"The Soft Glow of Humanity" by Sydney Bollinger

Mary Alden sits on the futon, next to her dead body, with her eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

“I used the scythe to extract the soul from your body, and now I’ll put your soul in a Mason jar,” I say. 

“You know, I should not be the dead one,” she says. “You’re familiar with my husband? Harold Alden? Retired Baptist pastor and Christ’s greatest hypocrite? Well, he’s a philandering bastard, and you’d be remiss to take me instead of him.” I take a deep breath and let it out. I’m so close to vacation I can almost taste it. Just one more soul. 

“Look, I know this isn’t an ideal situation,” I say. Mary huffs. “But, this is how it goes. You’re dead and I need one more soul so I can go on vacation.” 

“Where are you going?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“The Eternal Lake of Fire,” I say. She waves her translucent hand in front of her face. 

“Nevermind we’re forgetting the point. Harold saw me asleep, went over to Doreen’s, and now I’m dead!” 

“I understand you’re up—” 

“Don’t you even start with me, young man!” 

“Mrs. Alden, I am not a man, nor young. Regardless of your husband’s actions, it is time for you to move on.”

“This new generation and their genders and sex. I just can’t keep track,” she says, shaking her head. 

“I’m actually a metaphysical entity with immense power and responsibility, but whatever,” I mumble. One more swipe of the scythe, and this is over…

Noise comes from the front door. Mary and I watch the knob turn and in walks Harold. His eyes land on Mary’s cold, stiff body. He walks over, checks her pulse, and then pumps his fist in the air. 

“It worked!” he yells. 

“What is he talking about?” Mary asks. I shift around. This is why I prefer when people just let me collect their souls in their state of shock so I can put them in a Mason jar and enjoy the soft glow of humanity. 

“He poisoned you,” I say, watching as Harold fumbles with his phone to call 911. 

”He murdered me? And I’m the one you’re collecting?” she yells. 

“You’re the dead one,” I say. Mary shakes her head and I take another deep breath. 

“Here,” I say, against my better judgment, handing her the scythe. “I only need one soul.” 

“And me?” she asks. “You don’t need me?”

“We’ll meet again someday.” She nods and takes the scythe from me. In a sweeping motion, she slashes it through Harold’s neck. His body crumples to the floor and his soul appears in front of me as hers nestles itself back in her body. She blinks a few times and eases up. Harold looks around and his eyes widen when he sees me. 

“Hello Harold,” I say, opening the Mason jar and releasing the vacuum. I watch Harold’s soul fill the jar and then emit a warm, amber glow. 

It’s always the husband. 

Sydney Bollinger (she/her) has an MS in Environmental Studies with a focus on Environmental Writing from the University of Montana. Her creative work has been published in Northwest Review, The Petigru Review, Grimsy Literary Magazine, Dunes Review, and other places. Her first zine, Death Wish, was published in 2023. She lives in Charleston, SC, with her partner and their two cats. Follow her @sydboll and find her work at sydneybollinger.com.