The "prompt" for February was: the first sentence must be 3 words, the story must contain a first of some kind, and there has to be a candle.
Here goes....
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Being dead’s ok.
I mean obviously it’s not ideal, but someone else always has it
worse, you know? And at least I didn’t die of something horribly embarrassing—no
auto-erotic asphyxiation or aneurysm on the toilet seat. Nope, just a
run-of-the-mill homicide. Janie thinks that’s why I came back like this. Unfinished business or some such. But
everyone knows Janie’s an idiot. It’s equally likely it was just some cosmic
mistake, a wrong turn on the highway to oblivion.
I digress.
If I kept a diary, today would be
marked with hearts or stars or some other sparkly shit. Big day. Lots of
straining muscle to be seen on pasty white, hairy legs. A few plumber’s cracks
too. A hatstand, a corner desk, two armchairs and a couch shrouded in stained
linen. Fresh quarry!
Being dead’s ok, but it is super boring. So far, I’d give it a
solid zero out of ten, would not do again. If I exclude Janie—and most people
would—I haven’t had a real conversation in almost a year. Like, just because I’m
dimensionally challenged, suddenly I’m not worth talking to? Most breathers
can’t even acknowledge they perceive me at all.
But they do. I make sure of it.
She is here with me now, in the room. No power connected yet, so
it’s a candle she lights and places on the dining table for illumination.
Rookie mistake. I wave my arm through the flame and it wavers, then fails. She
lights it again. I extinguish it. I can do this all night.
She looks right at me.
Must be a coincidence. No
breather has ever seen me before. I wait for her to strike another match. She
raises her eyebrows, sharply.
‘Will this be a regular thing
with you?’ she asks, tipping her head towards the curl of black smoke rising
from the candle’s wick. Her voice is tinged with annoyance rather than fear. That’s
a first.
I gesture down the length of my semi-translucent
body. ‘Will this be a regular thing
with you?’ I ask.
She smiles and shrugs one
shoulder. ‘I guess we’ll see.’
She relights the candle and her
stare challenges me to interfere again. I feign disinterest. She rummages
through her shoulder bag and pulls out a book—its
cover is creased and there’s a thin layer of plastic peeling from one corner. She
pulls a bookmark out from around the middle before opening to the first page
and reading aloud:
‘Marley was dead, to begin with.
There is no doubt whatever about that…’
My gaze travels over the new
assortment of furniture in the room. They are just objects, I suppose there’s
room enough for them in my little home.
Maybe being dead really won’t be
so bad after all.
