Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

September's Audition [SEPT]

When September died in April, the green of spring days was wet with Oregon rain, and she seemed to float amongst the moisture, dripping from leafen veins and collecting in a puddle on the ground until she could feel herself after the pain had gone and feeling returned. Or, some sort of simulation of feeling. She wasn't quite sure what it was and still that feeling had never been explained.

It was quiet, down that empty dirt road on that empty dirt day. Drip and trickle, wispy air. Her feet never touched the ground, and a good thing too. She'd lost her shoes, somehow. And then a sign. A literal wooden sign, reading, "You Are Not All Gone" amongst the peaceful twittering and scraping of birds and paws. It was odd to have so much calm - so much that it seemed forced - and yet September went along with it because she had no other option. Little had she known, then, that she'd died and gone on to some new plane.

Eight years later, and still she hadn't entirely learned to love her death. In her defense, it felt like only two.

Instead, Mrs. Greffon sat in a booth at a diner, shoulders bare and slumped toward the table in a fit of melancholy (brought on by philosophical thinking, as is usually the case). Fingers curled around the handle of a mug, and every so often she'd tighten the hold and raise it lazily to her lips where sizzling vanilla would flick her tongue. One benefit of the afterlife: your lipstick never smeared on the damn cup. So there was that.

After one particular sip, she leaned into her fist, elbow propped against the table. The pen in her other hand started tapping to the tune of some dated Louis Armstrong record playing from the jukebox. People really loved Louis Armstrong here. Michael Jackson, too, but the moonwalk just wasn't as great when everyone could float; that, and he'd sort of worn out the whole Thriller dance, in her opinion.

"Stop procrastinating, September." A dainty voice broke out brightly - her own - followed by a sigh. "Focus."

Down her head went, wisps of blonde falling over the brow. The page in the sketchbook was empty save for the outline of what was meant to be a sign, something unintentional; so many times she had to catch herself before drawing that damn "You Are Not All Gone" sign. It was meant to be an aesthetically pleasing tree. Tickled with frustration, she hurriedly flipped the utensil over and tried to erase.

It was a pen, though.

"Ugh," she said.

Slapping it onto the table, she turned away, chin pointing to the doorway as an attempt to distract herself from the screw-up. A muffled flash of light streaked across the threshold of the diner, and someone appeared there, dark eyes searching until they landed on her. Sudden expectation lifted her up and pushed shoulders back; she sat straight, expectantly, in wait for the man in his red velvet composer's suit to plop his properly dressed ass rather improperly into the opposing booth. That was how it typically went, anyways. Every day.

The man, with smooth dark features and plump smile, shook his arms out, laying one across the back of the seat and stretching the other to clip fingers around the handle of the mug. Her mug. "Hey-" but he'd already slurped up a mouthful, and she faltered. The old position reset itself. "You just love my backwash, don't you, Oscar?"

"Most definitely." Oscar took another heavy gulp before setting the mug down, both hands still wrapped about its base. "When are you finishing up? The bus is about to leave. And I did not interdimensionally transport myself here just to receive your curt rejection."

A quiet sigh, wearied smile. She wasn't actually tired, though. She lacked the capacity. And that was just a shame. Feeling tired hadn't been so bad, way back when. "Ah, yes. I love myself a good dead people's rave. They also call that the apocalypse, you know."