Shhh! I’ve got a secret.

November 03, 2024

Two years of talking

Two years of promises

Nobody has ever offered

To limit government

Or expand rights for all

Every cycle begins the same

Lots of rhetoric

Lots of name calling

Neither freedom nor liberty

Gain during the process

This is by design

This is a distraction

The natural path is that of erosion

Of rights and choice

By tyranny and force

No matter who wants the job

Thousands more want the power

And the money, and the fame

It will always be this way

Because it always has

Being dead isn't nearly as boring as you might think.

I discovered this on my third day of non-existence, when I finally stopped trying to open doors and learned to simply pass through them instead. The trick, I found, is to forget you were ever solid to begin with. Forget the weight of bones and blood, the constant pull of gravity, the way air once caught in your lungs. Remember instead that you are now made of the same stuff as moonlight and memory.

My name was – is? – Thomas Webb, and I've been dead for approximately eight months, two weeks, and five days. Not that time means much anymore. When you're dead, moments can stretch like taffy or snap past like rubber bands. Sometimes I watch the sun rise and set so quickly it looks like someone's flicking a light switch. Other times, I spend what feels like hours watching a single dewdrop slide down a blade of grass.

I haunt (though I prefer the term "reside in") a small town in New England called Millbrook. Not because I'm bound here by unfinished business or ancient curses – at least, I don't think so. I simply never felt the pull to go elsewhere. Even when I was alive, I rarely left town. Why start traveling now?

Besides, there's more than enough to keep me occupied here. Take Mrs. Henderson at number forty-two, for instance. She's been stealing her neighbor's newspapers for three years, but only on Wednesdays, and only if it's raining. I spent two months following her around before I figured out why: she lines her parakeet's cage with newspaper, and she's convinced that newspaper stolen in the rain brings good luck to pets. I can't argue with her results – that parakeet is seventeen years old and still singing.

Then there's the teenage boy who sits in the park every Tuesday afternoon, writing poetry in a battered notebook. He thinks no one can see him behind the big oak tree, but I float by sometimes and read over his shoulder. His metaphors need work, but his heart's in the right place. Last week he wrote a sonnet comparing his crush's eyes to "pools of Mountain Dew," which was both terrible and oddly touching.

The living can be endlessly entertaining when they don't know they're being watched. It's not creepy if you're dead – it's anthropology.

But I'm not always a passive observer. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly solid, I can manage small interactions with the physical world. Nothing dramatic like moving furniture or writing messages in blood on the walls (though I'll admit I tried once, out of curiosity – turns out being dead doesn't automatically make you good at horror movie effects).

Instead, I specialize in tiny interventions: nudging dropped keys into view, generating the perfect cool breeze on a sweltering day, ensuring that the last cookie in the box is chocolate chip instead of oatmeal raisin. Small kindnesses, barely noticeable but precisely timed.

My finest work happens at The Dusty Tome, the bookstore where I used to work when I was alive. My former colleague, Sarah, still runs the place. She never knew that I harbored a decade-long crush on her, and now she never will. But I can still help her in my own way.

I've become quite good at guiding customers to exactly the book they need, even if they don't know they need it. A gentle cold spot near the self-help section, a subtle illumination of a particular spine, a barely perceptible whisper that draws their attention to just the right page. Last week, I helped a grieving widower find a cookbook that contained his late wife's secret cookie recipe. He cried right there in the aisle, clutching the book like a life preserver. Sarah gave him a free bookmark and a cup of tea.

The other ghosts (yes, there are others) think I'm too involved with the living. "You need to learn to let go," says Eleanor, who's been dead since 1847 and spends most of her time rearranging flowers in the cemetery. "The living have their world, and we have ours."

But I've never been good at letting go. Even when I was alive, I held onto things too long – old tickets stubs, expired coupons, unrequited feelings. Death hasn't changed that aspect of my personality. If anything, it's given me more time to cultivate my attachments.

Take my cat, for instance. Mr. Whiskers (I didn't name him – he came with that regrettable moniker from the shelter) is still alive and living with my sister. He can see me, as most animals can, but he's remarkably unfazed by my transparent state. Sometimes I lie on the floor next to him while he sleeps, pretending I can feel his warmth. He purrs anyway, the sound vibrating through whatever passes for my soul these days.

The hardest part about being dead isn't the lack of physical sensation or the inability to enjoy coffee (though I do miss that). It's watching the people you love cope with your absence. My sister still sets an extra place at Christmas dinner. My mother keeps "forgetting" to delete my number from her phone. My father pretends he's okay but visits my grave every Sunday with fresh flowers and updates about the Patriots' latest games, as if I might be keeping score in the afterlife.

I want to tell them I'm still here, that death isn't an ending but a change in perspective. I want to tell my sister that I saw her ace her dissertation defense, that I was there in the back of the room, cheering silently as she fielded every question with brilliant precision. I want to tell my mother that yes, I did get her messages, all of them, and that the cardinal that visits her bird feeder every morning is not me, but I appreciate the thought.

But the rules of death are strict about direct communication. The best I can do is send signs they probably don't recognize: a favorite song on the radio at just the right moment, a unexpected whiff of my cologne in an empty room, the feeling of being hugged when they're alone at night.

Sometimes I wonder if this is hell – not fire and brimstone, but the eternal frustration of being able to observe but never truly connect. Other times, usually when I'm watching Sarah shelve books or listening to my father's one-sided conversations at my grave, I think this might be heaven. The ability to witness life without the messy complications of living it, to love without the fear of loss, to exist in the spaces between moments.

I've developed hobbies, as one does when faced with eternal existence. I collect overheard conversations, storing them like precious gems in whatever serves as my memory now. I've become an expert in the secret lives of squirrels (far more dramatic than you'd expect). I've learned to read upside-down books over people's shoulders on park benches, and I've mastered the art of predicting rain by watching the way cats clean their whiskers.

But my favorite pastime is what I call "emotion painting." I've discovered that strong feelings leave traces in the air, visible only to the dead – streaks of color and light that linger like aurora borealis. Love is usually gold or deep rose, anger burns red with black edges, and sadness flows in shades of blue and silver. I spend hours watching these colors swirl and blend, especially in places where emotions run high: the hospital waiting room, the high school during prom, the small chapel where weddings and funerals alike are held.

Today, I'm following a new pattern of colors I've never seen before – a strange mixture of green and purple that sparkles like static electricity. It's emanating from a young woman sitting alone in The Dusty Tome, reading a worn copy of "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." She has dark circles under her eyes and a hospital bracelet on her wrist. The colors around her pulse and swirl with an intensity that draws me closer.

As I hover near her table, I realize she's not actually reading. She's crying silently, tears falling onto the open pages. But there's something else – she keeps looking up, scanning the bookstore as if searching for something. Or someone.

Then she speaks, so softly even I almost miss it: "Thomas? Are you here?"

I freeze (metaphorically speaking – I'm always technically frozen now). It's Lisa Chen, a regular customer from my living days. We used to chat about books, particularly ghost stories. She once told me she could sense spirits, but I had dismissed it as whimsy. Now, as I watch the colors dance around her, I wonder if perhaps she was telling the truth.

"I know you're probably here somewhere," she continues, still speaking barely above a whisper. "Sarah told me you used to help people find the right books. I could use some help now."

I drift closer, fascinated by the way the green and purple lights seem to reach out toward me.

"I'm dying," she says matter-of-factly. "Cancer. Stage four. The doctors say I have maybe three months." She laughs softly. "I'm not afraid of being dead, exactly. I just want to know... is it lonely?"

For the first time since my death, I wish desperately that I could speak. I want to tell her about the beauty of emotion paintings, about the secret lives of cats and squirrels, about the way love looks like golden light and how sadness can be as beautiful as stained glass.

Instead, I do what I do best. I create a gentle breeze that ruffles through the nearby shelves until a small, leather-bound book falls onto her table. It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, opened to "When Death Comes."

Lisa picks up the book with trembling hands and reads aloud: "When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn... when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?"

The colors around her shift, the purple fading as the green grows brighter, more peaceful. She smiles, touching the page gently.

"Thank you, Thomas," she whispers.

I stay with her until she leaves, watching the colors trail behind her like a comet's tail. Then I do something I've never done before – I follow her. Not to her home or to the hospital, but to all the places in town that still hold beauty: the park where the teenage poet writes his awful, wonderful verses, the bench where the widower sits feeding pigeons, the small garden behind the library where Sarah takes her lunch breaks.

At each stop, I paint the air with every beautiful thing I've seen since dying, every moment of joy and wonder and connection I've witnessed. I don't know if she can see the colors, but I paint them anyway – gold for love, silver for hope, and a new color I've never used before, one that looks like sunlight through leaves, that means "you are not alone."

Being dead isn't what I expected. It's not an ending or a beginning, but a different way of being. A way of loving the world without being able to hold it. A way of touching lives without leaving fingerprints. A way of existing in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pause between words, in the moment before tears become laughter.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it's a way of showing someone else that the cottage of darkness isn't dark at all. It's full of colors only the dead can see, but the living can feel.

I think I'll stay in Millbrook a while longer. After all, there are still books to be found, cats to be comforted, and stories to be witnessed. Besides, I've heard there's a new ghost in town – a teacher who's been rearranging the letters on the high school announcement board to spell out poetry at midnight. I should probably introduce myself.

Being dead, I've learned, is just another way of being alive.

Halloween has passed,

yet I remain in costume

portraying a hoax.

Hiding my spirit

behind a store-bought façade

of expectations.

Decorations stowed,

but I cannot shed this cloak -

a false persona.

Halloween has passed,

and I still pretend to be

someone I am not.

What if it all goes Right

Instead of Left

Behind

or Up

Side-

Down

in Front

What if it all goes Right

Away

From

There

to Here

What if it all goes Right

Back

In.

Ulrich Q. Wiedersehen was a most unusual klutz.

His monumental blunders in Germany were legendary, from going the wrong way on the Autobahn to falling off a turret of a tall Bavarian castle. Yet he always survived to screw up again.

Long-staring Germans called him “Der Glucklicher Dummkopf” (“The Lucky Fool”). Yet most believed that the spectacular feats of stupidity were signs that his luck would run out, and that Mr. Wiedersehen was doomed to go the way of the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Wooly Mammoth.

When Ulrich died, no one knew the cause. He departed this earth without saying goodbye, but throngs of Germans gathered for his funeral and shouted, “Oaf Wiedersehen.”

When sentiment is left to chance, thoughts of Sade opens episode 29 on the show, into a perfect hand of five pieces from five writers on the site, up to ride on the airwaves from here, their words into you.

Here's the link to Prose. Radio:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZP9zXwUkek

And here are the pieces featured:

https://www.theprose.com/post/538382/fall-ritual https://www.theprose.com/post/814220/for-clarencet https://www.theprose.com/post/813959/errant-thoughts

https://www.theprose.com/post/814081/reclaiming-me https://www.theprose.com/post/814211/3-kinds-of-followers

And, as always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The first lesson you learn in life is that life is hard. It just is. You look in the mirror everyday and dont like what you see, but you are stuck with who you are, you are stuck in this body you don’t identify with, the body that doesn’t feel like you. You wake up every morning wanting to stay in bed and pray to god that you sink into the mattress and just disappear. From school, family, and friends, from everything. Absolutely everything. You show up to school regardless though, because that's what's expected from you, and god forbid you let anyone down. You see your friends and paste the artificial smile you have been using since middle school, you laugh with them, cry with them, fight with them, but never really feel like a part of them. You force yourself to do the schoolwork, force yourself to study so you can get by the tests, so your parents stay relatively happy. ‘But what about you, what about your own happiness’ your therapist continuously questions. You shake your head and smile that sad, tired smile only he has been allowed to see. ‘My happiness is irrelevant, it's impossible even, unachievable.’

NOTE

idk it’s been a while Since I’ve written and I was bored so this is random

He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.

I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.

In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.

He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"

Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.

I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.

I stopped writing.

I lied to my therapist about the journal.

I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.

He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.

From: WSQPA

To: Mr. Baruch/Benedictus Spinoza, philosopher

April 10, 2024

Dear Mr. Spinoza,

Stop.

Do not bother us again.

We, the Board of the World Status Quo Protection Agency, reject your unsolicited critique of our twenty-first century.

You were the seventeenth century’s problem. Not ours.

How dare you ask questions and seek to arrive at beliefs and truth individually through reason. Citizens today have banded together in groups to hear the truth and facts from sources that comport with their worldview. We have no need of philosophers in 2024.

Thus, our status quo is groupthink.

Yes, our groups clash and there are wars that are political, spiritual, and militaristic. But they are part of our status quo.

You are free in your ivory tower to sneer at our way, and claim we are pursuing false “knowledge from random experience.” It is no wonder that you were excommunicated for your radical ideas.

We know that you worked with lenses for microscopes and telescopes. But you have no right to put our status quo under your microscope.

Warmly,

WSQPA