Sojourner's Hell

WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN WHEN YOU DIE? Life is too good for Michael Sojourner to stop and think about it. He's got it all: a home in the hills, fancy cars, a nice bank account. Producing movies in Hollywood, he even gets to date a lot of hopeful starlets. Life couldn't be better for Michael Sojourner, at least until, after a long night of drinking, he wakes up and, where the hell is he? On a dirt floor, in a hallway. The last thing he remembers, he'd been going home with another hopeful starlet. Maybe she'd slipped him something then dumped him. His Rolex was missing, his iPhone was missing, his wallet was missing, maybe she'd taken his Ferrari, too. But where'd she dump him? Michael got up and wiped the dirt from his hands. In the distance there was some kind of a faint roar, like from a furnace. There was also a distinct smell of sulfur in the air, like rotten eggs. Maybe he was in Chinatown. That hopeful starlet, she'd had a Euro-Asian quality to her, so maybe she had connections in Chinatown, too. Maybe that noise up ahead was a laundry. This was going to make for a great story, if nothing else. Maybe he'd make a movie out of this. He was already getting ideas, and that hopeful starlet, well, that bitch would never work in this town again. Hell, she was going to serve jail time for this. Walking towards the noise and the light, Michael Sojourner embarks on a journey which will teach him about redemption, forgiveness, karma, and empathy; leaving him forever changed.
About the Author: I write because of the fragility of our existence. I write because it's my answer to impermanence. I write because it helps me stay connected to my heart. I write because we're all different, and so much the same. I write because the world needs more tenderness. I write because I'm tired of secrets. I write because it's my path to redemption. I write because I've forsaken those that I love. I write because I want to know myself. I write because I want to know you. I write because I'm drawn towards things I shouldn't do. I write because every flower is meant to bloom. I write because life is full of paradoxes. I write because I've had to leave friends behind. I write because it's my form of prayer. I write because, when I write, I lose track of time. I write because I've walked dark streets looking for love. I write because of the way the sublime slips away from words. I write because of the twice shy part of once burned. I write because it helps me learn. I write because there are plenty of people who have written, famous well-published people, literary figures, literary giants, and I didn't like what they wrote. I write because I'm always telling myself stories anyhow. I write because I don't know all of the reasons I write. I write. I write. I write.