We are dead, of course. Both of us. We have been for ages and ages. So long that we can’t even remember anything else. Whatever we were, where we lived, what we did, all of that is forgotten. None of it matters anymore. It’s all gone. We live here now, strolling up and down the deck of this ship, watching the passengers come and go, watching the staff work through their shifts. We see their little intrigues, their dramas, their day to day routines, but mostly we don’t pay them much notice. They don’t see us and, most of the time, we hardly even notice they’re there either. We keep to ourselves, you and I. Walking the deck. Shooting the breeze. Killing time.
“It bothers me a little,” I said to you once, “that I don’t remember how it happened. The dying thing, I mean. The moment of it. What caused it. I don’t remember anything.”
“Me neither,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. “But, so what? Why worry about it? Why dwell on morbid things?”
“We are morbid things,” I said, getting a small laugh from you. “Surely it’s important, though? Don’t you think? It seems like it should be an important, defining event in our existence, but I don’t remember a thing about it.”
“I don’t remember being born either, but I know it happened. Maybe it’s the same thing.”
“Maybe. It feels like it should be different, that’s all.”
(This is a short excerpt taken from a longer story. To read the full version for free, please visit us here. Thanks for reading.)
‘The old maid and other stories’ is Chapbook number two of four volumes forthcoming from the Olgada Press during 2015.