Member-only story
Two Prophets Meet Again
A story of the afterlife
The afterlife is not at all like you imagine. Instead of the expectations set by pre-requisite mythologies, and various implanted models of heaven or hell, the afterlife exists largely as a giant medieval tavern. From the outside, you see its shadow, its silhouette dark against a backdrop of perpetual sunset sky. One meandering dirt path cuts up the overgrown hill to its doorway, and an approaching soul may hear the raucous smattering of voices, shouts, laughter, the occasional outbursts of song, despite the rickety enclosure doing its best to contain it.
One opens the door, and is met with the ambient glow of oil lamps casting light, a musty yet welcoming smell of earthen flooring, old wood, and fire kindled in stone, perhaps some vegetables and beef bubbling in a broth. The exterior visage holds to be deceptive in its diminutive, slatternly structure, for inside its walls seem to stretch for miles, eventually disappearing into a murky haze. Yet, the ceiling hangs low, smoky and quietly comforting in its woody warmth. Everywhere there is the bustle of incoherent joy. The familiar essence of humanity, the kinship of sweat and cloth, the grime of the body embracing its work. The interplay of voice and motion. The wavelengths upon which personality thrives, bringing life to the silence.
