Onion could have lifted his foot and pressed the brake. But this was the fifth jaywalker he had seen on the highway that month, and so far, the discomfort of shifting from gas to brake had brought him neither good nor bad. He could have kept doing the same thing, but what would that change? Wasn’t he alive in the first place because God had decided things couldn’t stay the same forever? Didn’t his mom assign him a name by randomly picking a word from the dictionary after growing tired of the generic names she had given his siblings? Onion felt that familiar feeling wash over him once more as if passed down from his creators—his mother and God. It was an innate feeling beyond reason, a primal force that preceded all else. That force, heavier than gravity itself, anchored his foot on the pedal. *** Now he was bored, staring at the struggling body of the jaywalker on the ground, thinking about the hours of paperwork ahead—something he wouldn’t have to do if people …

She was 5’2, maybe 100 pounds. I started taking note a year ago, dark hair to her shoulders, ruddy sun browned face and hands. Dressed in neutral tans, greys – shirt, slacks that looked well-worn, more part of the persona than the outfit. She would be walking near the boardwalk, but just as often five miles inland on the Boulevard. Away from the beach no one walks except the homeless, certainly not for miles, and never in the summer sun. She may have been homeless, but no belongings, her gait seemed determined but not rushed. Power-walker outings are a small part of the day. They dress for the workout, careful to hydrate. I envisioned her legs to be hard as steel, her ventures seemed perpetual. I spotted her daily. As it became ritual to be on the lookout, the frequent occurrences increased. She walked all the time – for a living, or on a mission. A mythic trek, perhaps her monastery burned down – if stopped, or accosted, perhaps martial arts. Taoism emphasizes action without …

Holding a candle on the beach, she looked at the circle of lights the others had placed. The thought of the burial came to her. She heard someone crying, maybe her mother. As soon as it came, the crying disappeared into the soft steps of people passing behind her, some looking at her as they walked beside the ocean. She didn’t notice them. Wind moved her hair almost like a forgiveness but did nothing to the flames. The light of the candles warmed her face as she breathed in deeply, her back straight. As she exhaled, the flame wavered. She moved slowly, placing the candle in with the others, the sand falling toward the candle as though it were trying to stop its entry. Standing up she closed her eyes, her head bending toward her shoes. They were Converse, torn by the years. Opening her eyes, her posture began to bend into that of an old woman. She lifted her hood above her head. A cane appeared in her hand. Her hair became gray and …

My dear, When I die, I want to come back and haunt you for the days, weeks, months, even years that should have been ours. Maybe you’ll be really old by then, your skin hanging in life-stained, elephant folds. I hope so. I hope you will have lived a good, long life. I’ll remember you as you were, with all your hair and dark fur on your body; you were solid in flesh and in values. But I will still love you denuded of hair and body fur, less tethered to flesh and values, closer perhaps to what I am. I’ll perch on your lap with my arms around your neck and lean in close to kiss you. Will you remember then? You may have to feel your way back to the memory past my icy cold lips, past whatever mangling may have occurred on the way to my ghostly state. I’ll slide a cold hand under your shirt and lay my head on your shoulder and remind you. We’ll hang a white sheet over …

Now Live: This Week’s ‘Daily Steal Deals’ From no-reply@content.gnosmart.com To aoife@gyohmail.com Date 12 Dec 2019, 23:52 Is your life stuck in the bore of the case that holds your body? Does misery stick to you like a stubborn leech sipping off you? Tonight, the clouds cover the lights freshly harvested on a full moon night. The coldness places its cunning fingers, and pulls the threads of hair on your skin. But the bus you are riding has a perfect cushion to gear up for the night, and the heating pad you bought last month via a lightning deal must just be the cherry on top for a comfortable journey. The plug socket is right next to you, and as the gel inside retains warmth for two hours, you just need to plug and unplug for five minutes every second hour. That’s not much of a bother! But still you think your life has been so messy, no momentary warmth rekindles your desire in enduring that bleak life. You are 34, working as a cashier in …

I sat next to a girl on the bus, thin and blond. She was reading a paperback. “Where are you going?” I asked. She glanced at me. “What?” “I’m going to Albany,” I said. “What’s in Albany?” she said. I laughed. “Not much. My mother died. That’s why I’m going to Albany.” She went back to her book. “That’s why I’m going there,” I said. The bus was passing through countryside, a low ridge of wooded hills on one side, on the other a swampy field with scrub brush, a few bare trees. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said, not looking up from the page. “It’s all right,” I said. “She was old. Her time had come.” “No one’s time has come,” she said. She looked at me. Clear, gray blue eyes, like I’d fallen through the sky on a winter’s day. “Who reaches the end?” she said. “What gets finished? There are moments. That’s about it.” “My name’s Chip,” I said. “Jim. James, really.” She turned on her side away from me. I …

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” “Why?” “Because it doesn’t make any sense.” “What?” “Everything.” “About ghosts?” “No, everything about everything.” “OK, so you’re saying you don’t believe in anything?” “Kind of, but mostly ghosts.” “So you like to pick on ghosts?” “They just never appear.” “They do to a lot of people.” “But people who are drunk. Or high. Or a little stupid.” “My Dad saw a ghost.” “Well, he was probably drunk.” “He doesn’t drink.” “Or high.” “He doesn’t get high.” “Well, I’m just saying that I don’t care about ghosts. There’s other things. Like wars.” “Which turn people into ghosts.” “Yeah, they would. If ghosts were real, but ghosts are nothing. You know how someone says they’re going to ‘ghost’ you. What’s that mean? It means you’ll never hear from them again. That’s what ghosts are. Just nothingness. They bore me.” “That’s probably why they don’t appear to you.” “Why? Ghosts only like to appear to people who get scared?” “I’ll give an example. I used to work at a haunted house. Years …