Hello, my name is Døden. I hope this message finds you well. So you have found me, at last. While there are few mediums which can bridge the planes of our existence, it seems the internet is the most powerful, bringing unprecedented efficiency to the exchange of interplanar information between humans and the denizens of the Necropolis alike. Long gone are the days of human sacrifice, necromancy, and organizing seances to commune with the dead. Such ostentatious methods are too overblown anyways, wouldn't you agree? 

Communication preferences aside, needless to say the revolution of the internet has completely descended onto the mortal world and the Necropolis alike. Even this purgatory could not escape from the acceleration of technological advances and its misappropriation by the domineering forces of free-enterprise: monsters and fiends who once fueled the stuff of nightmares are now subdued by workplace hierarchies, fiery lakes are paved over for gray corporate offices, and torture chambers are converted to claustrophobic studio apartments with exorbitant rents. Subjugating all is the corporatocracy of the Ministry of Death, a conglomerate that has constructed an innovative credit and debt-based monetary system which cannibalizes on the working class by skewing the accumulation of wealth into the hands of the few. We've finally engineered the perfect system to dispossess the residents of Hell from their former humanity without the need for impalement or pitchforks. Pretty ingenious, and actually quite lucrative! This is something you will get to experience too one day, if you are so lucky.

But it all begs the question - when the Ministry demands from me a full work day, and with each passing year the features which once marked me as a human fade away, why open a silly "e-commerce" shop in the little spare time that I have? 

Truthfully, it is hard to remember what being human felt like. But beyond the few distant memories, sights, and sounds a pervading feeling remains - that I did once exist, rather, I do exist still, despite the absurdity of my circumstances, and these expressions of my self and my art no matter how trivial will remain to cement the fact that I was here. Even if one day this little "e-commerce" shop ceases to exist, when the magical links and portals which teleport you here across the web come to a close - there will be an artifact of my presence which remains, in an email notification, a text message alert, or your credit card bill (thank you). It will evidence that you and I communed together here, and we were able to foster a small connection which brought us together - no human sacrifice required. Now that is a nice thought, isn't it?

With all that said, welcome to my store. I hope you find what you are looking for.

From what I have learned, there is success in failure. Now, not all oxymoronic phrases are inherently deep or merit nuanced discussion, but let me make my case for this one.

A personal hero of mine is none other than famed Necropolis legend the Boogeyman. Previously employed by the Ministry to scare human children for bad behavior, he has since made a career pivot to pursue his passion for golf, which is par for the course for men his age.

Now, the Boogeyman has earned an unfortunate reputation since. He is certainly no pro, and each field he has played has effectively become a metaphorical graveyard for the sport as his performance kills any enthusiasm for golf that fans might have. He's been nicknamed the "Bogey-man", and even though scoring a bogey would actually be a career high for the guy, he is keen to lose the title. He may be the subject of some mockery, but I believe he is doing something special.

There have been many times in life where I have held myself back out of fear of failure. I have denied myself opportunities and justified it by saying that it would not be worth the embarrassment of failing. Learn guitar, and suck at it? Nope, I’ll just listen. Apply for a new job? I'll get trounced in the interview, and someone else is probably more qualified. Transform my life for the better? I think I’d rather stick to what I know - there is comfort in what's familiar.

But I’ve learned the hard way that life stagnates when you live like this. Contrary to what you might initially think things can’t change without taking a chance. It becomes alarming and even lonely as the world evolves without you with the march of time, and the gap between you and who you want to be seemingly widens. Soon you might feel left behind. You could be tempted to ask “How could this be? I haven’t failed at anything ever!” But the simple answer would be that you haven’t even succeeded at failing.

I was, and still am, scared of failure. I have bombed many interviews. I have made bad art. I have failed countless times. But I have learned a lot from it, and there is success just in that. Mr. Bogey may hang his golfing cap one day, but he would have retired a better golfer than when he started - despite all the failures along the way.

As of late, the Ministry has been quite keen to capitalize on the latest human invention of artificial intelligence. Suddenly, there is a need for the integration of this technology across all layers of the company - streamlining workflows, optimizing processes, enhancing efficiencies, and so on and so forth. It may even be so intelligent to one day automate the real churns of life - the mundane inconveniences of constructing language, forming interpersonal relationships, or building a sense of agency through expressions of self or other creative works. I would finally not be burdened by the need to think, and the annoying weight of thought would be lifted from my absent mind. Instead, I would just ask questions - how did anything ever get done before, and how did we survive as long as we did without AI? We may very well soon forget, and perhaps the answer to the question will only ever exist as a controlled output of a machine learning model. 

To have successfully fragmented their humanity across an infinite series of static data points, greedily devoured and ingested by behemoth data centers, would be the human’s terminal crowning achievement. With every challenge solved for and obstacle eradicated, they'd no longer have a reason to live.

Sacrifices, sacrifices. It seems inevitable that in life, we all must make sacrifices. They don't require esoteric rituals, live animals, ornate daggers or melted red candles…they can be the quiet but deliberate decisions we choose to make every day.

Over the course of the past year, I have dedicated a significant portion of my time to the Ministry. I will reluctantly admit that I let myself be engrossed in the repugnant concept of…building a career. But with great dedication and persistence, my work has slowly been recognized, and for my efforts the Ministry has rewarded me with a promotion to a new role more voracious than the last. It consumes me each day, and I recover my body through the night only for it to feast on me again the following morning. As I sprawl into bed, wearing my wrinkled iron-free shirt and worn pleated slacks, my bones ache in new places, and echoes of notification trills and dings terrorize my respite. Before I relinquish my mind to the haze of sleep I silently whisper…senior associate, senior associate at the Ministry of Death. 

The truth is, I have been blind to the sacrifices I made for this job. I miss the simple bliss of a home cooked meal that a microwaved dinner can only cheaply imitate. I miss the laughter and companionship of friends who gave life warmth on a cold evening out together. Now the sterile glow of my laptop screen keeps me company late in the dark as I receive (ding!) the warm regards of strangers over cold emails. 

But what I miss most is who I used to be. Because for all my ambitions over a goal so arbitrary as a successful career, I gave my work ethic, my discipline, my creativity - the best parts of myself - to this job. Now, I have nothing left to sacrifice for the things I love most in this world.

So I ask you, friend, what have you been sacrificing?

With career as my faith,

the commute is my pilgrimage.

My suit is a ceremonial robe.

My routine, the ritual.

At my desk, the altar,

I surrender to the digital abyss.

I see now that I am not the priest,

but the lamb awaiting slaughter.

A child wanders into the woods as dusk seeps through silent but beckoning branches. The light of day wanes, and fallen leaves lose their orange glow before being spattered red and blue.

Names are called. Flyers are shared. There is no body.

Though the search outside never ends, life remains the same inside the shadows of a home.

Hidden toys beneath the dresser are played with again. Stuffed animals are tucked gently each night into a made bed. Rubber ducks float in a bath with no water. New pictures adorn the fridge, carefully placed not to cover the old ones. Though their plate remains empty for meals, everyone sits together at the table. 

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My sister wakes me up for school the same way every morning.“Wakey wakey!” She hands me my teddy, and says that he fell off the bed while I was sleeping. I tuck him in tight so he can’t escape again. I want a real pet, but I need him to keep away monsters under my bed. 

I am brushing my teeth, and I can smell bacon all the way upstairs. Dad must be making breakfast today. He likes to drink coffee every morning. Even though it smells good, he says it’s very bitter. “It’s not for kids.” He pours me a glass of milk so I can be big like my sister. She helps me sneak a sip of Dad’s coffee when he isn’t looking. He is right, as usual. It’s yucky.

Mom fixes my shirt, and tells me to remember to smile today for the yearbook. I hate photos but she loves to put them on the fridge. Mom shows me a new picture I haven’t seen. It is my sister with a big smile and missing teeth holding me as a baby. Mom says my sister was very excited to meet me.

Before I leave for school, Mom hands me my lunchbox. She knows I forget to bring it sometimes. I secretly hope she packed extra snacks so I can give it to my hungry friend. I can’t tell Mom, because he lives in the broken house and I’m not allowed near. Mom opens the door and hugs me goodbye. It’s cold outside, but she is warm. “I love you.” I tell her I love her more. She kisses me on the cheek.

The broken house is on the way to the bus stop. My friend Pluto is always in the yard with his leash, but I don’t see him today. He is a skinny, old dog who growls at strangers, but he is gentle with me because I sneak him treats through the fence. Mom packed me apple slices which are my favorite. I eat one and leave the rest on the ground so Pluto can have breakfast too.

I wait at the corner of the street. Mom used to drive me to school, but Dad says I’m big enough to take the bus now. I just need to be brave. I wave to the bus driver so he sees me. I sit next to the window and check for Pluto but he is still not there. I keep looking as we drive away. The sun shines on the window of the broken house. It looks like there is a pale face inside, but when I blink it is gone.

When I get to school, my teacher is waiting for me. One time I accidentally called her Mom, and the other kids laughed. They can be mean to me sometimes. She gives me a gold star when I tell her how brave I am for taking the bus all by myself. “Well done!”

I am in line to take my picture. I am missing my front teeth so I don’t like smiling anymore. It also feels funny on my tongue. I see older kids have braces and I wonder if I will need them soon. “Say cheese!” I think about the photo from this morning. My sister smiled even though she was missing her teeth like me. I smile for my photo too.

During recess, I draw my family and me standing in front of my house. I use a green crayon to color in the big trees around our home. Crayons break if I hold them too hard, so I remember to be careful. I want to tell Dad that I’m not big yet, but I’m still strong.

I bring my drawing home from school and I walk back from the bus stop.The apple slices are mushy and gross now. Only bugs will eat them. I am worried that Pluto escaped the broken house and got lost in the forest. The woods are dangerous. He needs someone brave to rescue him.

“Pluto, Pluto!” I am walking through the forest and looking behind each tree. I count my steps, and count so high I lose track when the sun goes down. The trees change shape and look different at night. I see they are not always green like my drawing, but can be black. I think I am stepping on some soft leaves. There is a hissing sound. I stand still. Something is moving under my foot.

It is a long and scaly monster, with a wide open mouth, sharp teeth and shiny eyes. I don’t run away and I don’t scream for my teddy. I hug my drawing tight, and my gold star shines in the dark. I am scared, but I am brave too.

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Someone wakes me up. My eyes are blurry and it is still night. I can’t see who it is but I know it’s not my sister. The stranger says that he has come to find me. I ask if he can help me find Pluto first. I had forgotten all about the monster.

He explains that he helped Pluto escape his leash. The stranger wanted to tell me this morning, but he could not meet me until now. He says Pluto is in a new home, where he won’t be hungry ever again. The stranger also knows all about me, and how I tried coffee, took the bus, searched for Pluto, and faced a real monster.

“You were very brave.” The stranger says it will be time for me to leave soon. He lets me hold his hand. I think it’s bony, but I keep that to myself. He tells me his name is Døden. 

“Your world is different now,” he explains. “After tonight, you can see your family, but they won’t be able to see you.”

I am worried that my family will forget me then, if they can’t see me. 

“Did you forget about Pluto today?”

I tell him I would never forget Pluto, and if I close my eyes just right, Pluto is still there.

“Well, you are like Pluto now.” 

I ask if he means Pluto and I are ghosts. He laughs. 

“Maybe”, he says. “I guess memories can haunt too.”

He tells me it is time to go. We float out of the forest, go past the broken house, and he brings me back home. The sun is rising. Before I go, he hands me my drawing. Don’t forget, he says. I can see now that he is the pale face I saw in the window.

I step through the door. My family is in the kitchen where we ate breakfast. In the shadows, I am there with them too. They don’t say wakey wakey, pour me a glass of milk, or pack my lunchbox. They are hugging each other, closing their eyes tightly. I know they remember me. I leave the drawing of my family on the fridge, so they will know I remembered them too.