Fresh Produce

My friend said Hell was worse for fresh produce

Wednesday has come around again and I’m happy to present this week’s flash fiction.

The pile of red stones teetered as I crouched near the gates. Looking for a stable stack was pointless. There wasn’t one in the place. That wouldn’t been simple and only one thing was simple here, pain was everywhere.

“Hell is worse for the fresh produce,” my friend said plopping on a nearby stack. One rather large block slipped to tumbled into the crevasse and a cry echoed up.

Glancing down I could only see varying tones of hot. I shrugged straightening. “There’s nothing particularly wrong with the lot.”

“Exactly!” He jutted his finger heavenward and glanced about sheepishly. No one had seen. “Those souls aren’t worth the taking. How can timid creatures aid the ranks of misery?”

I shrugged again. He could get worked up over the fresh produce. I wouldn’t. They’d wilt quickly or sprout quick enough. There was enough pain to expand energy on without adding more. My foot slipped sending me reeling sideways. Jerking to a halt, my body tilted dangerously to the side and I saw her.

She stood near the gates, in the group but not part of it. The constant red glare from the flames didn’t diminish her blonde hair, instead it heightened it, adding depth and color.

My friend slapped me on the back. “Be care with that one.” His voice crackled with laughter, mirthless and at my expense. “The only of the lot worth anything. She’ll be a leader soon enough. Not for us.”

“Huh,” I said unable to look away.

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