Objects Found in the Pockets of the Deceased

- One (1) wallet containing: $43.00 in mixed currency; expired Nebraska driver's license (picture is not the bearer); Sam's Club membership card; coupon for $0.50 discount on store-brand margarine.

- Three (3) U.S. quarters.

- One (1) U.S. penny displaying image of unknown female. Motto in archaic French, awaiting translation.

- Box of matches containing: three (3) matches, one and a half (1.5) dead crickets.

- Pocketknife, folded. Blade is warped from heat.

- One (1) soul of perfect sadness, weeping. The soul's name is Evelind, and she burns with a fire that cannot be extinguished. Tastes of cinnamon and ash.

- Two (2) latex condoms, unused.

Deadline

It had been happening for months.  The phone would ring just about two in the morning and, when Nismet picked it up, a raspy voice would say, "Tomorrow..." and hang up.  Nismet had started turning the ringer off when he went to bed.  If he hadn't been so tired when he got home from work, he wouldn't have forgotten to silence it.  But the Vickers account was coming due and everyone was pulling extra shifts. 

The phone startled him awake, right at two.  "I know," Nismet snapped into the headset.  "Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow."

"Yesterday," the voice croaked.

And disconnected.

Remants

The syrup falls in viscous droplets to the floor below. Two chairs, one on either side, are overturned. Pills lie in an untidy heap, spilled from a small orange bottle. The smell of food is fading.

On the mantelpiece, pictures: graduations, a wedding, increasing numbers of children. The oldest photographs are monochrome.

The door will open again in a few hours. Perhaps it will be with smiles and nervous chatter. Perhaps it will be only one pale face and grim silence. The house pauses, between states. The latter scene is inevitable. Perhaps this will be the time.

But perhaps not.

Parting the Veil

Cathy found her Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper in the back of the break-room refrigerator, crowded away by other lunches. She stretched to her limit and carefully threaded it through the maze of bottles and thermoses. She’d almost succeeded when she jostled someone’s paper sack. It fell to the floor with a hollow sound.

The bag was curiously light when she picked it up. She glanced around, and then opened the top to peer inside: a shaped Styrofoam insert. A prop. Why would someone need a prop lunch?

Cathy told herself the sudden chill was just the air conditioning kicking in.