Working Title: Soul purpose of it all

Reads: 219  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
hi guys, girls and anything or anyone else on this site, since i'm on my summer holidays at the moment, i thought I'd try doing something that I've never done before, so i wrote a short story that could potentially form the base of a story or something similar if i decide this is something that i really like and i should try writing some more.

the premise will be around the souls of human beings and what happens to them once the body dies, while i haven't explicitly written about them in the story, once people die, their souls will be kept around on earth until a member of a group known as the collector comes to collect the soul so that it can be reincarnated, i haven't really though of a plan for what i'd like to do with souls once they're collected.

for this short, concept or whatever you'd like to call it, i would REALLY appreciate feedback of any sort, is it good, is it bad, have i gone overboard on something, does my grammar plainly suck, any feedback as long as it has some constructive quality will be appreciated

Submitted: June 14, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 14, 2015



When people think about the likely outcome after living, most people only want to know what on earth, or to be more precise with terminology, what in death happens once my sprit  should finally decides “that’s It, no more, enough is enough, who do I talk to in order to get out of this place?”.  It makes things easier on the mind when you decide that that there’s one of two possibly outcomes for what happens then, preferably, whatever celestial judge watches over the weight of a person’s soul  yawns with the magnitude of several solar expansions  and decides either “right, age seven, he tried to see what would happen if you try to push a crayon up the cats arse, I’m pretty sure the folk upstairs aren’t too big on animal cruelty on count of either or a mixture of scientific wondering and torture, this one will have to be bound straight to hell”  or “let’s see, James markus, up until his death in an unfortunate yet marvelously colorful  explosion when somebody decided to fiddle mixing machinery right before the end of a shift, never got in to a fight, ate the crusts on his bread even when he just didn’t see the point and only ever drank on occasions where it would be necessary to avoid fights, I guess this one’s destined for upstairs”.

If you read about anything throughout the ages, then there’s no doubt you’ll gradually find some sort of a depiction of the two destination when you become excommunicated  from the living, as unfortunate as it might seem,  people like the idea of picturing what sort of torturous or luxurious furnishing await the soon to be departed, when you’re a good little human, you’re whisked away to sprawling, brightly colored cloudy landscape where all incarnates throughout the land find they can fly carelessly where they please with a pair of wings that seemingly happen to be a complementary staple of heavenly  living. On the other hand, when you fall a few grades of being deemed a good human, then you’re sent to hell, where fires rage on endlessly, and sulfur creeps through the rugged, cracked landscape, nauseating if not for the constant prodding of pitchforks at your heels.

Now the thing is, those two concepts are terribly simple to understand, unpleasantness until an undermined  point time for the deemed wretched, and a lovely escape from humanities shortcomings if on the other hand you did all the nice little things that might have been too hard to ask. The afterlife having a certain degree of simplicity would be nice, but then again where in the publication of life does it say “everything in life is simple as soon as you begin to realize one or two little rules”, if you think about it., the first life form appearing from the primordial swamp and deciding that it was going to stick around and avoid becoming incinerated ooze dripping through the cracks of an untamed earth wasn’t simple at all, and the fact that this slime gradually grew thumbs, a neck and a nice little set of toes amongst other thing against all odds and then decided that it was going to go out of its way to devise a thousand other way to obliterate all other things that emerged from the very same speck of human matter makes a very small amount of sense as well.





For dramatic purpose, the following quoted text should be read I a loud, ominous booming voice , if you could put any amount of imagination to good use, I’m sure putting it to this use would make you feel an entire lifetimes worth of reassurance, “WHEN YOU DIE, THE OPPORTUNITY FOR EXISTING IS VERY MINIMAL, NO STRETCHING GREEN FIELDS OR CHARMING LITTLE INFERNOS, ONLY EMPTY, WEIGHTLESS NOT EXISTING-NESS”. Hah! Fooled you, the narrator’s actually a scheming little nobler, so I bet you now feel very uncertain about the idea of dying, but it’s not so bad you see, since the non-existing part of a humans lifespan only goes on for about the same time as it would take a mountain goat to plummet to the ground after realizing it may have made a fatal flaw in decision making.

As it goes, when a person stops the living part of their lifespan, the part of the human that’s known as the soul bubbles up from the body like an overly keen sort of jam from the body of existence, and then when it’s in the open, where does it go? Does it float off to go and greet any long dead relatives that are resident of any form of after living?  In the same way that roller-skating from your roof would limit your sense of movement for a handful of months as well as not particularly impressing any one single person except for perhaps the chiropractor fascinated that any one body could twist in so many locations, being a soul prevents you from going or doing anything meaningful except for perhaps looking in a very limited field of vision and thinking*of thoughts such as “did aunt mary really wear that custard yellow satin gown to MY funeral, while I may have had no regrets up until now, I definitely should have warranted the destruction of that clothing in my will”, the soul doesn’t find a new place to go once that living has reached an end… until something or someone gives it a friendly little nudge to say “you have an appointment at three and I have to get through at least six hundred other souls today , I don’t care if you want to say one last goodbye to your beloved cat colonel meowsenhizer, we’ve got to keep moving

As it’s apparent in life, things have a habit of acting with continued motion, once an event starts there’s then little chance that the world will try to stop progress from happening with perhaps the will of progress being a little less incented to go on forwards for some things than others. Even in death, progress has a way of making its presence acknowledged to all things just a little non-living, for the case of souls, think of progresses argument as being similar to “listen buddy, you can’t park that thing there, do you see that que of opaque white outlines behind you, well that wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for inconsiderate phlegm herders like yourself, move!”


Where deeply apologetic kleptomaniac might be able to tell you, when things gather up, movement and progress can become rather constricted,  any feasible movement simply becomes a case of barging in to something be it an unpleasant looking chap just over your height or a pile of discarded mountain of instruction manuals for electronics, dates ranging from the now to an 11th birthday, now think about how many people end up dying on a moments basis and how many souls would fill up the earth. Even with the body decomposed to become part of the ground, the soul just lies there to wonder if what they did at age sixteen is exactly the reason why they can’t move on to meet any beloved, gathering with the millions of other deceased until breathing space (souls can’t breathe, but that doesn’t mean that souls can’t smell either, even they have a distinct smell that becomes associated with where they died,  which can be unpleasant when overcrowding  and scent mixture becomes an issue) becomes restricted to only one or two millimeters per apparition, what would happen then? Something, but that’s something presumably terrible and presumably with many tentacles and twice the amount of claws than your average grizzly bear could ever be considered safe to handle that the world shouldn’t have to find out

As an act of kindness or desperation to stop the world from seemingly imploding in on itself, all facets of existence at some point meet with counterbalance to prevent any fault from becoming very apparent and very dangerous, you could say that for the living, this might extend to the turtle having developed a hard shell to make up for the fact that being slow yet particularly would make you a certainly delicious failure in evolution for any larger much more armed animal, similarly for the dead, the world makes sure that souls without a body are soon disposed of, in certain cultures this might be the job of a grim reaper, except for the fact that arguably, it makes the job seem highly glamorous and prestigious, to those involved, it’s more like street cleaning if you could imagine large dimensional spaces being a tradeoff for small smelly enclosed alleyways


*Of all senses, a soul can still think, in essence or retro-spectral, the soul’s a lot like a passenger of the human body much like a car requires a person to drive, in fact the similarities between people and vehicle’s are very apparent when you consider MOT appointments being very similar to booking a doctor’s appointment to see if there arm will have to be amputated after all*



© Copyright 2019 laggythemedic. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Literary Fiction Miscellaneous