by Voima Oy
You missed a spot, he says. I say nothing, keep wiping the counter. He's the worst boss ever, a demon, a low-ranking demon fallen from demonic grace. Once, I surprised him in his office; I heard voices, I thought he said come in. There was something on his back, something black with claws, a long red tongue winding around his throat. It's our secret. I won't tell a soul, and he lets me take a day off now and then. Sure, he's jealous of my freedom, but what can he do? He's stuck here, like me, serving time in hell.
Author bio: Voima Oy lives on the western rim of Chicago, near the expressway and the Blue Line trains. Her writing can be found online at Paragraph Planet, Visual Verse, 101 Fiction, Sick Lit and Unbroken Journal. Follow her on Twitter, too— @voimaoy
Serving is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.