Snow On The Tombstones: A Collection of Flash Fiction and Vignettes

Janus and Jake

When I woke up in Janus's body, I knew I had royally fucked up the night before. I shouldn't have mentioned Freaky Friday and how much I hated the latest adaptation (the 2018 one, not the one with Lindsey Lohan) while we were watching the meteor shower.

Out of respect for him, I didn't look down when I took a morning piss in the bathroom adjacent to his room. I knew he had problems with his body and shit; I was trying to be a good person. Plus, there's the whole consent thing, you know?

I searched for his phone on the desk by the foot of his bed, but no dice. Where was I, anyway? This wasn't his room. I had been to his house before. He had flags and posters on his wall. This place was blank, save for a single hook with a black robe on it. Where was the pink-blue-and-white flag, or the rainbow one? Where was the drawing of Slimer he bought from some guy on the side of the road?

I searched for his shoes (damn, did his feet stink), pulled them on without socks (he already had several blisters), and searched for a doorknob to get out of there.

I found myself in a hall, surrounded by beige walls and dozens of doorways. I tried the door across the hall first, pushed on the bland-colored wood and metal doorknob. Sure enough, there was my body with Janus inside it, still sleeping.

"Janus," I hissed. "Wake up, bitchboy."

He stirred a little, so I walked into the room and shook his (my) shoulder to wake him up. He opened his eyes groggily, then jumped back as he realized the implications of this situation. "Holy shit. Jake, what's going on?"

I shrugged. "You know the movie Freaky Friday?"

"Maybe. Which one? The 2018 one, the 1976 one, the--"

"The Lindsay Lohan one."

"Ah. A classic."

"Yeah, I know. My favorite fucking movie. Let's get out of here."

And we did. It was odd, seeing my body from outside of myself. It was jarring, recognizing how ugly I actually was. (That is an objective fact.) Janus was what the ladies would call a "short king", so I was looking at myself from an extremely unflattering angle. Was this really how everyone shorter than me (which, let's be honest, was nearly everyone I knew) saw me?

To keep me from thinking about that and feeling horrible about myself, I focused on finding a way out of this place. At the midpoint of the long, nearly-infinite hall of doors, there was a small common area with two chairs, a table between them, and a small organizer full of packets of salt and pamphlets that told us exactly where we were: The Commission on ExtraNormal Activity. A chill went down my spine as I realized that we were being researched and observed-- and that this was all horribly, horribly real.