Missed Connections

Missed Connections

You die on a bright and sunny Tuesday near the start of November. The crisp autumn air has a sweet taste to it, and
it rattles out in warm puffs until you breathe no more. (It looks like you’re really trying, but air is for the living,
after all, and ghosts have no lungs with which to pull it in.)

And then you’re getting up, looking at the body that’s turning pale and waxy at your feet, and you must be wondering: what now? Everyone wonders what now before long. Fortunately for you, you’ve been murdered (imagine that– fortunately! Oh, I do crack me up) and so you have a natural first step: figure out whodunit, and then find a way to communicate that to those of us with bodies and larynxes.

Seven Scars

Seven Scars

“What are the colours of your body?” She asks me. As if she cannot see for herself what I am.

As if she cannot believe her eyes.

Join our mailing list to receive the latest posts and updates from our Acta.

You have Successfully Subscribed!