I arrive in a haze of neon twilight, drifting into the celestial dive bar at the end of the universe. The air is thick with ghost-smoke and the scent of spilled whiskey dreams. Constellations glow faintly in cracked light fixtures. A cosmic jukebox in the corner plays a distant, crackling blues – each note a star dying quietly in the night. I take a breath I no longer need and step inside.
Shadows dance along the walls and tell stories, whispered in charcoal tones. In those flickering silhouettes, I catch fragments of my life: a boy (surely me) learning to ride a bike under a summer sun, a teenager (my son, Jack) going out the side door and mumbling, “going to Justin’s, be back by 11pm,” an old man (Dad) slumped in a chair watching his own funeral on C-SPAN. The shadows play them out in silence, a living scrapbook of regrets and love. I blink, and the images waft away like smoke rings.
At the bar, spirits with no eyes sit and sip from empty glasses. They toast to nothing and everything, blind gazes cast toward the glowing bottles that line the shelves like stained-glass saints. They don’t turn as I pass. We’re all orbiting our own stories out here—me, them, humanity.
In a cracked leather booth under a neon halo, Jack and Dad wait for me. Jack beams, all 19 years of him forever etched in that youthful frame. Dad gives a gruff, warm nod, his form flickering between the old man I held as he died and the vigorous father who once held me. My heart – or whatever I have now – aches with a complicated joy.
I slide into the booth. Jack’s eyes shine like wet streetlights. We collide in a hug that transcends time; I feel the strength of his teenage arms again and the undeniable reality of loss washes through me. “I’ve missed you, kid,” I manage to say, voice cracking like the jukebox vinyl. Jack just smiles wider and blinks back gleaming tears. Dad’s hand falls on my shoulder, solid and steady, and I realize I’ve missed him too – God, so much – the lump in my throat says what I can’t.
A bartender who speaks only in old voicemail messages shuffles over, his face a fuzzy outline like a detuned TV. He opens his mouth and a familiar voice spills out, tinny and warm: “Hey, it’s me. Just checking in on you. Give me a call when you can, okay?” My breath catches; it’s a voicemail from my mother. I broke the golden rule and went before she did. The bartender’s head tilts, awaiting our order, the message looping softly: “…just checking in on you…” Jack and Dad look to me, eyebrows raised.
I clear my throat, steady myself. “Three whiskeys, neat.”
My mother’s voice replies from the bartender’s lips: “I love you. I will always love you. Goodbye.” He nods and vanishes to fill our order, leaving me shaken and grateful all at once. It wasn’t my fault I went before Mom—it happened by chance. Or did it? Well, something like that.
I turn to Jack and tell him, “I finally got Miranda, but one of his thugs got me just as I finished the choke that stopped Miranda from breathing for good. I whispered in his ear as I dropped him, bag full of bones onto the concrete, ‘That was for Jack, and his mother, Samantha, God, and the universe.’ Then, boom. I was shot in the back of the head.”
Jack chuckles under his breath, as if he now is far wiser to the world than I am. He’s practically vibrating with excitement to have me here. He lifts one of the empty glasses already on the table, swirling the ghost of a drink. “Dad,” he grins, “it’s okay to drink here. Your sobriety on earth was a gift to the family and possibly the world.” There’s a light in his eyes—pride, mischief, reassurance. I let out a laugh, part joy and part disbelief. Of course my kid knows I’m conflicted about ordering whiskey after decades dry. Of course he’s giving me permission, here at the end of ends.
Dad snorts, easing himself into the booth further. With a teasing smile he turns to Jack, “Yeah, when he was your age he had a thirst for the grape like a mad sommelier on acid plus a case of ’69 Château Latour.” Jack bursts out laughing and I groan, running a hand through my hair. “Always there to make sure I stay humble, huh Dad?” Generational friction follows us even into death, it seems. Dad just winks. “Just keeping my promise that you never forget the importance of being grounded.”
Our drinks appear as the bartender returns, sliding three glasses toward us with a crackle of another old voicemail: “You have… one new message.” This time the voice is my own, it’s more recent, shaky: “Jack… I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I was supposed to protect you, and I failed. I love you.” A message I left on Jack’s phone the day after he died – when I finally understood him. Dad’s eyes brim as he hears it, and he reaches for his glass. The bartender fades back into the haze before the message can finish.
We raise our glasses. The whiskey’s color is deep gold, catching the neon like liquid sunlight. I hesitate, the old instinct of sobriety warring with the desire to join my son in this toast. Jack clinks his glass to mine – the sound rings like a small bell in the quiet chaos of the bar. Dad follows, his large hand swallowing his glass. “To family,” Jack offers, voice soft now. “To second chances,” I add, my throat tight. Dad rasps, “To life… and what comes after.”
We drink.
The whiskey tastes of memory – rich and smoky, with notes of laughter and decades of shared sorrow. It burns going down, but warmly. I feel a weight lift that I didn’t know I was still carrying.
A neon sign sputters above us, casting a gentle glow over Jack’s face. I see the man he never got to become and the boy he always will be. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” I whisper, the words falling out before I can catch them. My vision blurs. Jack sets his glass down and takes my hand – his touch is solid, forgiving. “It wasn’t your fault, Dad,” he says quietly. “I got more love in 19 years than some do in a hundred. You gave me that.” His words are a balm I didn’t know I needed. I squeeze his hand, a tear finally escaping down my cheek. In this bar of ghosts and cosmic light, I can cry freely; each tear turns to stardust in the blue glow.
Dad clears his throat, emotion thick in the air. In true Dad fashion, he deflects the heaviness with a gentle joke: “Well, Jack, your old man sure took his sweet time getting here. We were starting to think he’d stand us up.” I chuckle, wiping my eyes. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I quip. “Traffic through Mexican Town was hell.” Jack and Dad both groan at the obvious reference to Jack’s and my own demise, and for a moment we’re just three idiots laughing at the edge of eternity.
The cosmic jukebox shifts tunes, and now it plays something low and familiar – a song I recognize as the one that played on the radio the night Jack was born. The melody drifts through the bar like a comet’s tail. I catch a woman made of Polaroids swaying gently to the music near the jukebox. Her form is a collage of photographs, each snapshot a piece of someone’s story. As she twirls, I glimpse a Polaroid of a hospital room – my wife in bed holding a newborn Jack, both exhausted and radiant. Another flash: a photo of me at twelve, baseball glove in hand, Dad standing behind me proud and tall. My breath catches. The woman’s eyes meet mine and she offers a knowing smile before the music carries her into another slow spin. I realize these photos are pieces of my life. She is made of moments I lived, and moments I missed. My heart clenches with a strange nostalgia. In her, I see the totality of my story dancing in one body.
Jack nudges me and nods toward the bar counter. There, a preacher made of smoke has materialized, nursing a drink that evaporates within him. His face is a swirling mist of sermon and ash. He raises a translucent finger and intones in a vaporous drawl, “Sometimes, you have to care enough to know not to care too much,” which floats through the air like incense. Then he dissolves into a curl of smoke, leaving only the faint echo of a hymn. It’s oddly comforting – a reminder that even old dogmas and worries have become specters here, powerless, fading.
Dad shakes his head. “He was always long-winded, plus I’m the one who said that to you when you were 19,” he mutters, and Jack snickers.
We trade stories – not of what was, but what is now. Jack talks about the friends he’s made in this in-between bar, how he’s become something of a pool shark (he gestures to a table where a one-armed ghost and a translucent librarian cheer as a trick shot sinks). Dad recounts with a chuckle how he tried giving the preacher a cigar, just to see him billow. I find myself laughing more freely than I have in years. The sound feels good. Honest.
In a lull, I admit softly, “I was scared to see you both again… afraid you’d be disappointed in me.” It’s out before I can stop it – that raw vulnerability. Jack’s brow furrows in disbelief. “Disappointed? In you?” he says. “Dad… I’ve always been proud of you. Even when I was a stubborn teen and acted like I wasn’t.” Dad nods vigorously. “Son, we’ve both always been proud. You broke cycles, you loved us hard, you lived as best you could. Why would we be anything but grateful?” I bite the inside of my lip to keep it from trembling. This absolution, this love laid bare – it’s more than I ever hoped to earn.
Above us, the neon light buzzes, the color of sunrise. The bar around us hums with its own quiet tales: those eyeless spirits clink glasses and mutter farewells to old pains; the Polaroid woman’s laughter sounds like a shutter click as she trades snapshots with a faceless man in a WWII uniform; the jukebox planets continue their slow orbit through melodies.
Jack stands, grabbing our empty glasses. “Another round?” he asks, already heading toward the bar. Dad slides out after him, patting my back as he goes. “Be right back, son.” I watch them weave through the crowd of memories and phantoms. My father, my child – two bookends to my life, moving with an ease that eluded us in the living world. I take this moment alone to breathe it all in. This absurd, beautiful dive bar of the afterlife has given me something precious: time – time to say what was left unsaid, to laugh at jokes that had been silenced by years, to forgive and be forgiven.
Jack returns carrying three fresh glasses, amber liquid sloshing. The bartender must have delivered them in another recorded phrase, but I was too lost in thought to catch which memory he used. No matter. We gather by the old jukebox now, leaning against it as cosmic light spills like rainbows across the scuffed floor.
“Remember this one?” Dad asks as a new song begins – it’s his favorite tune, the one he used to hum while getting ready to go on the air: You Make Me Feel So Young. He takes Mom’s old Polaroid from the dancing woman’s hand (she giggles and drifts away, leaving that photo behind as a gift). In the picture, Dad and I are standing at the Jupiter Inlet, holding up bluefish, both smiling. Dad slips the Polaroid into his shirt pocket with a satisfied grin. Jack wraps an arm around my waist, and I drape mine over his shoulders. Three generations, side by side in a bar at the end of the world, listening to the music of the spheres.
I raise my glass, and they follow suit. No need for a toast this time – the moment speaks for itself. Our glasses touch, and the sound is like the final chord of a favorite song, resolving at last. We drink deep. The warmth fills us.
In this strange, smoky liminal space, we remain – laughing, loving, healing. The celestial dive bar doors stay open for as long as we need. And as another cosmic record drops into place – Lush Life, sung by Nat King Cole – I know our story isn’t over. We found each other again. We have found peace.
The gods—you can choose to listen or not, but you will hear me.
God. A silence that leaves me sideways, and it makes no difference if all I get is indifference. I look up into the grey void, a guttural scream shaking the earth—
“Where the fuck are you, you cruel bastard!”
He pretends not to listen, like I’ve got my proverbial head in the clouds, but he knows. Knows what it’s like to lose a son. Knows the emptiness, the gut punch, the 24/7, 365-day guillotine choke around my throat.
And if God is everywhere, like they say, then when I escape to meet Jack in a dream, that means he’s under the bed, listening. Listening to the cracks in my heart clattering onto the mattress.
Is he sorry?
I don’t give a damn. And I sure as hell won’t bother with a plea—I’ve been on my knees long enough.
So, consider this a declaration. A warning.
Grief blackened my heart, changed its beat—forever pounding out some new twisted rhythm of madness.
My plan? To invade heaven.
A place I once questioned, but this loss—this hole where my son should be—has me lacing up my boots, ready to stomp through those golden streets, kick down every door in the happy hunting ground until I find what he took from me.
Is this war? Doesn’t have to be.
But Dylan Thomas said, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’
Well, fuck that.
I won’t go quietly into anything. Not the night. Not the silence. And sure as hell not into some pearly-gated bullshit where I’m expected to nod along like a good little ghost.
So when I come knocking, when I tear through those gates with grief as my war drum, you better be ready.
The earth shrugs, and a fault line splits a city in two.
A rock, smooth from centuries of wind and rain, decides today is the day it falls, crushing a man who never missed Sunday mass.
A wildfire starts in the bones of a dead tree, the wind carrying its laughter across acres of homes and history.
Somewhere in the ocean, something ancient rolls over in its sleep, and the tides rise just enough to erase a coastline.
No explanation. No reason. Just the universe twitching in its sleep.
And then there are the other things. The ones written in history books with footnotes that lead nowhere.
The bodies that vanish.
The wars that start because someone blinked at the wrong time.
The lone gunman that wasn’t so alone.
The flag that was still there, an anti-gravity, star bangled banner still waving.
The numbers that don’t add up, the footage that disappears, the coincidences that stack too neatly to be random but too scattered to be anything else.
We shake our fists at the sky, but the sky never bothers to look down.
And then there’s this—the real question, the only one that matters to me.
Jack.
Why Jack?
Not the dealer, not the smug piece of shit pushing poison for profit.
Not the ones who make money off of death while dressed in white coats.
Not the fucking grinning death merchants in boardrooms, approving a new batch of slow, quiet execution.
But Jack?
Why him? Why that night?
Why that second, that breath, that choice?
The tectonic plates shift and ask questions but they don’t answer.
The fire roars, but it doesn’t explain.
The rock doesn’t whisper a reason as it falls.
I wake up every day, expecting the answer to be written on the ceiling, in the cracks in the paint, in the coffee, in the way the wind moves the leaves.
Anything.
I don’t even need it to be the full answer. Just a hint.
But all I get is silence.
And silence is the loudest fucking thing in the world.
But, somehow today I am temporarily at peace, it may not be the answer, but fuck, at least it’s not another question.
The streets pulse like open veins, black tar slick, the night a slow bleeding thing. Neon hums. Buzzing flies. A dealer on the corner licking his lips, pulling at his collar like he knows. Like he smells it. The reek of old grief turned to something else. Something with teeth.
I move through the alleyways, pockets heavy with ghosts, fingers tapping the weight of the thing inside my coat. Not a gun. No. Something older. Something sharper. A father’s rage honed to the edge.
And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl: Jack is gone. Jack is gone. Jack is gone.
And someone has to pay.
I remember the last time I saw his hands—calloused, taped up, always ready for a fight. But he never saw this one coming. Didn’t know the rules. Didn’t know the game was rigged before he even stepped in the ring.
He was a fighter. This dead city made him a corpse.
I light a cigarette, let the smoke coil in my lungs. The dealer sees me now. A flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition? No, not yet. But he will.
He shifts his weight, sniffs. He thinks I’m just another buyer. Another lost man looking to fill the hole in his chest with powder and promises.
But I’m not here to buy.
I’m here to collect.
I step forward, slow, deliberate, the way a lion moves before the pounce. He starts to speak—some rehearsed pitch, some poison-laced gospel—but I cut him off.
“Shut your mouth. You’ve already said enough.”
And then I show him.
The steel. The weight. The cold certainty of a father who has nothing left to lose.
His hands go up. Shaking. Sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. A scared animal now. His mouth moves faster than his brain, words tumbling out, desperate, sloppy.
“I—I didn’t know, man, I didn’t know, I swear! I just—It wasn’t personal.”
And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl: “For me, it is personal.”
I press the blade against his ribs, just enough for him to feel the promise behind it. I lean in close, my voice low, steady.
Miranda, pleading like an 8-year-old, who’s lost his blanket and thinks crying will bring it back.
“I didn’t know!”
I’m somewhere between uncontrollable rage and elation, but 100% locked in the moment.
“Well, now you do.”
His breath stutters. A whimper caught in his throat.
I exhale smoke in his face, watch the fear seep into his bones.
Life splits in two the second you lose a child. There’s before and there’s after. Before was seven hours and nineteen minutes in a dark theater, the entire Nolan, Batman trilogy in a single sitting and you grinning at me through a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids, teeth glowing like a jack-o’-lantern in the dim light. It was frozen Coke dripping down your wrist because you held the cup too tight during the fight scenes. It was Whittaker and Romero 2, the roar of Chicago, the way you practically floated when Dana White grabbed you for a picture—your grin telling me, This is it. You’re doing it right. It was those goddamn short films, half-baked ideas and duct-taped props, where we didn’t care if they were good because it was us making them. Father and son, building something real out of nothing.
And then came after. That call. That fucking call. In some dead Indiana parking lot that stank of piss and stale cigarettes, the sky too blank, too indifferent. The words didn’t make sense, not at first. I just stood there, the phone slipping from my hand, staring at the cracks in the pavement as if my soul was spilling through every jagged line. And then, smashing my forehead over and over on that torn concrete until the blood seeped into the cracks, following my soul into the void. That was the moment I learned what real hell is. It’s not fire or pitchforks or devils; it’s standing in the middle of nowhere knowing the only thing that mattered is gone. It’s remembering the grin you gave me in that theater and knowing I’ll never see it again. It’s the torture of memory—every golden moment tipped with barbs now, gutting me every time I dare to look back.
And then there’s him. The dealer. The worthless, bottom-feeding coward who handed you that poisoned pill—a devil in a hoodie, trading death for pocket change. I see his face in my dreams, over and over again. I imagine all the ways I could make him bleed, suffer, break. My hands on his throat, squeezing until one of his eyes pops out and he’s gasping for air while I laugh and squeeze harder, just enough for him to feel what he’s taken from me. I want him to feel it—the endless, searing agony of a father who’s lost his son. I imagine cutting his fingers off with his own wire cutters so he can never hand over another fentanyl-laced counterfeit pill, leaving him as useless as the soul he sold long ago.
But then comes the letdown. Sanity slipping back in, a bitter taste of restraint that almost feels like defeat. Because vengeance is useless. It won’t bring you back. It won’t undo the call, or the parking lot, or the crack in my soul that will never close. And yet, the thought of him walking free, dealing death to someone else’s kid, keeps me up at night. That rage is the only fire I’ve got left, the only thing keeping the void from swallowing me whole.
So I rage. I dream of blood. And I write it all down because it’s the only way to survive another day in purgatory. This is the after. It’s torture. It’s rage. It’s love twisted into something unrecognizable. It’s the weight of what could’ve been, dragging me toward the grave. And still, I wake up every day wishing, screaming, dreaming for a world where you were still here.
Born pickled a bundle of brine, spit out with the pigs, stepped on, tossed aside, buried under the muddy rugs— the carpet chorus muffled, rolled up and stained with the slap of hands, wet dirt naming me sinner, naming me fool, while the silence screamed back.
Junk on my hands but my fists stayed open— bound wrists, tight-rope veins walking the thin edge of despair, slippery slopes greased by whispers, shadows hoarding truths behind my spine.
I dreamed of the bottom of the bag— hiding in burlap shadows, draped over my shoulder, the sack of sorrow dragged uphill. The sun was a dagger, its glare split my skull, its fire pushed me to the peak where the earth yawned open.
And I fell.
Down through the dirt, down to the roots that never asked forgiveness, that held the mud and called it life.
I planted my name there, deep in the soil. The weeds forgave me.
I sprouted new hands, climbed the hill backward— not to escape but to meet the sunrise and the bruised boy I’d left behind.
I held his face in my palms. I said, “We are here now.” And he disappeared into the light.
