My undead grandmother is my conscience.
By “undead” I don’t mean a decrepit, old woman who looks like she shouldn’t still be sucking wind. I mean a decrepit, old woman who died of a heart attack three months ago yet still manages to ruin my life.
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Gray. My entire world is gray. The foliage is dead, and the sky’s covered with a cloud of pollution. The factories, the prison buildings, our radiation-resistant uniforms. Even our skin is gray from malnutrition and lack of sun.
I adjust the mask pressed against my face and step off the bus from the women’s penitentiary, following the line of other prisoners toward the factory.
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How in Hades could a three-headed dog escape the Underworld, cross the river Styx, and enter the world of the living without me immediately hearing about it? But Cerberus has managed it somehow. So here I am, calling his name like an idiot in the middle of New York City at what must be the busiest time of the year.
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A list of stories still open for chances to win November’s Jukebox contest and a $10 Amazon giftcard.
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