The Thing About Hell
Matt Kolbet The thing about hell, the chemistry professor says, as if there’s only one, is that it doesn’t make sense. Fires that burn without end. Noise. Hot air. He instructs us to forget about smoke and the space it needs to pour into, so I set aside battlefields and consider how money from the G.I. bill lowers my financial aid, how much loans weigh, if hell is part of any equation, the class purview, or better served by painting, writing stories. What about fuel? Radiation with a half-life of forever. The class is quiet. I sit in the middle of the room, hoping to pass unnoticed. Not enough wood or coal, inadequate heat or oxygen are the sticking points for the teacher, allow him to conclude without considering the blaze of immortal souls. He moves on to heaven, dismisses it not for an overabundance of harps or robes, but joy: no person can be content for so long. Where’s the core? He demands measurement of sanity first and cast-iron fact second, a bond he can calculate, a diagram to show how to believe. That’s when I raise my hand and show him a drawing I’ve made, a doodle while he’s lectured, wondering if he’ll see the pineal gland, Horus’ eye, or at least a third one, some elusive valence--lymph node dreams—in what I’d meant to be a self portrait, and whether I’m happy with the picture. |
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About the Author: Matt Kolbet teaches and writes in Oregon. His second novel, Lunar Year, was published by Champlain Avenue Books last year.