When I died,
I went to writer's hell
for all my sins were literary.
Dante met me,
Dickens too,
they told me I would be visited
by three divine
They bound my limbs,
shackled me to a table
of questionable contents.

for my sin of pride,
D.H Lawrence twisted my nipples
till they grew hard
and purple.
I moaned,
I told him again
and again
that I had lied,
that I didn't really hate
his fucking book.
He only twisted harder.
O! It hurts,
I ejaculated.

for my sin of punning,
Sylvia Plath,
her expression black,
devoid of tenderness,
stove in my back
with a rolling pin.
She beat me
till I burned,
till I knew
I was
well done-

For my sin of indulgence,
my old professor
hacked at my flesh with an
editorial axe,
till my eyes no longer wept
with sorrow and I bled
they pooled on the floor
I wondered:
perhaps this is all a bad dream,
and I will soon wake up,
and for that sin,
she beat me yet again.

Then, she was gone—
I lay back,
my breath rough
and ragged.
I lay back,
and watched the dead
words shambling:
very lonely,
sorrowful things.

Quinn Ramsay graduated from Pacific University
in 2013 and is currently attending the University
of Glasgow. He has been published in Santa Clara
Review and PLUM, and received the Amy M. Young
Prize in Creative Writing.
by Quinn Ramsay