I sat on my hard, worn-out couch, chain smoking as I stared at the constant black and white static showing on my ancient television set. I’m so tired but cannot sleep. I can’t remember when I was last able to rest, let alone feel safe or secure in my home. […]
If you walk through a certain run-down, inner-city area located in a working-class northern town, there’s a chance you’ll stumble across a terraced street like none other. I say there’s a chance, but in reality it’s a slim one. That’s because – technically speaking – Purgatory Street does not exist,
I used to have an older sister. Her name was ‘Eileen,’ though she always preferred to be called by her first two initials: ‘E.V,” or “Evie,” as we’d often spell it. Evie was a fine sister—on one day she might have stood up for me against our father’s slurred contempt,
I called to her through the darkness and the shadow and the void and on and on, and what I got back was beyond horror. I called to my daughter, once young and free, suddenly shrouded in a blackness that extended further than sight. Things echoed back from the void.
“Purgatory on Earth” read the flyer as it flapped unevenly in the wind, poorly stapled against the wooden post of a power line. It was an interesting title, not exactly the alluring intro phrase most religious recruitment ads used. For what I knew of Purgatory, it wasn’t exactly a place