LITANIES OF ECCLESIASTES
ALM No.86, February 2026
SHORT STORIES
Part I
Every day Marquis K. arrives at 06:43 and leaves at 07:28.
Marquis has been coming to this neighborhood for a long time now: three-thousands-one- hundred-thirty-six days, to be exact. In the morning, the misty neighborhood has an elusive, mysterious air to it. Perhaps he prefers it that way.
Built antebellum, the neighborhood's age shows through the uneven, weatherworn cobblestone sidewalks and crumbling pavement. Rusting black iron gates line the streets, each one adorned with a family coat of arms, a testament to their fine craftsmanship and the neighborhood’s past prosperity. Houses, most of them pearl white, rise to two or three stories high to serve as open displays of their owner’s wealth. Nowadays, the houses are deserted, but the vestiges of their former residents remain. The neighborhood seems to be frozen in time, everything perfectly maintained and peaceful like a snapshot of the better days. Though abandoned, the neighborhood still radiates an inexplicable, pulsing sense of pride and prestige, offering an echo of a long-gone glory to any visitor—Marquis being the only one.
Here he is now, walking past the gates. Marquis is observably tall and slender, with an almost delicate build. He has dark brown hair, light skin, amber eyes, thin lips, and an oblong face that so often sports a soft, contemplative expression. He is wearing his usual attire today: a thick brown trench coat, black dress shirt, tan trousers, and polished leather Oxford shoes. Firmly held in his right hand is the mahogany box Marquis always carries. The box has the shape of a cube with a side length of two-and-a-half inches, an ornamental design of a tree and roots etched on top, and a shiny, golden latch affixed to the front. I have never seen Marquis open the box.
Now Marquis is walking by a particularly plain three-story house. He looks up to it, his eyes narrowing and his calm face twisting slightly. He holds up his box, turning it around in his hands while staring at the deserted residence.
“What a fine family this must be!” Marquis says. He smiles at the house and walks away. Expression returns to normal as he begins to walk at a slightly faster pace.
Marquis never fails to smile at these houses in the neighborhood. Even on days when he looks down or disturbed, he always smiles and seems more content after walking through the rows and rows of near identical houses and front lawns and sidewalks. From a bird’s-eye view, Marquis’s itinerary traces a zigzag pattern. He stops occasionally to admire and praise the architecture of the houses or the structure of the neighborhood. Aside from that, Marquis is never distracted by anything in the environment. He walks with the incredible preciseness of a machine, each muscle movement choreographed and rehearsed hundreds of thousands of times over. Perhaps Marquis finds comfort in his routine. But who am I to judge?
Of course, as determined as Marquis is, there are days when his facade slips. Today is one of those days.
#
07:23. Five minutes to the exit. Marquis is walking past the previous three-story house. He looks at the box again. He stops.
Marquis slowly raises the box above his face with both hands. The box blocks the sun from Marquis’s face. His eyes open wide. Marquis inspects the box, turning it in his hands. He finds a one-inch diagonal scratch on the left side of the box. It is shallow but curiously distinct, as if the scar is pulsating on its own.
Marquis drops the box, which fell on the curb. He freezes for two seconds, then bends down instantly to pick the box up. In one motion, he jams the box in his pocket and continues walking.
Marquis’s pace quickens, speeding up slowly before breaking into a half sprint, his face twitching and sweating. He soon passes the gate, but without looking back and nodding his head like usual.
07:26. Marquis leaves two minutes early.
Part II
Yes. Marquis’s appearance that morning certainly surprised me. It was an unusual morning, particularly unusual because of how usual everything was before I arrived at work. I was dressed perfectly in my uniform, brushed my teeth, ate breakfast, and took the bus to work—really, it was a morning not unlike any other morning. And you don't expect unusual things to happen when everything’s normal, so it all came as quite a surprise to me when I found Marquis standing at the door of the candy store, waiting.
I was confused why he was at the store at such an early hour—who buys candy at 8 in the morning?—and it was Marquis, of all people! Still, I unlocked the door for my friend. I said hello and smiled at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. His expression, though, was even more unusual. I’ve never seen him like that before. He was sweating and more… pale than normal. I remember his face was unwell and distressed, almost fearful. And his eyes, his eyes were weirder, they looked different, unnatural. For a moment, I saw something like spite flash in his eyes; then it was gone, and he dashed into the store.
Now, despite this, I was glad that Marquis was visiting the candy store. Unlike most people, Marquis rarely eats any sweets. He always avoided the topic; I suppose he thinks he doesn’t need them. There was that one time I invited him to hang out with my friends at a bar. Everything was fine at first: after some introductions, we quickly got along and were all enjoying ourselves. Marquis didn’t talk much, but he looked like he was having fun. And as we talked about work, sports, girls, he listened intently, gradually warming up to everyone. Things were all going well when, out of the blue, Marquis stood up and left without saying anything. When I saw him the next day, he apologized and whispered something about a neighborhood. Then he looked away and fell silent, and I couldn’t get anything more out of him. For as much as I enjoy being with Marquis, he has always been a strange person.
Anyway, as if I wasn’t there, Marquis walked over the rows of seats in the center of the room and headed straight to the reception. It was then when I noticed the small box in his right hand. It looked like a wooden, standard-sized candy box with some kind of engraving on it; I couldn’t see it clearly. At the time, I didn’t question it because it felt natural and familiar in his hands. I thought Marquis had always carried it with him. But now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that box before that day.
I watched Marquis as he put one hand on the steel counter and held the box with the other. The white fluorescent light illuminated his face in the otherwise dim room. With his soft, hissing voice, he spoke into the microphone embedded in the shiny metal wall.
“Good morning. I believe I am sick. I feel nauseous, dizzy, and have difficulty breathing. I would like three pieces of candy, please.”
A moment of silence later, the light in front of Marquis turned green. The speaker in the wall came to life with a slight hum and the nurse’s mechanical voice echoed through the room.
“Thank you for visiting us. Enjoy the candies and remember to come back!”
The candy bag rolled down the dispenser tube with a thunk. I walked forward to take a look. Marquis got three round, translucent candies: pink, yellow, green. In my years working at the candy store, I have never seen this particular combination of candy. So I congratulated him and told him that this must be good stuff. Possibly only then did he notice me, as he almost tripped when he turned around with a jolt. His surprised face softened to an awkward smile.
“Nice to meet you here, Anthony! Yes, I am sure these candies will be good. However, you must excuse me as I am not feeling well. I am going home to get some rest. Goodbye!”
With that, Marquis walked out of the store as quietly as he had come, shoving the candies into his mouth along the way. When I looked back, I saw the box changed. There were scratches everywhere and a long hole on top, like a gaping stab wound. A strange, carmine liquid was spilling, almost seeping out of the wood itself. The substance throbbed and glimmered under the light. Like blood.
Part III
The clock strikes ten. The church bell rings thrice. You enter the nave.
Hands in your pockets, you take in the sight of the deserted nave. It astonishes you: the nave is infinitely more grand than you remember. The surroundings seem to be magnified tenfold in scale: the aisles, pews, chancel, altar, pulpit, lectern. As you look around, there’s only a magnificent and terrible blur of candle light, mahogany, brass, marble, and stained glass—you can’t make out the details, everything feels miles away. It is dizzying. You can’t help but feel overwhelmed as your brain struggles to make sense of the sight.
But, alas, the efforts are futile; this reality is not for you to comprehend. You are left with only headache and a sense of extreme disorientation. The world revolves and wobbles. Vertigo threatens to topple you any moment.
Still, you are determined to go forth. You start walking, eyes fixed on the shaft of golden sunlight streaming through the clerestory windows. The sole beam of light cuts through the vast darkness, illuminating the sanctuary and the aisle in front of you. Something about it feels familiar. It reminds you of your childhood days, many of which were spent in churches not unlike this one. Those days were simpler, weren’t they? You can hardly recall any details about your childhood these days, but you are certain that it was a blissful existence. You had family, friends, camaraderie…
You shake your head violently. Now is no time for reminiscing. The box has begun bleeding once more. You look back at your sluggish progress and quicken your pace, leaving behind a scarlet, squirming trail.
Your head spins. Adjusting to the disorientation has not proved easy. The church remains an entirely incomprehensible mess of texture, colors, and light. The only change you feel is the temperature: the air is growing colder with each step toward the altar.
In only a few moments, the temperature becomes unbearable. You are freezing. The coldness makes it harder to think. Your mind grows numb. The only thing left is walking. Walking. Raising your foot. One step after another. Each one more painful than the last. But you persist.
You know you can get there. You have done it before
#
The church bell wakes you up. Startled, you stand up to discover that you had collapsed on the sanctuary floor behind the altar. You have no sense of how much time has passed, though it is now considerably darker: the sunlight is gone, and no candles remain lit save for those on the altar.
You are also surprised that the nave now seems normal, comprehensible. Everything has returned to their typical sizes, as if what preceded was only a fever dream. They must have been no more than overly-vivid imagination, you tell yourself. The thought is relieving.
Without thinking, you check your pockets—only to find nothing. Your heart palpitates. This revelation fills you with dread, but you do not know why. You vaguely remember that something important was supposed to be there. As you attempt to trace back your memory, you also realize that you do not recall why you are here. This frightens you.
Looking around, you see a copy of the Holy Scripture sitting on the altar, the standard edition you are more than familiar with. You sit down and open the Scripture without thinking.
You squint, the text looks off, blurry. Bringing the candle closer, you still cannot make out anything but hieroglyphs and runes.
You flip frantically. Something is very wrong.
“Am I hallucinating? Is it my vision?” you ask yourself. “I must be dreaming again.”
Just as you are about to close the Scripture, something in your mind clicked.
“Meaningless,” you read. “Everything is meaningless.”
Everything is meaningless. Those are the only words written in the Scripture, filling every line, every page. Meaningless.
The world around you disintegrated, replaced by an alien copy. The universe became sensible, yet incoherent at the same time. The church bursts into flame, yet you feel an unspeakable sense of coldness. You struggle for breath, feeling your lungs constricting against your will. You want to run, but you are paralyzed. Everything is meaningless.
A jolt of pain shoots up your spine. Guilt, despair, and recognition returns to your body. A burst of pain invades your skull. Your mind cannot process these foreign, excruciating sensations; it threatens to rupture any second.
The box. It sits before you, covering the altar with a repulsive, crimson slime. You do not remember what it is. Yet instinctively, you know it is the only thing that can save you from this world.
You reach.
You touch the box.
Time stops.
Everything goes black.
#
No salvation awaits you, Marquis.
Part IV
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
These are the sounds of nothingness.
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Warmth.
Thump…
Thump…
Everything will be ok.
Thump…
Thump…
The Sun will rise.
Again.
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Time passes.
A sound.
Rain falling on the ground.
A smell.
Warm cup of milk.
Taste of apricot.
A hug.
Something is wrong.
Eyes opening.
There is nothing.
Nothing is wrong.
No.
There is something.
Darkness.
All around.
Me.
I breathe.
I am someone.
“Are you sure, brother?”
A painting in front of me speaks.
“You think that—you, you are someone?”
A boy and a girl, running around a field in an arboretum, holding candies. They look happy.
I recognize their faces.
He was someone.
“Don’t be ridiculous, brother! You were never anyone. You don’t even qualify as an impression, a caricature of someone!”
I wish I could play with them.
“Trust me, brother. I have been a prisoner in your skull for far too long.”
No. That can’t be true. I am someone. In a society. I have friends and family and a job and coworkers and a house and a coat and a watch…
I am scared.
Things change.
Everything is different now.
I wish I could go back.
But maybe—I will be ok.
We will make new memories.
Happiness.
A ray of blazing white light erupts from within. The darkness is illuminated for a split second, filled with furious, blinding whiteness.
Then the light fades, and the darkness recedes. In its place—floor, walls, roof. Concrete. Gray. Grim. New.
Another painting.
It is a bedroom.
Bed, nightstand, lamp, clock, paintings, photos.
So painfully familiar.
“Please… don’t leave…”
The painting begs.
“It’s so warm and quiet here… we can finally be happy…”
But I…
“Isn’t this what you always wanted? No more struggling. No more pretending. No more hurting.”
…
“You don’t have to do anything. I promise...”
The painting sobs. I start to cry too.
“Stay for us.”
Memories flood back.
How many times have I cried.
Lying awake on that bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
Because there was nothing else to do.
I want everything to end.
I want to stop being myself.
It hurts.
…
Why doesn’t it stop.
Why does it still hurt.
…
Silence.
…
All pain eventually eases.
I am tired of crying.
There are people waiting for me.
Someone.
So despite everything.
It will be ok.
It must be.
Light erupts again. It is gentle now.
It brings up memories of a childhood home, school, friends…
The surrounding shifts. Walls stretch and move. The shape of the space gives it new meaning.
An art hall.
Painting of a black rose.
I am ready.
“Do you wish to leave?”
Yes.
“Do you wish to face the world?”
Yes.
I have to.
“Do you wish to erase your existence here in exchange for mortality?”
Yes.
I want to live.
I want to cherish life.
“Do you know who you are?”
I am Marquis. Marquis K.
“Do you accept yourself?”
I…
I will try.
“Very well.”
Black glass.
It envelopes the painting.
A mirror.
The man inside the mirror stares at me.
He is holding a black rose in one hand.
A box in the other.
He offers them to me.
I know what to do.
I touch the black rose.
The gift of existence.
I understand now.
The man is me.
I am Marquis.
Marquis laughs at me.
Because I am dead.
I laugh at Marquis.
Because he is alive.
After Death,
Life Again.
After Life—
Our story continues.
Harry Xiong is a writer and high school student born in Beijing, China, and currently living in Southern California. Among his interests are literature, philosophy, film, and indie games. He recently completed his first short story, “Litanies of Ecclesiastes,” and is currently working on a collection of short stories.
