I just finished printing several of these small zines: 12 pages, 5.5' x 4.25', black and white, 1,250 words. What happens when your evening commute goes really, really wrong?
The story begins ...
The Demon got on the subway at 125th Street and sat down next to Mark, who was on his way home from work.
He couldn’t see her features, but for some reason he was certain she was evil or dead or undead or some combination of factors that make someone a demon. She had a black hood on, and stared down at the floor. True, it was a very stylish hood, possibly from Gucci’s fall line, but Mark assumed that even demons like a little fashion in their undead unlives.
She smelled good as well. Not of rotting flesh or death or fear or any of those things one would naturally expect walking evil to smell like. No, it was definitely a faint whiff of perfume that Mark caught when she sat down. Jasmine, perhaps. And when she sat, the seat barely gave at all. Light, for a demon, Mark thought. ...
For a moment, Mark questioned his initial assumption. Here was a small, thin woman in a stylish, hooded top with red heels on. Perhaps it was too early to know for sure if she was undead.
And yet, it wasn’t. From the moment the doors opened, Mark had been consumed with fear. ...
