An excerpt from one of my latest stories: Haunted, a tale about death, madmen, and other symbols of love.

It all started with a gun to the face.

A bullet to be more precise.

I don’t know calibers.

But, it was a big one.

The End.

I stood over his corpse.

He was not a pretty one.

Not that I had ever met a pretty corpse.

You understand.

It was the polite thing to say: You’re not a pretty corpse.  

I realized that I hadn’t said it aloud.

You aren’t a pretty corpse. He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t move or blush or anything.

I looked around. No one had heard me. I felt embarrassed anyway.  

I blushed.

I coughed and no sound escaped.

Sheepishly, I looked around the room. It was an ordinary room. Ordinary wallpaper with an ordinary design and ordinary peeling edges. Ordinary furniture with ordinary dust and just a bit off center. Ordinary blood splatter, brains and viscera glistening. Ordinary corpse, it really was quite ordinary. Boring to be honest.

Just the sort of place where I would throw a party.

The corpse hadn't exactly dressed up for the affair, far from dapper. I would say he was unremarkable in life and merely pathetic in death. His suit was too large, frumpy even. It had patches everywhere except where it might be considered fashionable. His hair (what was left attached to the skull) was thin and reedy like straw. I could not make out his face because it was no longer there. Technically it was there and there and there. It was technically everywhere: on the walls, the floor, the carpet.

Oh

The carpet looked ordinary too.

Not knowing what the polite thing to say would be I said the only thing I could think:

Nice face painting. I nodded.

It seemed the right thing to say. Given the circumstances.