Chapter 1: Processing

[This is the first chapter of a Random Story generated by my “Infinite Bookshelf” app for AI writing. I think it’s a cool concept. Feels familiar, like Beetlejuice or Ghost Town, but also original, like it’s going some place different. You can use the app (free) if you have a Claude.ai account. https://rddsmith.com/the-infinite-bookshelf/]

The first thing you need to know about dying is that it’s surprisingly bureaucratic.

I discovered this at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday, standing in what appeared to be the world’s most depressing DMV, complete with flickering fluorescent lights and that particular shade of beige that suggests all hope has been professionally drained from the walls. The only difference was the sign above the reception desk, which read “DEPARTMENT OF ETERNAL TRANSITIONS” in comic sans font—because apparently, even death has given up on dignity.

“Next!” called the clerk, a woman whose enthusiasm had clearly died sometime during the Carter administration.

I shuffled forward, still wearing the hospital gown I’d died in six hours earlier. The heart attack had been swift, at least. One moment I was arguing with my ex-wife about alimony payments, the next I was flat-lining in the ER. Now here I was, wherever ‘here’ was, holding a ticket numbered 847,329.

“Name?” The clerk didn’t look up from her computer screen.

“Marcus Webb.”

“Date of death?”

“Today. I think. What day is it?”

She sighed with the weight of someone who’d answered this question approximately infinity times. “Time works differently here. Just give me the date you remember dying.”

“March fifteenth.”

“Cause?”

“Myocardial infarction. Look, I’m sorry, but could you explain what’s happening? I was expecting… I don’t know. Pearly gates? A tunnel of light? Maybe a stern talking-to about that incident with my neighbor’s garden gnome?”

For the first time, she looked at me. Her eyes were the color of old pennies, and held about as much warmth. “Mr. Webb, you’re in Processing. Everyone comes through Processing. Think of it as… customs, but for the afterlife.”

“Customs.”

“Exactly. Now, religious affiliation?”

“Lapsed Methodist, I guess?”

“Guess? Sir, this determines your eternal assignment. We need specificity.”

I glanced around the waiting area. Hundreds of people sat in plastic chairs, all looking as confused as I felt. A woman in a wedding dress was arguing with someone on an ancient payphone. A man in a three-piece suit was reading a pamphlet titled “So You’ve Died: Now What?” A kid who couldn’t have been more than sixteen was crying silently into his hands.

“Methodist,” I said firmly. “Definitely Methodist.”

“Good deeds performed in life?”

“I… what qualifies as good? I mean, I donated to charity sometimes. Helped my elderly neighbor with her groceries. Never cheated on my taxes.”

“Never?”

“Well, there was that thing with the home office deduction…”

She typed furiously. “Bad deeds?”

This was getting uncomfortable. “Do we have to go through everything? I mean, I wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t exactly Hitler either.”

“Mr. Webb, I need specifics. The algorithm requires data.”

“Algorithm?”

“How do you think we process millions of souls annually? Divine intuition is terribly inefficient.” She adjusted her reading glasses. “Now, bad deeds. Start with the big ones and work your way down.”

I thought about my life—really thought about it. The affairs. The lies to my kids. The time I drove away from that hit-and-run because I was already late for a meeting. The slow erosion of every promise I’d ever made.

“This is going to take a while,” I admitted.

“They always do.” She pulled out a fresh form—this one was pink instead of yellow. “Take a number for the Confession Queue. Someone will call you when it’s your turn.”

I took the slip of paper: 1,247,891.

“How long is the wait?”

“Time works differently here,” she repeated. “Could be minutes, could be millennia. Depends on your case complexity.”

As I walked toward the confession area, I noticed a bulletin board covered in notices. “MISSING: One Guardian Angel, answers to Clarence.” “FOR SALE: Slightly used harp, minor damage to strings.” And at the bottom, in small print: “WARNING: Clerical errors in processing may result in incorrect eternal assignment. The Department of Eternal Transitions is not responsible for misfiled souls.”

That’s when I realized my afterlife was about to become very complicated.

[Build your own story at: https://rddsmith.com/the-infinite-bookshelf/]