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    Second Chance
    Second Chance
    Second Chance
    Ebook155 pages2 hours

    Second Chance

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Dr. Oliver Brady, Aaron N. Brown and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Second Chance is a collection of six short stories that explore what a second chance in the great beyond looks like. From former gods becoming guardian angels to an archangel having an existential crisis, these tales are told with a touch of humor and whimsy that will make you laugh out loud.

    Ever wonder what your job in the after life would be? How would you get a promotion? What happens if you make a mistake? In this collection are interesting answers to those questions. We hope you enjoy Second Chance.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateNov 7, 2017
    ISBN9781945967979
    Second Chance
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      Book preview

      Second Chance - Zimbell House Publishing

      This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

      For permission requests, write to the publisher:

      Attention: Permissions Coordinator

      Zimbell House Publishing

      PO Box 1172

      Union Lake, Michigan 48387

      mail to: info@zimbellhousepublishing.com

      © 2017 Zimbell House Publishing

      Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

      All Rights Reserved

      Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-945967-95-5

      Digital ISBN: 978-1-945967-97-9

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2017915839

      First Edition: November/2017

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Zimbell House Publishing

      Union Lake

      Acknowledgements

      Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase six new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

      We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

      To Reap and Sow

      Heather Harrison

      The sound of scraping metal swelled to a deafening peal as the train screeched to a halt. Several of the passengers were jolted forward, most of them too lost in their own thoughts to care. They filed off, one by one, into the dank subway corridors, leaving me alone with the elderly man sleeping across a row of seats. I stood, staring at his matted hair and taut, sunburned skin which held the story of a lifetime spent on the street.

      The train tunneled on, ambient light flickering rhythmically through the small windows. The man twitched, a small cry of anguish passing over his cracked lips as he clutched the brown paper bag holding a half-full bottle of ruddy liquid to his chest. Removing my black leather gloves, I approached the man.

      A faded army jacket hung limply over his body. Once lavishly embroidered, it was now dingy and tattered with skeleton outlines of military patches hidden beneath filmy stains. I reached down, tugging on the jacket until it covered his worn face.

      Brushing my bare palm across his white hair, I said, Your journey here is done. Sleep well old man.

      The lights flickered, and I replaced my gloves, stepping through the wall of the moving train.

      I SAT DOWN ON ONE OF the benches. Beside me, a boy, about nine or ten, was playing a video game on his phone.

      He saw me looking at his screen and said, I’m playing Life versus Death. Have you ever played it?

      No, I replied.

      It’s awesome. You ought to try it. You can be an Angel or a Reaper. I’m the Reaper, see here?

      He tilted the screen, showing me his character, a bony figure shrouded in black cloth, carrying a sickle.

      The brown-headed boy pulled the phone back, bragging, You’re supposed to kill all the people before the angel saves them. I’m really good at it.

      Yeah, me too.

      I thought you hadn’t played it?

      Oh, I’ve played a different version of it.

      His mother, realizing her son was talking to a stranger, pulled herself away from Instagram long enough to look at me. I nodded, trying to refrain from rolling my eyes as hers widened. She shifted in her chair, giving me a sultry look.

      I chuckled, the image of the Reaper still stuck in my head. I find it ironic humans fear death, yet when they look it in the face, their automatic response is either desire or awe. Some days, I wished I was shrouded in a dark robe, clanking around like a bag of bones. It would certainly make things easier.

      The woman opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it quickly, shaking her head in disbelief, a blush covering her cheeks from whatever she was about to say.

      I stood and made my way across the platform before the woman's budding fantasy of sleeping with a younger man got any more inappropriate.

      Younger man?

      I scoffed at the idea.

      I’ve been on this earth for three-hundred years which makes me quite old, technically, at least. For all intents and purposes, I am twenty-two, have been since the day I awoke under an old apple tree. Instinct is my primal call, my purpose. I have been described as beautiful, perfect, refined. Sandy blonde hair, eyes a bluish violet, strong athletic build; their idea of a perfect male. I’m appealing to all who see me.

      Though, most pass by, unaware, or forget me immediately. I can only be seen by those I choose to interact with. Today, out of boredom, I allowed many to see me. Even after all my years as a Reaper, I still cannot fathom how the human mind works, how they feel so many emotions, how they can be so selfish. I’ve never hated humans, on the contrary, I’m amused by them.

      The other Reapers I’ve met have different perplexities when it comes to humanity. Some grow hardened, hating humankind, others grow some sort of affinity to the suffering creatures. Until lately, I’d considered myself somewhere towards the middle ground, with an amiable curiosity at the most.

      Over the last several months though, I’ve had a desire to mingle with them, to understand why they need affection so much, why they long for physical and emotional contact. The last two times I slept, my dreams included desires of the flesh. I haven’t slept in the months since then.

      Reapers are creatures of purpose, not of spirit. As far as I can figure, we are by design the ones who keep free will in balance. For humans to have free will, so must life and death. The choosing’s are as random to us as choosing which flower to pluck out of a garden would be to a human. I am particularly drawn to the suffering and weak, but other than that, I am compelled to touch at random.

      In human mythology, the concept of a Reaper is one viewed with trepidation. Yet, when I allow those to see me in the end, most call me an angel. That’s another human concept I can’t understand. As for as I know, there are only Reapers, Lightbringers, and Beholders. Maybe to them, we are angels.

      My walk took me far beyond the subway platform, and I passed by a group of teenagers vandalizing a dark corner with spray paint. A girl, maybe fifteen, hung on the shoulder of an older boy, giggling as others drew explicit images on the wall. I stopped, oddly drawn to the group, but did not feel compelled to touch any of them. Something about the situation bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

      From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone approaching.

      A tiny thing, wispy with dark black hair cascading around her pale face walked over to the female hanging on the young man. None of them turned to give her their attention, even though she stood out like a pearl among the stones. An iridescent entity, her lithe movements forced even the darkest shadows to slink away. Her features were those of regal beauty, but her face carried the innocence of a child. No one could hate such a beautiful, innocent creature, nor could they feel anger towards her.

      No one except me.

      Get out of here! This is my subway!

      The young woman paid me no mind. She approached the girl and her boyfriend. With a gentle smile, she laid her hand across the female’s abdomen. I saw a small, swirling light grow beneath her palm. A bleating, thrumming noise gathered around us, and I covered my ears. The group neither heard it or saw us. After a second, the noise stopped, and the woman walked away, returning in the direction from which she came.

      I followed.

      I’ll be damned if a Lightbringer is going to move in on my grounds.

      HEY, I YELLED AT THE woman whose tiny feet were propelling her faster than humanly possible.

      She continued acting oblivious to my existence, forcing me to run and cut her off before she phased through the concrete wall.

      What do you think you are doing here, Lightbringer?

      Tilting her head, she studied me. The intensity of her scrutiny was unnerving.   

      Hello, Reaper, she said in response, her voice soft and musical.

      I asked you a question.

      Did you?

      You know I did. Is it natural for your type to be infuriating or do you do it just to irritate Reapers?

      I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to a Reaper before.

      To be honest, I had never spoken to a Lightbringer either. Reapers avoided Light-bringers as a general rule. I was no different. Something about the way they looked at us, that unclothed innocence, sent most Reapers running in the other direction. I’d heard rumors that the wailing of a suffering Lightbringer was enough to give you nightmares for years. Apparently, they took the loss of life very personally. I didn’t care about any of that, though. No matter what, I wasn’t going to share my home with a Lightbringer.

      She continued to stare, blinking those large, innocent, golden eyes.

      Never mind. Just get out of here. This is my subway.

      Oh, she said, looking around. The concrete walls, darkened with wet film from the recent rains, resembled catacombs. The smell, a dank odor of mildew and urine filled the corridors. Most did not travel this far into the subway, staying close to the brightly lit platforms instead. Here, the hopeless and lost traveled. Here is where I was needed the most.

      Your home, she mouthed the words.

      I felt a momentary pang of something unfamiliar, a desire to hide my face. Fighting the urge to turn away, I said, Yes, my home, and you are not welcome here.

      I will stay, regardless.

      What the hell?

      I balked at her blunt statement, stumbling over my words too fast to get anything more than a stutter out before she phased through the wall next to us.

      I DIDN’T SEE HER FOR three days. I took it as a hopeful sign she’d taken my advice and left. During those three days, I was compelled to touch no one. That wasn’t strange, but at the same time, I was growing frustrated listening to the suffering of those around me. If I had a choice, I would have put at least thirty people out of their misery in those three days.

      You do have a choice.

      I ignored the thought. In the beginning, I discovered very quickly what happened if I accidentally brushed against others, causing deaths I wasn’t compelled to. These

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