An Occidental Book of the Dead, by J. Michael Shell. Part 3. Consciousness grabbed Malcolm and shook, causing him to jump to his feet. When he did, he noticed he was standing, once again, on that endless, grassy plain. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said out loud. “Damn all this grass.” As soon as [...]

An Occidental Book of the Dead, by J. Michael Shell. Part 3.


Consciousness grabbed Malcolm and shook, causing him to jump to his feet. When he did, he noticed he was standing, once again, on that endless, grassy plain. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said out loud. “Damn all this grass.”


As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the ground began to shake. All around him, in the distance, he could see a dark wave undulating toward him, as if he’d been a pebble thrown into a pond, and his ripples were coming back to haunt him. When those waves converged on Malcolm, he was bounced up into the air. When he came back down, it wasn’t onto grass, but asphalt. The field had become a parking lot, stretching into infinity.

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