A rotten kind of love

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


What it's like to wake up for Halloween. And find love after death.

Submitted: September 17, 2018

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Submitted: September 17, 2018

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Awake again; it’s Halloween. 

So I must dig. 

The first time I woke it was a real shock, after all like most I thought that once you were dead you stayed dead, that only vampires cheated the grave. I now know that I rise once a year to feel the breeze whistle through what is left of my body.

I have always hated small rooms and waking up in the smallest room I had ever seen was not fun. You may ask how I even knew I was in my coffin. Well fortunately I could see because of the light shining from the glowing mushrooms that had grown on the liquids that oozed from me. The next shock was seeing what they had buried me in; being dead does not mean you have to loose your fashion sense. I mean a cheap nylon suit, thanks love, nice to know I wasn’t worth a descent set of clothes-- I will rot faster than this darn thing.

Escaping the grave was a challenge at first, digging with stiff fingers, the course earth ripping great globules of rotting flesh from my hands. Not only that but I have to dig six feet up. Some old timers are buried closer to the surface so it’s easier for them; me—it takes most of the night to tunnel myself up. The only saving grace was that the soil that fell into my face would drop out through the hole that my decomposing had formed in the back of my head.

Being out is nice, great in fact. To see trees and feel the grass, I was going to say between my toes but they were the first to go. The first time I kicked of my shoes my toe bones scattered like dice across the ground. I picked them up and tossed them back in my grave for later, just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I have to be untidy!

When I finally dug my way up, I didn’t recognise the place, the yard is sandwiched between a factory and a sewage works, which judging by what I dug through floods-frequently! It could be worse, the rumour mill here says some of the real old ones wake up trapped in the basement of a museum or as a skeleton hanging in a doctors surgery.

It’s not all bad though, this being dead. I’ve made some good friends since I have been here and the neighbours are real quiet! I’m told that once you have been dead long enough the body rots away completely and passing up to the world above is easier and less messy.

But for now I must dig, last year I got friendly with a girl buried across the pathway, our feet almost touch when we sleep. When she was freshly dead she was quiet pretty, now a year on I expect she is not so good looking, but I can hardly talk, anyway she won’t fester for long.


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