Late Shift
From Pulp Literature Issue 48, take a trip to purgatory with this excerpt of ‘The Midnight Diyu’ by Melissa Ren. To read the full story, pick up a copy of Issue 48, Autumn 2025!
The Midnight Diyu
by Melissa Ren
The bell chimed as the front door swung open. My head snapped up from my crossword.
A man walked in. He was about my age, with a striking face and killer jawline. Fuck, what a shame. He wore a bomber jacket, jeans with a distressed knee, and black Chucks. He bore no visible wounds or bruises. Carbon monoxide, maybe?
As expected, he stood by the entrance and glanced at the globed red lantern lurking overhead. Its red tassels fluttered in response to the oscillating fan mounted at the corner of the wall.
“Sit anywhere you like,” I said.
The man ambled forward and parked his ass in front of me at the counter. I raised a brow; no one ever did that. People usually scurried into the corner or sat by the window to gaze out at the darkness. Instead, he had gravitated towards me, the only warm body, though I was always cold.
Up close, he had a creamy complexion with the most luscious skin I’d ever seen, like he cleansed his face with oat milk. I bet his skin was soft, too. What a waste.
He leaned forward, his eyes roaming behind me as if searching for something in particular. I poured him a glass of water. He was likely parched; they usually were.
I tipped my chin at him. “What can I get you?”
He chugged the drink in a single swig, then gasped as he set down the glass and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Can I get another?” His voice was deep and scratchy, as if dragged over gravel.
After I topped him up, he took measured sips, then met my eyes. Two obsidian coins, glossy, almost. My stomach warmed.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Famished.”
I tilted my head, assessing his taste buds. “Something greasy?”
“Definitely.”
Bet he liked seafood. “Salt and pepper deep fried squid?”
“That’s my favourite.”
Mine too. “I had a feeling.” Why the hell was I smiling? Was I flirting? What the hell was wrong with me?
I put through the order and returned to refill his glass.
“What time is it?” He raked a hand through his hair. This was the point when shit could get awkward.
Find the full story in Pulp Literature Issue 48, Autumn 2025
Melissa Ren is a Chinese-Canadian writer whose narratives tend to explore the intersection between belonging and becoming. She is a prize recipient of Room Magazine’s Fiction Contest, a Tin House alum, a grant recipient of the Canada Council for the Arts, and a senior editor at Augur Magazine. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Grain Magazine, Factor Four Magazine, Fusion Fragment, and elsewhere. Find her at linktr.ee/MelissaRen or follow her on various socials @melisfluous.
Leave a Reply