Hello thar',
This is just something I have recently come back to and decided to turn into a succession of short stories. Let me know what you think! Any pointers would be muchly appreciated.
Thank you,
Nightmares.
PS. This is only the start of it, there is more to come. Essentially this part is only to establish the differences between what a ghost, soul and body are.
Foreword.
To the reader,
This story is based on tales I had heard along my travels. I do believe it to be historically incorrect but what can one really do when the purpose of this is simply to tell the tale of a girl, a strange and curious creature who I am sure still wanders this world?
I have included beneath this an actual letter from her, I believe it is as adequate immersion in her tale as any prologue I could write.
Enjoy,
K. Avalon
Mr. K. Avalon,
Once again I must refuse your request for an interview. I do not believe it is in my best interest to discuss with you the circumstances of my death for fear you might find it mildly amusing. I assure you though that there was no humour involved in my choking to death on a blue fairy, only a great deal of spluttering.
This is all beside the point however, so I bid you adieu and ask that you please do not bother me again.
Sincerely,
Miss.
One.
The streets were flooded with blue but not the blue of water, they were awash with spirits. Ghosts.
“It's a beautiful sight,” his dark figure appeared seemingly from no where.
Miss sat on a low bench, her powder blue dress sporting a trimming of mud. Flecks of the abundant goo had also made its way into her long straw coloured curls.
“Why are they still here?”
His features went taunt as he smiled, the skin stretching unpleasantly over the bone. It would have struck fear into anyone else but Miss had had the pleasure of his company intermittently throughout her everlasting life. When her brother had died of old age he had introduced himself as The Mortician. The Grim Reaper or Death in the Flesh as he often said with the added indication that she never wanted to see him in his true form.
“It's the sickness that claims them, so many of the lower classes succumb to it and the Guardians are all detained elsewhere,” his slender shoulders pulled up in a nonchalant shrug.
“So they stand around in the streets waiting? Why can you not take them? You are Death aren't you?”
“Come with me for a moment.”
She followed him a short distance from the mud splashed streets into the dark shadows of an alley, the smell of urine and rotting garbage swirled around her head.
“Here,” The Mortician thrust a scented handkerchief under her nose and she gratefully held it in place.
“What are we doing?”
“Look.”
In the middle of the alley lay a black puddle.
“Are they dead?”
“Of course,”
The Mortician's eyes flickered ochre in the darkness, the colour swirling around his pupils. Miss watched as he studied her face, a curious expression knotting his features.
“You are capable of seeing someone's soul. All you must do is look into their eyes,” he turned away and knelt beside the body on the floor.
Miss knelt beside him, staring hard into his eyes until her vision blurred.
“Now look,” he murmured.
What had once been a human body curled into the foetal position now squirmed and shivered, splitting at invisible seams until what lay on the floor were three bodies of varying similarity.
“This here,” he continued, his voice still a whisper, “is the body. The thing that tethers the soul and mind, makes it capable for both to feel. It is essentially just a shell, capable of decay, yourself being the only exception.”
“What else?” Her own voice had taken on the same whispering tone, she was fascinated by these revelations and by the fact that The Mortician was taking such an avid interest in teaching her something.
“This,” he pointed a slender finger to a flickering blue body, the same as the ghosts that wondered the streets, it bore a striking resemblance to its physical form, “is what people refer to as a “ghost”. It is all the thoughts and emotions and memories of ones physical life. Young children do not often leave behind a ghost as they have not had enough time to build up such a thing. I guess it makes more sense to call them the residual leftovers. Once I severe them from their physical bonds they are allowed to wonder until a guardian comes to escort them on their journey.”
Her eyes now moved to the final specter. Its insubstantial form was made up of what seemed to be dust particles that danced in a light only they could reflect.
“That is the soul, they come in the most varied appearances and do not always resemble their physical or residual forms. They are the core of any being and are reborn again and again. You are the only person I have met with no soul.”
Miss said nothing, instead turning her ochre gaze to her own arm.
“You won't see anything,” The Mortician took out a small metallic knife.
“Do you have a soul?”
The Mortician was leant over the body slicing away at the net of red that held the Ghost to its anchor. His features had changed and elongated until he resembled a skeleton, his eyes had melted away into black pits and his shook of red hair had turned into the flickering of a flame.
“I don't have a body to hold me in place, that's why I am free to float between the living and the dead. I am a soul, moulded to be the keeper of the dead.”
