Life After Death. Flash Fiction.

Sandra applied her make up carefully, with slow, deliberate strokes of the brush. This wasn’t something that could be hurried as she had learned from the past. Mistakes could be minimal, or they could be dangerous. Despite the time intensive nature of her morning ritual she enjoyed it, it helped prepare her for the day. Sandra knew that she could slap on a few bits here and there and look presentable, but she didn’t want to look merely presentable. Once she was happy she checked over her face again, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. She smiled at the mirror, her white teeth gleamed back at her. It wasn’t easy being dead, but then everything came with its own difficulties.

Sandra stood from her dresser and dressed, that was the easy part. She grabbed her bag, double checked she had her phone and keys, then she was out the door. It was a nice day outside, in some ways she was lucky that the heat and the cold didn’t really affect her, in others it was annoying. She was never quite sure if she was dressed appropriately for the weather. There had been a few occasions where she wore clothes that were too heavy on hot days, or clothes that weren’t heavy enough on cold. Most of the time she was able to get away with it, and only the astute noted the lack of sweat patches on her clothes when it was particularly hot. She had been alive for just over three hundred years, she had become adept at fitting in.

Sandra had a bit of a wild youth, not too wild by today’s standards of course, but wild enough for her small village. She ended up in bed with the husband of one of the town leaders, who also happened to be a witch. The bitch had killed Sandra, then brought her back to life. Sandra wasn’t aware of what had happened to her until the next day when a mob was led to her door and the bitch had accused her of sorcery. Of course they tried to drown her, something which Sandra was surprised to find not too unpleasant. What happened next was thankfully lost to her memory. She woke a few days later, thick thread had been used to stitch her together and the bitch was leaning over her, smiling. She had be let go then, free to roam the world until the day that it ended, but even that wouldn’t give her the sweet release of death, she would be stuck until the universe itself winked out of existence. It sounded scary in the abstract, but Sandra was enjoying herself more than she expected. She liked seeing the world progress and change, she enjoyed all the new experiences she could have. Of course the drugs weren’t bad either, seeing as she apparently could not form addictions, nor could they kill her. The bitch who had cursed her had died a few years after, she had aimed her crosshairs at the wrong person and ended up being killed herself. Sandra had made it a point to visit her grave once a year and relieve herself over it. A tradition that entertained her far longer than she thought it would, right up until the early 1900’s.

Sandra walked to work, she preferred it to the bus, too many chances that someone would brush against her and wonder why her skin was so cold. That and she had more than enough experiences with crazy people. They seemed adept at spotting her as different. Most of the time they also thought she was dangerous and so left her alone, unless they were in an enclosed space with her, then they always seemed to go on the attack. It rarely became physical but they would shout and scream with her until either she left or they were forcibly ejected by the driver.

Sandra opened her door and threw her bag onto the table, it had been a long day. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a drink, taking a quick glug from the bottle. She let out a brief sigh of pleasure. Work had been a bit of a nightmare, she had barely gotten any work done, everyone kept bothering her with stupid shit. Normally she didn’t mind but Greg, her boss, had been up her ass about getting some reports done. She had already disliked his little habit of saying “It needs to be done like yesterday” and now she hated it. She took a drink from her glass and felt the alcohol burn its way down her throat. She let out a long breath then shook her head, the stress wasn’t worth it, hell she should probably just quit. It’s not like she really needed the job after all, it was mostly just to keep her busy. She had enough savings built up to live comfortably for a few decades at least. She downed the rest of her glass and smiled to herself, screw it, she’d hand in notice tomorrow.


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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