(For this year’s ISLF Advent Ghosts, I was thinking a little about the moment the protagonist’s life changed in Charles Dicken’s A Chrismas Carole. I hope you enjoy, and happy holidays.)
It echoes in the dark, tighter and sharper, as wind chills.
A light, a distant flick, or an illusion, maybe, from the white-out, darker than midnight.
And the ghost appears, he believes. His assign, now to death, hard and sharp as flint.
It smiles. Or doesn’t. He cannot tell. What connection to unrecognizable life remains? Less to unbelievable death.
It speaks his name, like a joke, like its own name was, once.
He recognizes this sound: intimacy. Through disembodied shackles. Through embodied death.
“My executor,” it re-connects in warning.
But he does not respond. He could not listen, any longer.