In aisle twenty-three under flickering light, a dented can of peaches chants psalms to no one—its label peeling like confession. The janitor baptizes linoleum with grey water and hums the death march backwards. An old woman exchanges coins for silence at the self-checkout; her barcode face unreadable. Behind her, a boy with pixel eyes cradles…
The Office of Whispering Fans
In the ministry of humming fans, a stapler coughs again—its creed neatly misfiled in drawer thirteen. An orchid blooms in the breakroom fridge, petals crusted with yogurt light, and Brenda whispers the Gospel of HR: “Your soul must clock in before your body.” Meanwhile, the photocopier emits eight identical sins per second— each page blank…
The Throne / Lupe
This article is based on this Dutch article of Martinus Benders El Trono I’ve had it for twenty years. It smells of rotting figs and ancient rain. I’ve had it for twenty years, and it has had me. It gave up long ago, but I never heard its creaking song between gasps. Its back is…
The Priest
In the elevator’s humming throat, I cradled a loaf of bread like a wound— each crumb a dream of socialist flour. A woman coughed pixels into her sleeve; in aisle seven, detergent gods blinked from holographic thrones. We genuflect to offers. Behind the fish counter, the saint of discounted flesh dragged his crucifix through ammonia…
The Pastor
In the atrium of the Welfare Office, a cockroach plays cello on a receipt — Baroque shrieks fracture the linoleum hush. Behind glass, the clerk peels the barcode from his neck, asks me to recite my mother’s last bank statement, in Latin. I oblige, tongue clumsy as a drowned priest’s hymn. Outside, the pigeons yell…
The Office Chaplain
In the breakroom, a shrine of plastic forks— Saint Microwave hums its Gregorian code to lukewarm saints in polyester shirts— each zipper a failed resurrection. Janet files her soul under E4. Outside, pigeons riot like minor gods knitted from gray snow and fast food grease, offering French fries to the void. The copier births identical…
Heidegger in the Office: Being and the Printer Error
De printer sprak in tongen zoals mijn vader op de tweede pinksterdag: “Error 409 – soul not found”, ik voerde hem blanco papier, een offervel uit de lade van het leven. De koffieautomaat belijdt mij zijn dogma’s: decaf, light, loyalty points voor het hiernamaals, terwijl ergens in de gang een klok sterft – Tick–tock, als…
The Priest
In aisle 7 I spake unto the yogurt, thou art my savior in biodegradable guiltcups, fortified with omega-3 dreams & fracture-resistant calcium longings—oh unloved probiotic apostle. Internally, the printer screamed evangelisms, Error. Refill. Salvation. Paperjam. And Marjan from HR said, “Maybe we are already in the correct afterlife, just badly formatted.” My mouth tasted of…
The Priest
I plug my veins into the fax machine— it hums Gregorian static. Sandra from HR speaks in tongues again, quoting Nietzsche through a Bounty ad. “Clean is the soul that invoices itself,” she mutters, while her keyboard bleeds hibiscus. On aisle eleven, the cucumbers arrange themselves in the shape of a dying god: Deal of…
Office Apocalypse, Reimagined
The printer wept again. Toner tears on fluorescent prayers—“Welcome back, Carina, your soul is overdue.” The HR orchid blinks Morse code at the janitor’s shoes. Meanwhile in aisle six, a Jehovah’s Witness asks the mayonnaise jar for absolution. The label replies in Helvetica Neue: SALVATION: LIMITED TIME OFFER. I stab my badge into the slot…