Request: Count on me

So, we meet again after a medium sized hourglass?
- "Sounds about right, then you'll explain me the job requirements  and we'll start ASAP".

Ignatius shook his future employer's hand and headed toward the parking lot. Once inside his car, he started the engine, clutched on gear A and drove down through the lower middle, upper-bases and base-base floor to finally exit in the city center. At the red light, he reached for his back pack on the passenger seat, pulling out his hourglass and upturning it against the back rest. He would meet his soon to be boss again, before the sand had filled the bottom half, which would leave him free until the next morning.

He hated the thing, an older model with a heavy aluminium base and thick plexiglass casing.The standard A-A caliber sand, most common in the nothern hemisphere, did nothing to diminish the weight. Luckier southerners would live on standard C-A African grain, much more compact and better flowing, allowing for smaller containers. Only, that very hourglass had been in the family since his great-grandfather, who had been alive during the Disappearance, when people could still use numbers.

Stories about numbers had always fascinated him. How they were used to define precise quantities, coordinate event, or even as memories and means to understand concepts defied his imagination. But just as magic, numbers were from another realm.

When his great-grandfather had still been a boy, people had slowly started to forget how to employ them. Complex operations were the first to go. Specialists in the field suddenly became inept. Several industries had threatened to collapse, although the use of number processors called computers, later relegated to museums, had avoided a massive catastrophe. Despite everyone's best efforts, numbers continued to vanish from humankind's collective intellect, untill even counting (whatever that was -apparently something very basic) had turned into a mistery.

Speculations were made about the phenomenon, successively blaming a new kind of virus, radiations, long term effect of specific food enhancers… without ever finding out a cure.

Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, scholars from all around the planet saw the importance of preventing existing technologies from fading out of existance. The Counsil For Knowledge was founded for that purpose, and issued scores of references and manuals to guide, step by step, the production of the most vital transportation, communication and medical tools.
Following the passing of the last Counting Elder, the Council refocused its aim toward organizing an increasingly chaotic society, renaming itself the Counsil of Measurements.
The post Disappearance era had begun.

Time standardization had been the first problem to be tackled.
If people could still refer to the day-night alternance, they would not be able to keep track of more than a single cycle. Hourglasses were introduced, comming in tiny, small, medium, large and huge sizes, keeping people synchronized as long as the sand would flow.

Distances were measured via hourglasses as well: A walk to the city was a small hourglass away on foot, and a tiny one by car. Quantities would range from single to 'many lots', speed from 'almost stopped' to 'as fast as can', and many more approximation were found to feel the gaps left by the total absence of anything mathematical.

The result was a slowed-down world, where things would only happen after many failed attempt and endless adjustments.

Ignatius arrived home.
He went for the kitchen, unwrapped a standard size pack of frozen french fries, then another, poured a large size pack of oil into his pan and proceeded to cook.

Food packaging was said to be one practical side of life without numbers. Everything would fit into boxes, standardized, off course, from very tiny to very large, and one would rarely resort to cutting and 'measuring' as shown in the archive from the old times.

Waiting for the fries to be ready, he sat near the stove and started handling a Rubik's cube.
His hobby was shared by many others. When counting had left human brains, logic had -quite fortunately- kept on standing its ground. If none of them could figure out how many facets composed the surface of a cube,  they were all aware of the steps needed to achieve the right block position. Twist left, again, again, up, back. Cube solved. Dinner ready.

After moving to the living room, he turned on his television. A filler program was on.
The insipid shows, meant to keep the audience waiting until the production had re-synchronized the hourglasses, always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

As he often did, he started talking to himself. "We had industries going on and growing, we had innovations, you can see it in the archives. Now nothing ever gets new, we don't travel anymore, we just keep our activities to a minimum compared to our great-grand's epoch.
We just read the manuals… even our barters are settled in those damned manuals. I want to create things and I want people to use them, but how can you trade things you don't know the value of? I'm tired of watching fillers because TV station are incapable of good synchro…"

His reflexion stretched until bedtime.

His next morning was spent sitting in wait for his future employer. The sun was well into its upper-low quadrant when the suit wearing, almost over-groomed man showed up. Government officials were always touchy about their appearance.

"I'm sorry, I must have kept you waiting. My cat knocked my hourglass sideways during the night."
"Standard excuse", he though. That man didn't look like a pet owner. He'd probably spent too long perfecting his tie knot and was too proud to admit it.

"Anyway, Ignatius, glad we could still sync. Hopefully you didn't wait for too long"
-"Well, I can't be exact about it, but it would be around two and a half small standards HG, sir."
His interlocutor paused, a smirk slowly forming on his face.
"Yes… yes, as I said yesterday, you're the perfect man for the job. Come, I'll brief you on the way. We have a lot of work to do… reforming the Counsel will take some time."
- "At least five years".
This time, they both smirked.

Fin

This story is based upon a request from Ignatius (Keywords: Numbers, Hourglass, French Fries)
Request a story here!
More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


Count On Me by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

It's my work, you're my hero: the Lemon now officially accepts requests.

Earlier this week, you might have seen the post I catapulted from the Lemon's Facebook page: I promised you a surprise.

So here it is.

I am going to write about you, for free.
Wait, that sentence doesn't really transcribe the excitement I feel. Let's try again:

I AM GOING TO WRITE THE EVERLOVING HELL OUT OF YOUR REQUESTS

BECAUSE I LOVE YOU (or something)

Terms and conditions apply, but I think it's simple enough, please read on.

If you want me to produce a little masterpiece in 500 to 1500 words, you shall:

Send me a request in the comment section of this post, or via Without a Lemon's Facebook Page.
This request must contain:

• Your name
• Your Facebook account name (so I can feature you)
• 160 characters about you (No more. I'm the one supposed to write)
• 3 keywords, anything you want (Try me)
• The genre of your story (optional)
• Your blog or a page you want me to feature (optional)

I will then proceed to write a story featuring you as the main character, upload it, tag you and let you bask in an eternal ocean of internet fame.

If you're wondering what the end result looks like, you can have a read at Mermaid (Not A Musical) -pilot experiment. If you're allergic to seafood, just read anything else on this blog and notice the fluffy bits of love floating around all the real chunks of sarcasm. They are for you. 

Don't wait. Do it.

Seriously, do it. 

The comment section is right below.

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

A vampire's confession

Yesterday evening, as I put order to my archives, I discovered a fragment of a long lost correspondence between a long lost friend and his improbable lover. I might be able to get in touch with him again, so that you can ask him about his kind in the comment section.
Here it is, for you to enjoy.

Here, I am to fulfill your request and tell you about our kind...

Lady, I will beg you to forget what you already know, what you think you know about all of us, the cursed, the jinxed, the kindred, the ancient ones.
In all my years, and lady forgive me if I daresay they are numerous and heavy on my restless self, I have witnessed the birth and persistence of the young ones' lies.
From the most grotesque aspersions to the most ridiculous idolatry, our race have been bathed in wrongness since the very birth of yours, birth I have seen unravel before my eyes.

Folk tales, literature an movies have given us many names. Vampires, Lycans, Werewolves, Undeads... The truth is, little child: we are gods, and we are mistakes.
We are the unloved offspring of an inept creator, we are the feral rejects of Him Who Has A Greater Plan.
You have read about us, without even knowing it. Every mythology tells our story.
We are the Titans, Annunaki, Giants, Ases. We are the Angels. Shaped without a soul and untouched by death, frozen in our state of indefinite existence.
We do not die, we do not grow old, and we do not have a soul.
This is why you, humans, fear and hate us.

Yes, our appetites are great. Imagine for an instant, infant, what it feels to know that, after you are finally destroyed, you will simply cease to exist. Can you feel our longing for life? A desire so strong, a craving so ancient, that it is on this very life that we feed.
We have been portrayed as slavers, basking in lust and blood, yet we hide and nourish ourselves from your leftovers. Our hunger knows no limits; I, have exhausted many a female, gorging myself of their life force, through their flesh, their pleasure, their screams.
By now, I know how to subsist on the shadow of a smile, the shy shivering of a sleepy soul.
By now, we all know.
Times, dear newborn, have changed. Blood is not spilled in the same way, lust is not shared in the ways of old.

Nonetheless, even during our most reckless feedings, we never were as written is your books.
Some of us succumb to jealousy toward those who can die. Some of us stay in the shadow, and withdraw, decaying without even passing away, burnt to the core by our famine.
None of us enslaves. None of us can turn one of yours into one more deathless being. We do not fear god, we do not fear light. We fear the world we have been watching since apes stood up.

I have read the word 'whore', typed from your fingers. I must say I find it revolting.
Budding beings, able of merely a hundred years of existence, impersonating us, smearing our manners, language, refinement with the dirt of common words.
Harlot! Wanton! Yes. Promiscuous females of repulsive complexion they are! But mind your language...

Do you only know, my heart, that the word 'whore' is rooted in love? Yes, it does mean 'heart'. 'Carus' is the Latin term, term I have used myself to express my care toward so many lovers lost to time. And yet I see your ephemeral ilk, grossly turning hearts onto objects of mercantile sexuality.
This word alone is enough for me to say: you do not know us, mortals.

Ask me, growing thing, ask me whatever about the kindred. I will tell you, I will tell you how wrong you are.


More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


A vampire's confession by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

3 Almost acceptable uses of the word "Because" - And a a water-boarding.

In this new section of the Lemon, I am letting you know of these words wich, if they became actual people, would definitely enter the FBI most wanted list. 

Note: This is only my opinion. Abuse them if so is your wish (then watch me curse each and every keystroke of yours, for seven generations).

Because

"Because the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee" 

Reads weird? It certainly does, since the original goes like this:

"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee"

See where the problem is?

Omnipresent in our day to day vocabulary, "because" begs for overuse, longing to turn your fastest paced narration into a primary school show and tell. Personally, I only know of three uses that don't make my eyeballs swell:

The Why

Answering a "why" question with a "because" renders your style livelier, bouncier and to the point, as underlined in the following example:

"Why does the chicken cross the road? Because fuck you, that's why." 

Works for me.

The who

Another use I will tolerate without frothing at the mouth for too long : "Because of that/[any object]", used in a casual tone or an explanation, to point out the cause behind a process.

"See, Zombies have taken over all the fast food delivery jobs, because of that, nobody dares ordering brain-burgers."

"Don't blame me if I'm surprised that you're actually a man. After all, I've moved to Los Angeles, changed my hair color and started studying gynecology because of you."

Still okay. Somehow.

The emphasis

When carrying undertone of gravity, innocence, and employed with the greatest caution,'because' as a mean of emphasis produces suprising results.

"Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams" 

In the conclusion of Yeats' Aedh Wishes Fot The Cloths Of Heaven , 'because' becomes the carrier of the whole work's emotional intensity, revealing further the simple yet authentic, heartfelt, dramatic power behind its words.

That is to say: make sure you're not short of authentic, heartfelt, dramatic intensity if you want to pull out that trick.

All the rest.

In any other case, "because" will turn your prose into the mind equivalent of boiled cabbage: Tasteless, colorless, and totally lacking of charisma.

Writing "He wouldn't feel like working on Mondays, because he was tired" deserves a good half hour of waterboarding. Full stop.

You might have a different opinion and want to right my wrongs in the comment section because you disagree. Please do and let the fun begin because I like debating.
No if you'll excuse me, I need to go and bite my fingers off.


More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


Eyes-Gouging Words: Because. by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Mermaid (not a musical)

Mermaid breast (artist rendering)
(source)

She woke up feeling her lungs drawing-in yet another mouthful of water. As the liquid went down her windpipe, she started panicking. Coughing did nothing but cause more water to flood-in. Swimming for the surface was out of the question, the reef she was lying upon was probably 30 meters deep.

A couple of startled heartbeats later, she came back to her senses. She screamed. Shouting wouldn't reach far, what with all the water around. She didn't care, that much joy couldn't stay in. "Viix you idiot! Mermaids don't drown!"

After stretching her arms and tail, Viix darted up, leaving behind a flourish of bubble, rolling and looping in the stream.

Finally, she'd made it. She was a Mermaid.

Not that long ago, she would have spent yet another day repeatedly diving in her bathtub, face down, dreaming of corrals and current until she finally grasped for air, frustrated to choke on soapy water.
Not that long ago, she hadn't known what the sea was like.

Her parents, who had tremendous expectation about her career and very poor views upon social life, hobbies and other futilities,  had found her daily immersion useless. After all, she was sixteen years old already. Being able to hold her breath for 15 minutes straight wasn't going to get her any academic achievement. She used to answer that being named after a brand of cough drops didn't really help either. As a response, she would be sent in her room to derivate integrals. So was her daily life.

Then, one morning, she received an email.
"Mermaid wanted. No experience needed, internship available. Hydrophobics and manatees won't be considered"

A couple of parent-daughter fights later, she had passed the initial interview, been given a tail and assigned a place to sleep not too far from the coast.
That morning was her first morning. The tide was rising, bringing coiling cool currents around her body, while she kept on marveling about everything she saw.

"Viix!" A tiny, squeaky voice called.

"Viix! Come back down there! I can't swim like that! I swear I'm done with mermaids! It's always like that, they wake up, they take off, and you end up on all six, caught in the turbulences… come on that's not funny… VIIX!"

She turned around, barely hearing it. She couldn't see too far, the water was still rather dark and would be that way until later at noon. Swimming back down, she realized the vociferations were coming from a rather small crab.

- "Oops, I didn't see you there. You know my name?" She was giggling.
- "Of course I do! I'm your mentor! You think you can just put on a tail and go gambol in the big blue like it's sea world? NO!" The crab's eyes were protruding at the limit of their possibility, the left one occasionally flickering in what could have been a nervous tick.
- "Oh, yes, they did tell me at the interview. I have to go through an adaptation course or something, right?"
- "Right enough, right here, right now. My name is Fern, don't ask about the plants and I won't ask about cough syrup. Deal?"
- "Deal…" She wondered how a crab could know so much about the surface world. She took a pause to consider.
- "I know because I answered an email, okay? Like, you think all sea creatures are born like that?" Apparently, others had been asking.
- "And, we're going to have to do something about your grooming. You look like a sponge!"
- "What do you mean I…"
He didn't let her finish.
- "First, you can't go around showing your nipples to everybody like that. We'll find you some scallop shells. Then, you'll have to grow this hair. It's already bad enough that they're dark, but wearing them short is unacceptable. You're carrying a message here. Then… oh well, swimming around will take care of the extra weight anyway."

She didn't know how to react. She was still too happy to be outraged, but too surprised to keep on smiling.

"I think I get why you chose to be a crab. Although, being so irritating I'm surprised you chose to leave underwater"
- "Oh yeah? So you think I'd be better off somewhere else? Tell me what suits me then, I'm curious" He managed to look smug.
- "A crotch"

Fern stepped back and brought his dominant claw up, wide open.
After holding that position for a moment, he started laughing.

- "Good one. You've got some bite in there. I like that"

The atmosphere suddenly relaxed, Viix circled around Fern a couple of times and went on asking.

"Alright then, what's the program?"

- "We'll start with the scallops, if you don't mind. Then I'll show you around, while giving you a little briefing about the local customs, your assignments, and then...then we’ll see. If you mention crotches again I'll snap your nose off."
- "Alright sir" She managed to scoff out a bubble.

After finding appropriate shells and learning how to make them stick in the right position, she took the crab in her hand, letting him guide her further from the shore.
Wandering around, still bathing in the bliss of her new life, she though she was really going to enjoy her job. Only, every now and then, an unknown sensation seemed to poke at her. Something missing. She hadn’t been smoking, but she imagined that the urge to light a cigarette wasn’t far from what she was experiencing.

She was about to ask Fern when he started his introduction, forcing her to leave her question aside.

- "Look, you won't have to worry about many things here. Don't poke your head at the surface when there's a storm, that's rule number one. Then, try sleeping when rocks or crevices can prevent you from being dragged by the tide. At least for now. You want to wake up at the same place where you fell asleep.
As a mermaid, you're on the apex here. Not even sharks will bother. Just stay away from dolphins."
- "Dolphins? Aren't they supposed to be friendly to people?"
- "To people, yes. You're not people anymore. You're people plus scales. You don't wanna hang around them."
- "What would they do to me anyway?"
- "You know how they have the reputation to mate for fun?"
- "I've heard about it"
- "Yeah. It's true. Only they don't understand that consent thing"
- "Oh…"
- "But don't make a big deal out of it, I'll show you where they hang out… for now you'll be fine"
- “I got it… but wait. Why only Dolphins? Why should all the others give me a berth?”
- “Erh…” Fern looked pensive. “It’s particular to mermaids, you’ll find out later… by yourself.”

As Fern delivered his instructions, hours went by.
Viix particularly liked the part about her role. Surprisingly, fern had be very sensible about it, putting aside issues pertaining to appearance.
He told her about how she should be the emblem of  the seas, carrying the grace of the surf, the mysteries of the deep. She would follow his words in a glee, almost entranced by these concepts, the newness of if all.
Her, the teenage girl solving equations in her house down nowhere lane, dreaming her bathroom as an ocean…
She was where she belonged.
As the lesson went on, he sensed the change in her mood and stopped talking. He left the cradle of her hand to sit on a protruding rock, giving her time on her own, to glide around, enjoy the water and comprehend her environment better.

She was smiling when she came back to him.
- "Thanks for, Fern. I see you're not that bad after all. How long will you mentor me?"
- "You're a natural, it won't be long. But hey, I'll be around. I'm always glad to see a newbie enjoying the job."

Again, she felt the urge tug at the back of her mind,  harder than the first time.

She opened her mouth in another tentative to finally ask Fern, when she was interrupted by a low, deep, almost solid vibration.

Viix twirled around, confused, looking for the source of it.
- "What is this" she asked, getting slightly worried.
- "Owh, that's just a boat." He paused for a couple of seconds, then went on "Actually, that's a good time to get on with the next lesson. Grab me, please, and swim ahead of the boat until you've passed it. A couple hundred meters should do"

She complied, delighting in her ability to reach the required speed.

- "We're far enough now. Now, we're going up. You'll need to maintain yourself above the surface, say, from the waist up"

She ascended and erupted in a spray into the midday light. Water left her lungs to be replaced by the salty sea air. She found it surprising to be able to breathe outside.

She asked "So… what's should I do now"
- "You'll find out soon enough"

As she saw the boat slowly sailing toward them, details became clearer. It was a yacht. A couple was on the deck, enjoying a champagne in the sweltering noon heat. As she worked out their figures, outlined against a cloudless sky, she felt the unknown urge rising from her core.

- "Fern. I feel weird. What's that lesson about.
- "Well… you know that email you received… we write ‘mermaid’ because people relate better. But really, this is more of a Nereid thing, siren, if you will… let's just say it's lunch time."

As Viix  suddenly understood what that new feeling was all about, she thought she was definitely going to enjoy her job.

She started singing.

Fin

Note: This story was written based on a request from my friend Chanel. Hi there!

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page



Mermaid (Not A Musical) by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Chapter 4 -End - Corpse Whisperer

Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3.
All chapters here.

Grass spirit was the kind of alcohol that gave you a hangover just by looking at it. Grass spirit was a drink that had hangovers at you.

"Look, Tronton, I'm sorry my lad, but I need to look for it later tonight. I've lost it again and this time it can very well be permanent."
Norman gave a startled look, then enquired "Have you stared?"
- "For the best of the afternoon, yes"
- "Have you looked in the kitchen? Missing chairs?"
- "None"
- "You, sir, need a drink".

The answer hung in the air before going through his lips. He didn't feel like going home for a second round of searching. He didn't feel like spending a restless night thinking about it, and most of all, he didn't feel like being sober.
"I think you're right."

- "Have a sip then, and don't spill will ya? It kills the lawn if you spill and I have a hell of a time growing it back."
He quaffed the content of both cups, in a row, almost snatching them from Norman's hands. The liquid tasted obviously grassy, somewhat piquant, and in the same time had a sort of dull , warm presence. It tasted like a bee sting at the base of your neck.

At the temporary cost of several dozens IQ points, he immediately felt better. "Boy, isn't this a most needed slap in the face of an exhausting, belaboring day!" was how he thought he expressed his gratitude. To everybody else, it sounded like "Wharbl". Instant drunkenness had struck.

Henri looked at him with an annoyed expression.
"I limp, you lurch. How's that for you?"
- "You're jsut jaeluos beacuse yuo gonna ooze out if you drnik taht"
- "Yes, so there this is low"
- "Adn you're bieng all Fnrech agian!"
- "And you're being dyslexic!"
- "And yuo, yuo are daed!"

Tronton, suddenly feeling several time zones away, decided to leave that place where everybody spoke in tongues and went on opening the gate as a sign that everyone should call it a day.

The pair left, staggering and bickering so eagerly that the distance home was covered in no time.

Arrived at destination, they unlocked the apartment's door and, too absorbed by their discussion, went directly inside without disarming the door's spring trap.
A short pang of noise exploded in the air,  a crossbow bolt surged from the end of the room, pinning their dispute right off their mouths, straight into the opposing wall.
The bolt kept vibrating for a while under their nonplussed gaze.

- "I think we'll leave it at that" Henri opined.
- "Brilliant idea. I'm suddenly a lot more sober"
- "I would say, slightly more sober, you're still lurching"
- "Whatever, let's get inside and look for it, I won't have dinner before I've found it."
- "As you wish." Henri pause for a split second. "Hey, do you remember that time when we made it come back with some loose change? Maybe it could work?"
- "Ha! Yes!" he almost shouted, brightened, while almost instantly reaching for coins in his trousers pockets.
His fingers burrowed down.
He was expecting the greasy, cold feeling of spare change, but instead he came in contact with a very familiar shape.
He couldn't believe what he had found.

- "Henri! That's it! In my pocket, I've found it!"
- "You mean you had it with you all along?" Henri asked, baffled.
- "No, of course not. It must have gone to the Somehow Dimension. You know how object lost there tend to reappear when alcohol is involved? Problem solved."

He raised it to eye level, a content smile on his face. He would be able to sleep tonight, and tomorrow would be an easy day at work. Hell, the whole week would be easier. He'd got it!

Glowing with joy, breathing deeply with relief, he entered his bedroom to store it in his closet. In a tighter box, this time. Where it would be safe, still, and waiting there for further use. No more losing it, no more wandering.

He opened the closet's door, still holding it… then he lost his grip.

He had pulled it out of his pocket in a rather clumsy way, and hadn't been holding it firmly enough. It slipped through his fingers, starting its inevitable course toward the floor.
It wasn't fragile, trying to crush or squeeze it would never damage it.
It was, though, very unstable. In the way of some very capricious chemicals.
The ones that have their very own deflagration scale.

A drop from more than a half a meter would definitely make it burst. And probably the whole building with it.

He had not time to react. It was over in a blink. Everything went noisy, then white, then black…
…then Henri, upside down, his face in a dubious close up.

- "I'm about to spit out a cliché about this being heaven and you being a very ugly angel…"
- "Oh, but not at all, chief. This is earth. You've been, hm, asleep for a little while"
- "How long?"
The disembodied voice of Norman Tronton spoke from somewhere above him. "Around two weeks I'd say, sir. Long-ish, if you ask me. But then you don't look too bad."
- "Tronton where are you? I can't see a thing but Henri's face!"
- "I'm above, sir. I didn't close your box, or your hole. We bet, Henri and I that you'd come back. Seems that he won."
- "Come back from where? What hole, what box?" He was disoriented, his brain only marginally faster than a narcoleptic slug.
- "Sir… half your building's turned to dust, all the windows in the block got shattered by the blast. You didn't think you'd survive that, did you?"
- "So, you're trying to tell me that I've turned into one of my clients? How are Henri and I not some splatters and a plume of smoke then?"
- "Somehow, we didn't get dismembered" Henri replied with a wide, yellow grin, giving a strong inflection to the word "somehow".
- "Owh we're lucky bastards aren't we" His tone was joyless.

The Somehow Dimension had still been open in his pocket, and had sucked them both in, to let them come out at a random place and time. Just like a couple of almost empty lighters at the end of a party.
It was a poor consolation; If the whole transition had prevented them from being quite literally all over the place, the explosion had still killed him.
And now he was back. He fell silent.

"Where did we reappear?" he asked after a moment, in an almost disinterested tone.
- "A couple of streets away, two weeks ago, we popped through a man-hole. I brought you here. A jar of war pickles made it, too. Useless to say they threw a fit."
- "Ah well… let them. They'll calm down eventually…" his words trailed off.

Henri and Norman's voices faded into the background. He was slowly realizing what had happened to him. He was at the bottom of his own grave, for the excellent reason that he was legally dead. After years and years interacting with awakened corpses, he had become one. Poetic injustice were the words he would have chosen.

But at the moment he didn't feel like talking.
After all, he had been diligently working for most of his adult life, and now that he was dead, he had the right to feel like doing nothing at all, and do it well.
Maybe, at some point, he'd become a picketer, a marketer or, who knew, a necrologist again. But that was for later.

He let out a yawn. Now was time for some long, long holidays.

FIN.

This is it... bonus material and more info about the Corpse Whisperer here.

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

Chapter 3 - Corpse Whisperer

Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3.
All chapters here.

Her death had occurred since a maximum of two days, leaving her skin several shades of grey but none darker. Her hair was still fixed on her scalp and so far she'd only lost the nails attached to the fingers cut off during her fatal car accident. There was a slight depression on the left side of her torso, but she was still nimble and didn't limp.

"The limps is for posers" she said, as she noticed him looking at her ankles.
- "In a couple of month, when your foot falls off, feel free to call Henri and tell him about it."
- "Who's Henri?"
- "My corpse helper, the one with a limp"
- "He's lost a foot?"
- "No, he's a poser and that would teach him a lesson. Now, I wanna know why you've been giving Norman such a hard time, and I wanna know why you'd skip the 4 p.m. appointment he took for you." Is wasn't a question as much as an order.
- "To piss you off, livestock."
He gave her an even look. "Two days on the field and already picking up bad habits. I'd watch your mouth with soap if I weren't afraid to melt it"
- "Bad habits? I remember my mom dragging me out of my bed by my ankles to get me ready for school. That's a bad habit. Just like you're trying to drag us out the grave to send us work in factories."

He wondered whether she was that fast a learner or if she had actually practiced being dead just in case. Then again, runners were graveyard bullies, naturally bad tempered. He'd have to play the game to the end.

"Nobody said anything about factories. You could very well become a companion corpse. Or even a lawyer, nobody would notice"
- "And we could all find our place and work days-in days-out for the greater good" she said in a sing-song tone.
- "And it would be perfect." he replied, in tune.
- "And we'd never get any rest".
He snickered. "Tell me, if you stay under your tomb until you turn to dust, what are you resting from?"
- "Life!" She sounded as if he'd overlooked the obvious.
- "Tell me, how do you feel when you're not picketing?"
- "Bored, why?" While she seemed to have taken the bait, after a moment considering the questions, she realized she was giving in.
"Look", she continued, aware of her mistake, "if the dead and the living mingle together, terrible things will happen. Have you never heard of the prophecy?"
This time his curiosity got genuinely aroused. That was something new.
"A prophecy?"
- "When life and death entwined in the flow of the day, will bring a new era despite of nature's way, Dur Shargath will descent upon the earthly realm and engulf all that's known and all that is unseen. Really? Never heard of that?"

Henri, who'd been listening in the distance, busy with head-aching protesters, burst out into the most honest -yet slightly maniacal -  laughter he'd ever heard.
"I've seen creative ones, lady, but you beat them all" Henri shouted, half choked.
-"Thanks, really, thanks for ruining it! And I thought I had him!" she retorted, furious.
On his knees, half gagged by his own giggling hiccups, he managed to add "I can't more… ah! A prophecy… what's next? Vampires?"
-"How did you know?!" She was fulminating. Henri was literally rolling on the ground, muffling his voice in his sleeves.

"I guess I'd file this one with the last two doomsdays and my discarded rapture cards then. You almost got me interested though."
He was smiling, knowing that sarcasm was more helpful against a militant live-again than a sharpened shovel.
"Look, I can even see a bright career for you: you could be a marketer."
- "I could?"
- "Well, you use slogans, fear, and an outstanding sense of hyperbole to pass your point across, it's that or politics"
- "You're being nasty for the sake of it."
- "No, I'm just trying to help. You're wasting your time here. Think of all the things you could have done during the last 48 hours."
She paused to gather her thoughts. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I have a talent in death I didn't have while alive." She was visibly brightening.
- "Dying does that. You have less things to care about, so you can focus on what you really like. Beats sitting in a wooden box."
- "I'd never seen it like that. It's true, I can do whatever I want now! Oh I'm so glad I wasn't cremated!"
She ran away, smiling.

Henri was still recovering from his mirth attack when he was helped back on his feet by his smiling comrade.
"Either runners are getting dumber, or I'm getting better at this job. That one was fairly easy".
- "Runners are getting slow, sir. It's the limp."
- "Henri, you're going to receive a phone call one day, and then I'll chop off your foot and chain it to a tree so it doesn't come back"
- "I am afraid I am not entirely following you, sir."
- "It's the limp."
They locked their gaze on each other and Henri started to growl.
- "You growled first, you lose, tonight beer is on you."
- "Strumpet of brothel! Again!"
- "That's my job, Henri. I am paid to make your kind do things"
Realizing his last sentence sounded wronger than a pit-bull in a kindergarten, he sighted and, eyebrow raised, waved a hand to signal the retreat.

Norman caught them at the gate, bringing grass alcohol with him, a cup in each hand and half a bottle in his stomach.
"Sir you can't leave just like that you can't! You've evicted the green lady and she made me ashamed and I couldn't look at meself and now I feel so relieved you oughta drink and celebrate with ol' mister gravekeeper and a jug of greener!”


Realizing ethanol had melted nearly all punctuation out of Norman’s speech, they looked at each other and though at unison that drinking that particular beverage was definitely a bad idea.

FINAL CHAPTER HERE

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Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3 by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.