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.

The Men Who Sit to Pee

November 13, 2024

Robert’s parent’s home is in Schenectady, New York (42.81420N, 73.93960W). Robert lives (now) in the basement, next to the hot water heater, across from the furnace. His parents rent out his old room to two day laborers (Robert calls them losers) who pay their rent weekly. His friends used to come over for sleep-overs and homework. Now, they arrive via Zoom. They each say they are saving the planet by not driving. In reality, they are saving their own lives by not walking.

Two miles is too far for the average 30 year old mouth breather.

Besides, his parent’s social security check does not purchase the food it used to. Robert’s social security disability check could, but he has his eyes on a new game console by Christmas.

On tonight’s agenda, what to do about those who do not think as Robert (or his group) do. Whatever caused this, must be stopped. Whoever is responsible, must be crushed. The cost of everything keeps increasing and that needs to end.

In the end, the world must know what Robert knows. There must be a reckoning to set things straight. People need to know what needs to be done. Robert will begin with his group, then the county, then the state. There is too much at stake not to understand. There is too little time not to begin.

With his narrative set, Robert waited for each of his group (should be called a cabal) to make his presence known on Zoom.

It was now or never.

Within 20 seconds, Robert opted for never.

The big to-do within his group was the announcement of a new generation AMD chip that consumed twice the previous power, but leading to four times the speed. It did not require overclocking. It did not require a subscription service. This chip would usher in the next generation of games and gamers.

The group tore through their 64 ounce sodas and Hot Pockets with relish. They ignored Robert. They forgot he existed. They told stories of past conquests with previous systems, despite their flaws. Robert heard not one word about the economy or those responsible. For the first time, Robert viewed his friends as both ignorant and apathetic. He sat slack jawed during the encounter.

Robert attempted to remain calm. He counted to three before he acted. He inhaled prior to dispatching a guttural scream designed to silence all detractors.

But, no one ever heard it. Robert heard another speak of a price drop for those who knew the code. This alone silenced the group. This silenced Robert. So much so, Robert fell from his leadership position among his peers.

He became devastated, then elated. Despite the horrors of government, the people in positions of power, and the deeds they do, Robert had a new plan, involving a new processor, possibly a new gaming system, for the holidays.

With all of that, he would never have to leave the basement ever again.

Robert’s parents sat at the kitchen table deciding which of them would go back to work to pay for the lights and the heat. The experts predict a harsh winter this year. Their borders opted not to extend their lease another year. Their cash ran thin and would have to be stretched again.

They should have downsized, 12 years ago, to that condo in Central Florida.

It was always warm there.

And these condos aren’t built with basements.

A small town in Idaho, on the outskirts, lives an...artist...of sorts, and meets a reporter who gets more than he bargained for, and the end might come, or will it? MUAH HAHAHAHAHA!!!! From the mind of one of our talents, comes this irresistible Halloween romp. Here's the link to the narration of said romp on Prose. Radio, narrated by Jeff Stewart, who is whereabouts unkown in the States, in a room where he was able to send in the audio of this story by our own WilkinsonRiling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqIX7_Ddllg

Also, he asked us to mention this: Another talent here on the site, has a book set for release on 11/22, so go here and pre-order your copy, and give this Appalachian poet some love. He's fantastic!

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/

Piece feaured in the video:

https://www.theprose.com/post/780635/the-halloween-legend-of-jack-mccarver

To keep the tradition in closing traditional:

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose, team

A story named after, and inspired a little bit by one of Shakespeare’s plays, Romeo and Juliet minus the tragic ending. It has some modern retelling and possibly subverted etc. as indicated by Reedsy Writing Prompts.

“We were both young when I first saw you,

The Flashback starts, I see you standing there,

On A Balcony of Summer Air….”

She was apparently dreaming… She was asleep on her bed, thinking deep thoughts about a painting she had seen when she was a little kid. She was thinking that she might actually meet this person or his equivalent in real life.

She knew that there was no possibility of finding Love in her life. She knew it was Just A Dream, and that she should just ignore it. She thought about how the painting of Mona Lisa was also just some painting, and lots of people couldn’t tell why Mona Lisa was smiling like that.

But then she thought about how some people did great things with their lives like find good looking people to marry. She thought about her own life, and how it life plain sucked as a good-for-nothing rich girl.

Her name was Natalie, and she was just 16, and she had a love interest. She wondered if this person was anything like the guy from the painting. His name was Leonard and he spoke well and also liked to chew gum. He was only 17.

So there she was writing in her journal one day about what she saw in her dream. She liked writing in her journal about things she loved. She always knew she had a thing for Leonard, but she never had the heart to tell him.

Natalie was afraid of the idea of being in Love with anyone. Natalie knew that falling in love meant rejection most of the time, by the world’s standards, and she knew that since Leonard had anxiety, perhaps their pairing would end up in disaster.

Natalie was someone who did a lot of things that wealthy, girly women did like gossip about others, wear precious jewellery, do her hair and make-up, and try to look nice. One day while she was looking in the mirror, while she was writing in her journal, she thought of something remarkable.

Natalie thought about Leonard and how he too was a young confused rich guy with a heart of Gold that liked her. Natalie thought long and hard about his weird gum-chewing habit, and also about how if she told her parents about him, they would find out that they were slowly becoming more than friends.

Natalie thought about that queer painting she had seen as a young girl that reminded her of Leonard. That painting was the handsome ideal that no man could ever hope to be like. Natalie thought about the connection between this painting, and Leonard.

Leonard was in his room, in his part of town also doing interesting things with his life.

He knew he had a friend that he loved and cherished. He knew she was the serious type who did not ever think about more than what seemed interesting to her. Her beautiful life, and everything that mattered to her.

Leonard was too young to be in love he felt, while he sat down in his bedroom at his bedside table chewing gum. He was someone who hated being rich, and he loved to do things aside from his parents.

Leonard loved playing sports. He knew he could never keep a girl like Natalie happy. Or could he? He thought for a moment about the pretty-as-a-picture Natalie.

Leonard continued reading his Bible while he chewed gum in his room. He was an athlete who loved playing sports. Leonard was thinking so hard that he bit his tongue and decided to go watch some TV. He wondered if he could watch something interesting on the Sports Channel.

Back in her little world, Natalie was thinking about many things. She was thinking about how brave people did wonderful things with their lives. She knew that being rich was a good thing, but adventure awaited.

She wanted more out of her life. She looked around her. She looked at her reflection and knew there was more to life. She possibly knew there were more ‘possibilities’ in the eyes of her dear rich friend Leonard than she thought.

She continued to write in her journal. She wrote about the weather, she wrote about life. She wrote about a biblical promise — “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ has forgiven you” that she did not know the meaning of.

Because her mother was a Bible-reading woman, and she loved her mother. She decided to make the most of her friendship with Leonard instead of complaining because he was her friend after all. Maybe one day they would get married.

She didn’t know what she was doing but she decided to call Leonard. She knew he was a bit of a prick, but she decided to call him anyway and find out about his most pressing problem. His biggest secret the fact that he hated school, and hated being rich.

He didn’t answer the phone. And she was busy writing in her journal, about her favourite song

“See the lights, see the party, the ball gowns

You see me make my way through the crowd

And say, “Hello”

Little did you know…

Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone

I’ll be waiting; all there’s left to do is run

I’ll be the prince and you’ll be the princess

It’s a love story, baby, just say “Yes”

When the phone rang again and Leonard acted like he could read her mind. He invited her to watch his basketball match, which was happening soon.

That day finally arrived. Natalie was sitting down watching Leonard playing basketball, along with his other friends. Leonard was a handsome man, a knight in shining armour. She noticed things about him when he was being himself that people never noticed about him otherwise.

She thought about the deep meaning of the Bible verse she had written down in her journal while looking at her own reflection in the mirror. She thought about how no man was perfect, and perfection was a dreaded disease.

When she saw Leonard play like that the words, came true almost magically. Leonard was no Romeo, and She was not the Juliet of the Shakespearean love story, but magically he seemed to represent everything about the fictional guy in the painting.

Juliet went home that day and wrote in her journal, about how Mona Lisa was smiling for a very strange reason. She was after all Mona Lisa, and Juliet realized something very strange about what she saw in the mirror. She realized that she was the one writing the story of her life, and she could make her story one of Romeo and Juliet, or possibly Mona Lisa Smile.

"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"

The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."

"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."

The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.

"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "

The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.

"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "

She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.

"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.

"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.

I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.

If life throws you melons, you're probably dyslexic

June 25, 2024

Archie had never seen the outside.

Unescorted.

Unshackled.

Until today.

Today, Archie left the institute with an old suit, new shoes, a written recommendation for a janitor position, and $160 in cash. He was to check into the motel by noon.

He found a bus instead.

Archie was in that half of the class that made the upper half possible. He scored low on all standardized exams and written tests.

He never impressed anyone, at any time, with his mental acuities.

Ever.

But he did impress the police, the warden, the judge, and the jury with his ability to act before others thought he would.

Before others thought he should.

Archie was not impulsive. Rather, he worked two to five minutes ahead of all others. It was almost as if he knew what was going to happen because he traveled ahead in time, made it happen, then waited for others to see what he did.

Today was such a day.

The knife at the first stop cost only $5.

At the second stop, he robbed three people waiting to get on the bus. He tied up one. The other two would never require a bus again.

A Hearse, but never a bus.

All Archie needed to do was wash his hands and remove his bloodied dress shirt. He wore his blazer over his t-shirt until later. With the fancy watch, a few credit cards and ID, and nearly $200, Archie could bide his time.

Archie knew he could sleep.

Without worries.

Without interruptions.

The bus pulled into the last stop for the night. A small depot served food as well as clean rooms for the patrons that wished to continue in the morning.

Archie asked if he could purchase some socks, boxers, and a shirt. He also wanted a toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. He had the money. The manager had the goods.

No need for the knife tonight.

By morning, the news included the previous day’s murders. The tied up person told a tale of dastardly deeds of vice and savagery (all fabricated) and her defiance in the face of both (she cried and whimpered). Archie would permit such talk because it kept the police looking elsewhere. If he kept moving, such could be the norm.

The new bus arrived, but Archie did not board. He dropped the knife in an open backpack of another. Authorities would wait, then board the bus, hoping to make an easy arrest.

Not exactly the right person. Not exactly for the right reason. But an easy arrest none the less.

And Archie would be somewhere else, doing something else.

But not for long.

For the people who knew Archie, were the people who knew him best.

Doctor Rameriz was one such person.

He understood Archie’s mind and its flaws. Archie could, essentially, see into the future by anticipating the actions or responses of others, but he could not fathom random actions, actions without bearing or merit, that intersected his world.

When the police came to Doctor Rameriz, he wanted in on apprehending Archie alive. He wanted to study Archie for years to come. Doctor Rameriz recommended a methodical search for Archie in cooperation with a series of random “spot checks” for the likes of Archie. The first should, eventually, quarantine his movements, while the second would lessen his options. Together, the days of a free range Archie would end soon.

Without bloodshed.

The Cascade Mountains near Mount Rainier, in the spring, offer a vast array of activities for campers and outdoor enthusiasts alike. Archie discovered this place last fall and managed to winter out the season thinking about his future. Archie enjoyed his solitude. The views, the fresh air, and the wildlife fostered a new appreciation of life in general for him. It weighed heavily on his mind to return to his previous existence. He did not wish to return any time soon.

His four captives did.

Hikers by nature, all federal agents by choice, they were one of the “spot checks” for where Archie might be when captured. Now, they sat, tied to the heavy timbers of the cabin, pulled tightly against the timbers, for the fifth day in a row.

They smell bad.

They looked worse.

But, they were still successful in their job.

Just barely.

By not checking in, they had checked in. Help would arrive, possibly late, but arrive it would.

And that was Archie’s plan all along.

He was too far away from civilization for someone to become hurt by a stray bullet. The only way up here was with a helicopter or a slow climb. The former was more likely, but the latter had its own advantages.

Thus, Archie expected both.

The good doctor expected Archie to expect both. So he planned for a third. Authorities would, indeed, make the climb and would arrive via a helicopter. But, they always would make their presence known by skiing in from above.

The goal was to capture Archie and his hostages without a loss of life. The doctor’s priority was saving Archie first. The commander’s priority was to save his men.

By killing Archie.

At dawn, with the sun in Archie’s eyes, the first wave arrived. The agents kept their spacing and moved quickly to cover the 200 yards of clearing separating themselves and the cabin.

The electric powered chopper, almost a drone, moved faster and dropped smoke canisters and tear gas. It had flash bang grenades at the ready, but did not immediately deploy them.

The first wave indicated a single man moving toward the rear tree line. Police on skis immediately converged on his position, forcing the man to ignore commands to stop.

He was shot to wound, then to kill.

No one questioned if there even was an order.

Falling off a cliff, it would take hours before a positive ID to confirm Archie’s death. The other hostages in the cabin were discovered to be murdered that morning and disfigured beyond recognition. The tools remaining in the cabin included filet knives, a brace and bit, as well as a battery powered belt sander.

All were bloodied and the mess churned a few stomachs and stiffened the resolve of others.

Forensic experts arrived soon after to verify Archie’s DNA and fingerprints on the contents of the cabin. Photographs cataloged the exact location of each appliance, chair, and quilt used.

It was nearly nightfall before the authorities called it a day and departed for home.

The coroner’s report would indicate Archie’s identity by blood type, DNA, physical description, and tattoos.

None of which would be true, according to Doctor Rameriz.

Archie would not have tattoos.

Thus, Archie would not have been at the cabin before or during the attacks.

He would be at the cabin after the attacks.

It would only take a single phone call to verify this hypothesis.

The doctor made the call, purposely mis-identifying himself as an agent.

The doctor waited.

The caller returned the call.

“I have him in custody. What do you want me to do with him?”

The doctor wanted to say, “Hold Archie for me. I will be there in the hour.”

The doctor opted for a different reply. He gave the order, the only such order he would ever give.

Archie was worth more alive than dead.

But only to the doctor.

Thinking about it, the lemonade would have tasted tart. But tart beats no taste any day of the week, twice on Sunday.

My dad is and always has been a lover of puns. So much so, in fact, that both my and my younger brother's early elementary school teachers would rave to our mom during parent-teacher conferences about our ability to comprehend and even take part in wordplay. My mom would just shrug her shoulders, unimpressed, and say, "Oh, that's just because of their dad."

This passion of his permeated my young life in a way that I didn't realize until I was an adult. There were the everyday puns that just happened spontaneously, of course. But often, he would go out of his way to work one into a conversation.

My mom strongly believed in the importance of reading to us when we were young, and Dad begrudgingly would when we asked. But as kids do, we would ask for the same story again and again. To keep himself from getting too bored, he occasionally offered to tell us a story that he made up on the spot.

I wish I could remember all of them because I know there were several, but the one that sticks in my brain was about a little o. This little o was sad because he was all by himself. He didn't have a family or friends. Dad told a lengthy tale of the little o's journey to find others like him - the sights he saw, the people he met along the way.

Finally, the little o found others like him - a big group of Os who gladly accepted him. The little o was elated! Thrilled! He was finally happy. He was . . . a cheery o.

My dad may not be a reader or enjoy stories the way I do, but I can honestly say that I owe a lot of my creativity to him.

I was four.

Opi said it was a wake.

He said, "Marushka, we will go and look." With respect, for the dead.

Dead, I knew to be the not-moving.

The dead man was very important. So many people came to see him.

With respect.

Lying there.

"...a Politician," Opi said. I thought that must be something like a Policeman.

An Officer behind the scenes, at some desk, off duty, no uniform. I saw him armed, with telephone. Important.

He had a pin. On his chest, a little flag, over his silent heart.

People gathered. They looked, pointed. One or two at a time, we filed through. The room was small, or it was really the edge of a hall, a corner roped off.

"Did he hang himself?" asked a boy older, more worldly than I.

"Hush! whatever gave you such an idea?!" scolded his Mother.

"...but Mutter..."

"Sh."

And they stepped out of line, an attendant guiding them to the right Exit.

After much standing around and twisting our brims in our hands, it was our turn to walk along the rope.

The box behind it was lifted high.

So high a grown man could lean in and kiss the dead man's cheek.

For a moment it was just Opi, the deadman, and me.

Opi raised me. The man's face was wet.

Tears? I asked. "Spit," Opi whispered.

Now I noticed the man behind, seated, half-covered from viewing by the casket and fancy skirting.

Eating.

He was eating! And he was crying while eating. He tore into day's old bread, and with dirty hand, wiped sobs. The snot mixing with crumb.

Breaking the bread, with himself.

The back of his hand, wiping and caking his stubble, more, and more with each bite. With each wipe.

I could not turn away.

"Opi!," I said, "What is that beggar doing?!"

"That is the Sin Eater," said Grandfather in the smallest voice, as a hand noisily tossed several cents into a metal bowl at the beggarman's feet and pushed another old loaf upon him. I could no longer tell if he was hungry.

It was now the deadman, the beggar, Opi and me.

I knew Sin was wrong. And here was one man eating up a whole Church week of Communion!

"He is eating the dead man's Sins," Opi said as we turned away.

It was then I tasted Shame.

2024 JUN 15

Cowboy Jack thinks he’s Doc Holliday just because his dad’s a doc;

Cowboy Jack’s skinny n’ blonde, but for commonalities that’s ’bout all he’s got.

For one, he ain’t got no mustache, just a tiny, sad bit of fuzz;

For another, he’s a lightweight, can’t even stand to be a bit buzzed.

Sometimes he pulls on his shirt (nervous habit) and sometimes he’s out of breath;

Most times he fidgets with his hands (nervous habit) and can’t stand any talk of death.

I guess he’s got the spittin’ down (though it’s mucus, not tobacco or blood)

But his poker game’s weak; don’t know a straight from a flush… plays like a goddamned clown.

People are mean; out here it’s rough, and I’m just bein’ honest:

The little dude’s anxious, wants to be tough, and hell if it ain’t obvious.

No, Cowboy Jack ain’t no Holliday—

he ain’t even from the south.

But for what it’s worth, once, I called him a sissy, and he punched me hard in the mouth.

-

(2024)