Short Short Thinger II

Thursday, 31 October 2002

and it seemed that as soon as i closed my eyes they were open again. but the other side: hel/​nirvana/​heaven/​purgatory/​hell what­ever you call it, was kind of bor­ing. just shades of dead folks walk­ing around look­ing ap­a­thetic. it sucked. i’d rather ex­pected a par-tay.

so i went back.

and now i’m stuck, ghost­writ­ing in rather strange ways. i can pos­sess things now. for in­stance, since i have no cor­po­real ex­is­tence i had to pos­sess this com­puter to write. its pretty fun flick­ing around elec­trons. i guess i’m a lawn­mower man. but its harder to con­cen­trate with noth­ing to keep my ether held to­gether but my will.

you don’t re­ally need ex­or­cism or any­thing like that to get rid of ghosts, just dis­tract them, then turn on a fan.

an­other thing, i thought i was just on the other side for a mo­ment or two, but when i came back i was al­ready old dry bones. you see, the eas­i­est spot to reap­pear is in your old body. i guess an affin­ity al­ways re­mains. but i’d long since rot­ted and all that was left in my os­suary were my bones and an an­ti­so­cial spi­der.

once i got the hang of be­ing ethe­real it was pretty fun. i can go through walls, but not with ease. will­ing my­self through things takes a lot of en­ergy, thats why when you see a ghost come out of a wall they are all pale. nor­mally we look more along the lines of a col­ored over­head trans­parency. i can move as fast as my thought across open spaces how­ever.

i thought i’d check out my fam­ily, just for old times sake. they were all dead too. so i be­came one of those an­ces­tral ghosts roam­ing and moan­ing the halls of the gothic castle. or not quite. ac­tu­ally i just chilled in the houses of my family’s de­scen­dents. every once in awhile when i wasn’t pay­ing at­ten­tion they would bump into me and get a chill.

why didn’t they see me? that’s easy, peo­ple only see ghosts when they know to look for them. its hard to catch one of us by sur­prise. af­ter all we are pure will. it still got bor­ing af­ter awhile. there is only so much you can do as a spec­tre. i could have picked up the whole rat­tling chains and wail­ing thing but in­stead i de­cided i’d go find some moun­tains and roam around the peaks and val­leys.

af­ter awhile i’m sure i’ll start to get the hang of it, my spirit will melt into the land and you’ll be able to hear my chuckle on crisp au­tumn evenings. it’ll prob­a­bly just sound like rustling leaves, but it’ll re­ally be me.

Short Short Thinger

Wednesday, 30 October 2002

it hurt them more than it hurt me, so of course i would put a brave face on it and lie to their eyes as i told them i was feel­ing health­ier and would see them in the morn­ing. they couldn’t un­der­stand that i wanted to die.

i was worn out, dy­ing is a rough busi­ness and all i wanted was some sleep. per­ma­nently. they were be­ing strong and ly­ing to me with the same brave face, telling me i looked bet­ter and that they’d see me in the morn­ing. ap­par­ently they thought i needed it.

i’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to com­pre­hend that i was no longer suf­fer­ing. the pain had long ago leached all phys­i­cal sen­sa­tion from my body. i was al­ready in the other world, just tied to the body. when we are dy­ing we are truly ghosts.

any­way, i let them tell them­selves that they’d done their part and i watched them leave, pulling their doubt of my sur­vival through the night on with their coats. i didn’t quite know what i looked like any­more, but the blanch­ing faces of my fam­ily each time they came to visit let me know it never got bet­ter. oh well, that hadn’t been my con­cern for quite some time.

i don’t worry if they’ll be al­right once i’m gone. its not that i don’t care, more like there is no point in wor­ry­ing be­cause i’m go­ing to die any­way.

still, once they all left, it was much eas­ier. if i died in front of them i would have had to have put on a good show, death rat­tle and all. i didn’t want to dis­ap­point, be­sides every night they were ex­pect­ing that phone call. i didn’t no­tify any­one of my in­ten­tions, the re­lease date was not pub­lic, just a pri­vate show­ing for my friend the bed pan. only one box of­fice re­turn for me, six feet down. so i closed my eyes.

Home, briefly

Saturday, 3 August 2002

well i drove 4 hours home to­day. i’ll of­fi­cially be here for three weeks al­though i am go­ing to spend some time in Chicago. as soon as i got home i be­gan ‘nest­ing’ as my mother calls it, go­ing through all of my stuff and run­ning around in cir­cles like a dog does to as­sert and make it­self fa­mil­iar with its ter­ri­tory. any­way, i was go­ing through my file cab­i­net do­ing my yearly pack­rat purge and i came across this one page story i wrote in 7th grade eng­lish class. i re­pro­duce it here in all it orig­i­nal hor­ri­ble­ness.

“Hey Skatch! Over here! The an­nual Ditterbloknic came upon me un­ex­pect­edly.” The Pysk rode her fer­ret to­ward the sound of the voice. “Heran must of got­ten drunk again,” she thought. “Heran, you im­be­cile, if you didn’t have a hang­over you would know that the Ditterbloknic was last dek­tide.” (month) “Just free me,” Heran mut­tered. The Pysk sighed. “Heran you are the strangest Halfling I have ever known.” “Will you please free me?” the Halfling begged. The fer­ret chit­tered, and side­stepped ner­vously. There were snuf­fling and grunt­ing sounds amidst the heather. The sky be­came streaked with pur­ple and green. Everything on the hori­zon be­came grotesquely twisted out of shape. The fer­ret be­gins to chase his tail. “Easy Zine, calm down, help Heran!” Skatch shrieked. “I will if you ever free me!” Heran roared. Suddenly, all was calm. The fer­ret rolled on its side pant­ing. “Gee Skatch, the way you leapt off that fer­ret and ran to me al­most makes me think you were wor­ried about me.” “I should prob­a­bly have left you to Shenar and the Juggers.” “Not them, they take pride in tor­ture, they think its funny.” “Why once I heard that they stake you out on an anthill and pour honey on your.” The Pysk shud­dered. “You last two or three days, but you go in­sane long be­fore you die.” “Well I should prob­a­bly free you,” Skatch sighed. “I was be­gin­ning to think you never would.” Skatch be­gan to sing. Her song was low, light, and lilt­ing, but the song that the ground echoed back was a deep rum­ble. Heran sprang free from his trap. “Yaha! Finally I am free!” Skatch and the fer­ret watched com­pla­cently wh­lie Heran danced around the din­gle. When he fi­nally set­tled down Skatch had a con­fer­ence. “Now,” she said, “we must dis­cuss what has just hap­pened. These re­cur­ring time swirels are very strange, we must go to Shamino.” “Not that wiz­ard who thinks he’s a Mage,” the Halfling groaned. “Yes, him,” the Pysk said in­dig­nantly. “Now get off the ground and fol­low me.” The Pysk and Halfling stroll out of the din­gle and west to the wizard’s villa. The fer­ret, still pant­ing, trots be­hind.

The End (or is it)

Rewriting that made me re­al­ize just how much i bas­tardized from other sto­ries. jee­bus. its funny to see my at­tempts at al­lit­er­a­tion and the big words i use gra­tu­itously. i got a 3020 on it. yeah ex­tra credit points for pla­gia­riz­ing.

Head in the Shower

Thursday, 4 July 2002

please fill in the blank at the end of this.

There was a head in the shower this morn­ing,
its hair clogged the drain and when I picked
it up the top came off.
I turned it over and on the in­side stamped
in bright green let­ters were the words: