A foxy tale: Episode 12

A collaborative serial by Catherin J Pascal Dunk and Jessica Perini

Wait up—did you miss Episode 1 / Episode 2 / Episode 3 / Episode 4 / Episode 5 / Episode 6 / Episode 7 / Episode 8 / Episode 9 / Episode 10 / Episode 11? Like to catch up first?

Episode 12

Solomon Fishner was floating. In all the ways. 

Specks of his physical form had reached the Senna River in the centre of modern Parix, and were eddying around the scummy edges. Others were suspended in the street air as dust, formed part of rain clouds, had been eaten by birds, or (less favourable for our metaphor) were bouncing up and down, stuck to the bottom of running shoes.

The bulk of Solomon’s bodily remains remained cut with coke in a kiddy toy, impounded by the Central Politz and from there liberated from evidence by one of the younger politz officers, only to be taken doofing. His beanie baby namesake was currently crowdsurfing, puffing cocaine-and-Sol down onto the eager, hard-partiers below.

Fishner’s spirit, meanwhile, was between worlds, deciding where to go next. Unsettled. Uncertain where it was. As is so often the case, Solomon was radically unaware that he’d died, passed over, kicked the bucket, snuffed it, etc. He was bloody confused.

And so, Solomon’s spirit lingered near its last soul connection to the earth plane, his one  true love in the last life, Javier Belarte.

“You can keep him, you know.”

Solomon Fishner’s spirit did a double-take. What had just happened?

“You can stay with your loved one. It’s a thing. I’m Celeste,” the bored-sounding, disembodied-sounding voice said into his soul’s ear. 

“Ce-wha?” Solomon’s spirit stuttered, setting the hair on Javier’s neck upright and sending a shiver rolling up his spine.

Javier Belarte cast a dull glance around, mildly puzzled. He knew his prison cell to be very breezy, but this was new.

Belarte, despite—or perhaps because—of his private-jet wealth, had been denied bail and was awaiting court at Their Majesty’s Pleasure. A pleasure it distinctly was Not, and he’d already acquired the dull eyes of a long-term inmate. And crabs.

“I’m dead too,” Celeste continued, “but I still talk to my sister every day. She doesn’t even know I’ve passed over. It’s a tech thing.”

“Now wait just a…I’m not dead! Non!” spirit-Solomon cried.

“Uh-huh,” said spirit Celeste. “Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nooooooooo. Wait…seriously?” Some of Solomon’s recent experiences were starting to make a bit more sense.

“Yeah man…” Celeste sounded bored, as if she had this kind of chat every day…which in fact, she did, being, as she was, somewhat of a self-appointed guide to the afterworld. “No one realises at first. But it’s okay. You’ll get used to it. It has its perks, even.”

“You…you mean to say that you…actually like being dead?!” 

… TO BE CONTINUED …

Image from Pexels Free Photos.