This was a mouthy ghost, he thought. I can’t believe I’ve stumbled upon a ghost.
I AM NO GHOST BUT A SPECTRE
“You’re not a spectre, you’re a fraud.”
He considered abandoning her. There was a window. There was a sunset. It didn’t abandon him. It was summoning the moon—syzygy at work.
This none-thing can’t help but project herself onto passersby, he thought. He takes a step away from the doorway towards the window. How dare she weaponize dread?
THE SEA ISN’T UNGOVERNABLE WE HAVE SUBMARINES NOW
He considered her plight; her half-death. Hands bloodied, nose snotty, cheeks ruddy and cold, waiting for what comes next. White noise, blithe boy. A drop of blood falls into the white. White noise, blinding white. It was overwhelming.
O THE INEXORABLE DREAD OF BECOMING
The way of none-things is one of incoherence because there is no skin to wrap around mind’s marrow. The man, however, wondered what would happen had he opened a window. Would she remain in this room? Or would opening the window have the same effect of releasing the air in a spacecraft, sucking her voice through the gap like a body being extracted through the shuttle’s gap? Will it hurt in that way? (Does that hurt at all or by that point has the body already gone into shock?)
He opened the window. The teetering and tittering tapered to a stop. The anguish fell from the air into his bones, leaving a weighty lack in its place. She was gone. Will it hurt in that way? Or by that point has the body already gone into shock?
O the inexorable dread of being, he thought.