Mortal Mishaps | 2023 Gen 3 Contest Entry | Collaboration

Chapter 1 | Present Day

I blink awake in a strange unfamiliar room, sudden and unmoored. Sitting up in one of those large cushy red armchairs. Christ! Where am I? I rub the crick in my neck and survey my surroundings. It's a large room with white walls – are those ravens painted over there? - and four more similar chairs placed haphazardly about. Along one wall is an enormous full bookcase that I eye to make sure it's bolted to the wall. On the far side lies a wooden door where an Oogie Boogie Man Halloween decor hangs from a hook. But it's the pink origami flowers scattered on the bookshelves and tables that catch my eye. Because the last time I saw those things was 59 years ago, the last time I "nearly" died.

Does it mean . . . ? The last thing I remember was closing my eyes, lying on the bed, and listening to an audiobook. It didn't matter which one, just something to focus on instead of the aches in my bones and the gift of fatigue that came with being over ninety. Frick, my 99th birthday was next month. I wanted to live to one hundred, simply to have that nice round number, but I guess it isn't meant to be.

So I died. For the 18th and last time in my life. Which means that they should be arriving here soon. I'm surprised they aren't here yet. But it gives me time to get out of my chair and walk around. To see what's changed since I've been here. The absence of aching muscles, of having steady hands when I reach out to skim the spines of books, is a relief and a shock because it's over. It's truly over and I'm not going back this time.

The bookshelf is new. I start to calculate however many books they must have read and grimace when I realize I'm doing mental math. I can't stop lifting the corner of my mouth when I realize there are at least six cookbooks here. And wince when I see there are as many about various extreme sports.

I pick up one of the origami flowers beside a how-to manual, the thin paper a bright vibrant magenta. Unfold the flower and just as quickly refold it.

"You can at least put some color into this room."

"Leave your comments in my suggestions box and we'll get back to you."

"You have a suggestion box?"

"No."

It took a while to convince them that color wasn't the enemy. They didn't like how high-maintenance flower cuttings were so when I suggested making ones – I was in an origami phase - they let me have free reign over making a few to cheer the place up. They quickly realized their mistake when I spent over two hours creasing and folding paper flowers.

I wonder how they're doing right now. It's been years – decades – since I've seen them. Nerves flutter in my chest, but excitement causes me to grin at an empty room. Because Death had been one of my best friends and I remember how easy and irritating and fun it was being with them. But it's been a long time and people change. Hell, I've changed over the years.

Suddenly the door opens and they saunter in, clipboard in hand, just like the first time. I wait for them to look up and when they do, the first words out of their mouth are "Congratulations, you died!"

I don't know whether to laugh or groan at their awful humor. But when I see the iron patch to their black jacket and it's a pink unicorn, I can't help but clutch my belly and laugh. And then laugh some more.

Because I know it's going to be alright.