Short Short Thinger II

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

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

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 30/20 on it. yeah extra cred­it points for pla­gia­riz­ing.