Psychopomp   They’re so bewildered, this crop of fresh souls. They’ve been through hell — dying is such hard work that release is sweet for some, even holy — but of course they don’t know that. They lurk around the wharf, specters, waiting, though waiting shouldn’t trouble them — not anymore. Your boat will ferry each of them away to their various forevers. Call it glory, call it void — the words themselves don’t matter anymore. The penny each shade clutches for the fare — that matters. And if that’s the last hard currency they’ll ever touch, so be it. You bend your back to the oars, barely a splash as the little boat glides into the mist beyond light, beyond thought. You were always a harbor pilot, guide, conductor, friend, so no wonder you got this job — you were so good at it before.                                                       — for Baron Wormser     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont May 2026