows the facts, right? It was their fault that they didn't make you happy. It was their fault.

It was their fault they died, their fault they didn't join you and give you their all. Their fault they were bad and wrong. Their fault they weren't the example your wife sets, and by the way, where is she?

You find the note in your bedroom, saying I can't do this anymore, you've become corrupted. I want my old partner back. I'm leaving for a while and I will only come back when I'm ready. Don't try to follow me.

So disgusting. But now you're sad. And when you're sad, your remaining followers starve because you weren't there to water the crops or keep the insects away. They leave or they die, just like your wife. You wonder where she's gone.

It's been two years, three, five, and you hold out hope. Maybe she'll return in a week. Maybe a month. You turn over houses and dig under logs searching for her, even as your searches turn up fruitless.

Before you know it, it's been two decades. You think it's safe to believe she's never coming back.

It can't have been her fault she left. She might have been taken. She might have died. You try to reincarnate her, if only to here her voice one more time, but if there is a skeleton, it isn't within five hundred miles. Maybe you need to search harder. Extend your range.

Five decades pass, and you fall into despair. You finally brought her body up and she didn't recognize you. She didn't remember who you were. She was your wife and she didn't remember you.

As if your power was waiting for this barrier to break all this time, the skies turn overcast and the clouds break, water flowing from dark dark gray clouds and slamming into the earth like it can beat it up.

You don't remember if the storm passes.

You never knew you were a god until you got your very first follower.