It’s not that bad, being dead.

re-released short fiction

I am digging through all my old stories, trying to pick the ten best for a print anthology I am dreaming of creating. I wrote this one in a kind of trance, and had forgotten how closely it aligns with my obsessive themes—identity, the body, transformation.

This ghost story is about an unrequited love. Our character no longer has a body, but searches for ways to inhabit, to connect, to be known—as she attempts to share bodies with people, animals, to reach the boy she loves. It's about the ache of wanting to matter, about being unseen. What are we, freed from our bodies but still incarnated by our wants?

More than anything, this is a story about a woman and how she is released—not just from her physical form, but from the entirety of her self. And I wonder now: is that what all my stories are about?

I can watch him all the time now. My time with Jeremy was so brief, and I always had to turn away, pretending I wasn’t looking.

I no longer have a body—just a transparent memory of one. Still, I feel things; my chest tightens when I see him. I am learning his every movement. I focus on every breeze that moves the hairs on his hands. I study his face, the creases in his eyelids, the folds of stress, the widening of joy.

I used to watch his hands in my art class, watching him draw, improve. I couldn’t look at his face for too long, or I wouldn’t be able to look away. His friends would talk and laugh while he was absorbed in his work, but the moment I said something, he looked up, listening, absorbed in every word. Instead of getting flustered, my words came out smooth, perfect. It felt like everything I learned was for him.

Since I woke up in this new way of existing, I’ve adjusted to life without judgment. No one sighing over my mistakes or cataloging everything wrong. Too tall. Stooped shoulders. Belly fold. Sock marks. Thick ankles.

Now I’m weightless—I float. I don’t have atoms anymore. When I was alive, my limbs were anchors, my forehead too heavy for my neck. Now, there’s no density, nothing to drag me down.

Time skips ahead of me. Jeremy is painting—working on a grand elk face in a blurred forest. There’s more energy in it, just like I taught him. One moment, the painting is a sketch; then it’s half-filled with color. I blink, and it’s complete. It gives me an idea—maybe he will catch up, and when we’re both 28, my body will re-form, and we’ll see each other again.

And there’s my mother’s voice again—still with me. It’s not constant judgment like before. Now, it’s just this one thing she said, over and over.

I am wearing a dress, looking down at the delicate laces of my pretty heels. I go up on my tiptoes, arch my foot like a dancer, thinking how even these big feet of mine are almost lovely. And then she’s standing there—I hadn’t seen her—holding her sides, silently shaking. Suddenly, I am gawky again, an oversized doll. She can barely speak, laughing so hard. She says, "What’s the point of dressing up all that nothing? No one’s ever going to see you."

Was it a kind of curse? Was it her curse too? Maybe she’s invisible, unlovable, because no one—not even me—could ever really love her.

Sometimes I get so close I could almost crawl into him—through his open mouth when he yawns—I want it, but I stop myself. I’ve tried going into other things; if I get quiet inside, I can open my molecules, let them circle and sink into a physical thing, like swallowing.

When I went to see my mother, she was drunk. The hose outside was pooling water around a dying rose bush. I wrapped myself around the hose and pushed until the pressure built, straining the rubber until it whipped wildly, flailing against the window. She ran out, her dyed red hair plastered, her skin translucent in the sunlight. I wanted to thrash her, but slid away, watching her holding the limp hose as water pooled at her feet.

I’ve gotten better at slipping into things. I can run myself through electricity. Now, I can start a car or make lights flicker. I’ve been trying animals too. The little ones can’t handle it—there’s not enough room. I killed a sparrow once, feeling terrible until I realized that death doesn’t end anything.

Jeremy has a girlfriend now—tiny, energetic, and pretty. One night, while they kissed in the car, I slid into her softly, like I’d done with animals. I started at her toes and moved upward, slowly, so it just felt like a breeze. She didn’t notice, too busy giggling and kissing Jeremy. But I slid out quickly, disgusted, unsure of what I was becoming.

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The bigger animals are easier. I started with a cow—she shuddered, then let me take control. Her body was thick and rigid, her mind slow. I tried dogs and horses instead, and with them, there was something wild—the ground pounding under their speed. But it’s thick and dank inside another creature—and I don’t stay long.

Sometimes, when Jeremy is asleep, I try to lay myself into him. I float parallel, just above, following the rhythm of his breath and slowly sinking into him. For a moment, it’s beautiful—to feel inside his skin, the breath moving on his lips. But then he sits up, eyes full of terror, scratching at his chest.

I need to do something. I’m wandering. Sometimes I wonder if I could will myself to disperse—become dust in sunlight—or drown in the mud. Or I could become an animal. Jeremy’s painting is finished, and it’s summer. He’s always with her now.

One day at the lake, watching them, coming so close to them, going between their lips, being in the air between them, I suddenly saw myself. Pathetic. I slid out of the water, desolate, onto the rocks, slinking away, through the forest bed, dragging my non-body along the roots of the trees, trying to escape the horrible weight of myself.

And then I found it—the elk. I found its hoof first—solid, thick, like wood, full of life. Slowly, I slipped into him, rising through his tendons and veins. The elk let me in, let me move him, but stayed with me—regal, and tensed. We ran, leapt, me threading myself through his muscles, coiling deeper with every stride. Feeling his heart pounding with the beat of his hooves. I let my mind unravel, becoming part of him.

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Then it comes to me: the plan. I will become this animal—run wild, thrash my antlers, and then let myself dissolve into him until I am no more, let this scrap of a self fade away. But first, I have to break the curse.

Cutting is harder than entering—it takes precision. A tiny fissure I made lets the air leak from his tire; I have to time it just perfectly. I am ready tonight, when Jeremy returns alone from the lake.

I wait in the elk’s body, on the road for Jeremy’s car. His headlights move closer. I’ll stand before him. He will see me. We’ll see each other.

The headlights flare, the swerve sends my antlers slashing shadows on the trees. A screech, a crack of bone against steel, the squeal of my antlers against metal, and a great wet pain through my muscles. And there he is, cradled between my antlers, unafraid, weeping. He touches the skin of my chest, and I look into his eyes—into him. And for an eternity, we know each other. Everything is said. Everything is seen.

Then the lights blink, shimmer, and fade, and all is darkness.

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