As the Moon Climbs

“Name?” asked the demon with the clipboard.

“Rob White,” the man responded, running a hand through his thinning hair.

“All right, Mr. White, I see you’re guilty of lusting after your secretary?”

“What?” he yelped. “Well, maybe, but I never touched her!”

The demon made a note. “Gluttony then; you were 200 pounds overweight.”

“I had a glandular problem!”

Another note. “You never donated to charity and died a millionaire?”

“I wanted my children well looked after.”

“Had a pretty fierce temper though?” the demon asked.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” White said.

“Of course. And you never attended church, I see?”

“Faith is a private matter, I thought.”

The demon smiled, sharp incisors gleaming. “You were a banker? Made a lot of money from predatory lending?”

Mr. White wiped sweat off his forehead. “Not my fault if it turned out badly.”

The demon made a final mark on the clipboard. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“I can go, then?” White asked.

“Indeed. Eighth circle. You are a terrible liar.”

“Where do you want to eat?” Naomi asked. She sat on her mother’s couch as the older woman got ready. Her mom’s chihuahua, Princess, wandered from room to room as if searching for something.

“I don’t know,” her mother called from the bedroom. “Wherever you want.”

“What do you feel like eating?” Naomi pressed. “Chicken? Steak? Fish?”

“God damn it,” her mother said. “I can’t find my earrings.”

Princess brought a chew toy to Naomi and wagged her tail. Naomi threw the toy and the dog bounded off to fetch it.

“I can’t believe these fucking earrings are gone!” Her mother stalked out, almost tripping over Princess. “You stupid dog!” she screamed. “Do you fucking want me to kill you!”

“It was an accident,” Naomi said. “Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax!”

Princess had made a dash for the couch and was now curled up on Naomi’s lap, licking the air.

“Just put on different earrings and let’s go,” Naomi said.

“No,” her mother replied. “You know what, I don’t need this shit. I’m not even hungry anymore.”

“Where are you going?” Naomi asked.

“I know a shortcut,” Bob replied, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other fiddled with the radio. Power metal filled the car and Naomi rolled her eyes.

“This is the wrong way,” she insisted. “We should have made a right back there.”

“This is the way I know,” he said. “Relax, it’s not that far.”

“The other way was faster.” She crossed her arms and watched the blue dot on the GPS take them away from the recommended route.

“It’s not like we’re lost.” He grinned at her. “Consider it an adventure.”

A wailing guitar solo stabbed Naomi like an ice pick to her ears. She turned off the GPS so the blue dot would stop taunting her.

“We should already be there,” she muttered. “Why couldn’t you wait for me to get directions?”

“Relax,” he said again. “You’re acting like your mom.”

The singer on the radio held a screaming high note for an impossibly long time. The song ended as they pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she said.

“So,” the man said, flashing Calliope a charming smile, “what’s a nice girl like you…” He trailed off as he noticed her belt with its dangerous-looking attachments and her large hover boots.

“Oh, you know,” she replied to his unfinished question. “Sometimes a girl needs to unwind.” She leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of cleavage above the half-open zipper of her flight suit. “Care to buy me a drink?”

Back on familiar ground, his smile broadened. “What’ll you have?”

“Something girly,” she said with a giggle. “Synthfruit, little umbrella…”

He motioned for the bartender. “Tequila sunrise for the lady, please.”

“That sounds absolutely decadent,” Calliope murmured. “Can I ask what you do for a living?”

He coughed. “Commodities broker, nothing exciting.”

“Really?” she said. “I thought you were indentured.”

“Why would you think—”

Before he could blink, he found himself fitted with a pair of restraining cuffs.

“Because I’m with the IRS,” she said, grinning. “Bartender, can I get that drink to go?”

Obituary

MIAMI, FL – Valerie Valdes, the author whose only novel, Job’s Complaint, won both the Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize the year it was released, was remembered in a ceremonial ship burial today off the coast of Key Biscayne, Florida. She died of natural causes at her home in South Miami on Thursday night, according to a statement made by family members.

Born in California and raised in Miami, Ms. Valdes eventually moved to Maine with her young family to pursue what she later described in an interview as “the ideal life of a writer, or what I thought it should be, in a place with actual seasons and no distractions.” It was there, at age 30, that she suffered a devastating automobile accident. Unused to driving on icy roads, she lost control of her car on a patch of black ice and crashed into a tree. She was discovered hours later, and while the paramedics were able to save her life, she was left in a persistent vegetative state at Mercy Hospital in Bangor.

Over the next thirty years, Ms. Valdes composed her novel and communicated it to doctors through a tedious battery of yes or no questions using increasingly sophisticated brain scanning techniques. The attendant in charge of taking dictation described it as “like using a Ouija board, where you fish around for the right letter and then write it down and move on to the next one.” It was well received by critics and the public alike, despite some opposition to the use of her terrible condition as a marketing tool.

Within months of publication, medical advances made it possible for Ms. Valdes’ brain damage to be repaired and she was successfully returned to full consciousness. She spent a whirlwind year in the limelight, appearing on a number of talk shows, news programs and radio stations between stops on an international book tour. After her most famous lecture at Brown University, entitled “Write or Die,” she returned to Miami and vanished from the public eye. Despite her reclusive nature and refusal to sell the rights to her novel or life story to film producers, Job’s Complaint entered the literary canon, where it remains firmly entrenched to this day.

She is survived by her husband, two children, five grandchildren and four cats.