November 9. The best and worst day of my life.
I paced my minuscule apartment, plagued by a frenetic excitement that made my fingers twitch and gut clench. Outside, a frigid, torrential downpour assaulted Portland, obscuring the cityscape.
Dad’s ringback music played in my ear. On the last note, he picked up.
“’Ello?” He sounded almost… groggy.
“Mr. Thompson left his house, truck, and bank account to you, Courtney. Kim, he left you his… catapult.” I gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the older sister’s understandable outrage. Dealing with this kind of reaction is the toughest part of my job.
But it was Courtney who sprang to her feet.
When someone dies, the general assumption is that they will stay dead. But every Day of the Dead, the laws of time and nature look the other way, and deceased relatives can drop by for family reunions.
Deceased relatives like myself.
I waited at the end of the driveway where my family lived. Reynolds stood by me with his arms crossed.
Moira turned the knob on the dashboard, silencing the radio. She sat quiet for a minute, listening. Funny. She could’ve sworn she’d heard something. She shrugged and leaned back in the passenger seat, singing a little under her breath. Dad was taking forever. How long did it take to pay for the gas and grab a soda?
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“It’s hopeless,” I moaned to the windowpane.
Rain trickled down outside, like the glass was sobbing sympathetically. A small comfort, but I didn’t really want company in my misery. What I needed was time and inspiration. The window could give neither.
I’d tried using it for inspiration already, but there’s usually a severe lack of windows in dungeon cells.
Wishes drifted past my balcony in a dreamy river of light. If only I could make more than a handful of them reality.
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I looked down through the host of floating lanterns at the streets below. It was impossible to see even a scrap…
Mom used to tell us stories about October on the Old Planet. Like clockwork, the autumn breeze would billow across the valley, tugging leaves from their branches and filling the yard with ember orange and gold. She’d gather them into piles for her siblings to launch into, the foliage crunching and crackling beneath…
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“Are you going to talk like that all day?” Jaqi flipped her hair and scowled at me.
“Aye,” I growled out the corner of my mouth as I attempted a ferocious smile. “How else should one celebrate Talk Like a Pirrrate Day? Arrrr.” I curled my finger into a hook and brandished it
So, I did something stupid.
A barn cat’s number one rule is simple: catch the rats, leave the chickens alone. It’s not a hard rule to follow. Chickens are mean. The ones with the larger combs threaten to kill me just for walking by—rude considering I protect their nests from rats.
Ambling through the orchard to the rear of my estate, I found an old friend. The worn handle of my cane firm in my grip, I whispered my questions. They floated away on the gentle breeze caressing me.
But the mighty maple did not answer. I shivered and tightened Mom’s favorite shawl around my shoulders.
She points to my scarred neck. “You’re one of them?”
I turn up my collar and bury my nose in my book. The woman sitting across from me leans forward, waiting for a response.
I don’t look up. Get another seat, lady.
She takes the hint and rifles through her carry-on bag.
My feet pounded against the pavement as the mid-September rain cut through the late summer humidity. My dark hair was soaked, but I didn’t care. I kept running, pushing myself to keep up with the droplets falling from the sky. My legs hurt, but still I ran. The pain didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop.
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