An Exclusive Short Story I Wrote Called “Sick on Styx”

“This kind of sucks,” Matt Elliot told Charon, “when I left the house today, I didn’t think I would end up in your boat going across the River Styx. 

Matt is sitting on the floor of the ferryman’s thin wood skiff, looking at the dark body of water that takes souls to the realm of the dead. Luckily, he had a quarter that Charon shouldn’t have but accepted as his obolus coin to pass him to the underworld. Charon collects state quarters and needed a North Carolina quarter. 

“Passion. That’s what got me here. With you right now. The fruit. I never would have eaten passion fruit if I knew I was deathly allergic to it. I was dead before EMS arrived.”

Charon remains silent. They haven’t spoken yet. There’s been no conversation between the ferryman and the soul.  Matt only knows Charon is standing behind him because of the whoosh and swoosh sounds their oar makes to navigate the boat. The boat ride has been like this the entire time, which has felt like either an eternity or a short period. Time flows differently on the River Styx. 

“I hate that we had to meet this way, Charon. We should meet up for a beer or something to catch up. You seem like a decent fellow, aside from this thing you do for Hades. Carrying us dead folk for him. How much do you make doing this? Never mind, forget I asked. That’s none of my business.”

Matt gets a whiff of something lovely and creamy. He knows that the smell is out of place because the River Styx smells worse than it looks, and the river reeks of sulfur, rot, and death.    

“Did you smell that?” Matt asks Charon, but Charon says nothing. Of course. 

Matt notices that the greasy and oily sheen on top of the black water now looks milky. 

Matt, in the world of the living, was one of those people who always had to take a second closer look at things, despite better judgment. These closer looks usually ended up becoming one of those situations that take a turn for the worse, like that one time he got sprayed by a skunk and ended up running through poison ivy.

So, of course, Matt would continue the same dumb stuff when he’s dead, also.

He leans his body over the side of the boat for a much closer look at the milky water. The sweet smell from a few moments ago reappears and fills his nostrils. The scent is delicious. Because there’s somehow now vanilla ice cream floating a few inches from his face. 

“Yes, your senses don’t deceive you. That is, in fact, ice cream.” Charon finally breaks his silence, and Matt finally gets to hear their gravelly voice. 

“Where did it come from?  Styx has been like a depressing swamp so far.” Matt asks.

“A North Carolina ice cream facility illegally dumps all their leftovers down a storm drain that is actually a gate portal to here. It drops down through the ceiling of the cave. Sometimes it falls on my cloak like bird crap. My favorite cloak still smells like butter pecan. I despise butter pecan ice cream,” Charon jabbers. “I must warn you not to sample the ice cream from the River. The water is quite unsettling. Many people haven’t gotten sick from doing so.”

What Charon just said went in one of Matt’s ears and out the other. He’s eager to try the vanilla swamp water despite Charon’s warning. He uses his hands to cup water into his mouth and immediately begins to throw up all over the boat and Charon. They didn’t have time to dodge. That’s another soiled cloak.

“I am so sorry,” Matt apologizes. He is instantly hoarse and grating from getting sick.  

The rest of their boat ride is done so in silence. Charon fumes that his second favored cloak is stained and dirty. Matt is trying not to vomit again. Souls definitely do suffer. They make no plans to meet up for a drink at the Realm of the Dead Tavern.

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