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Ghost Stories

Ghost Stories

Do Dead People go to Heaven?

By Dean Moriarty

Copyright 2016

Published by the crazy tea gang

Distributed by Snowflakesanonymous.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the ghost in the cupboard under the stairs

Also by Dean Moriarty:

Steampunk Zombies

Off the road

On the road

Advanced quantum metaphysics for beginners

Travelling solo

The spirit world

The dance of Zen

The dark night of the soul

God’s crazy parlour of sweet consent

Under a full moon

Bangkok, Thailand

A hole in the wind

Another book

Sleepless nights in paradise

The best of Moriarty

The daily wound

CQ calling, CQ calling


Miss Pretty was a quiet vegetarian and didn’t go out much for fear of being seen, but she had friends that came to visit and for whom she was grateful; they brought her things like chocolate or a small bottle of beer, and sometimes the occasional invitation that she would regretfully decline.

When she felt the pangs of loneliness coming on she would talk to her cat or the parrot she kept in a cage or listen to world radio in the kitchen over a large pot of tea, and sometimes a biscuit.

Every night at 7pm sharp she went to bed and listened to her favourite station on the wireless called: ‘Oh My Gaud It’s a Cracker-box’ to which she would fall asleep to before the end and the wireless would play all night, influencing her dreams until she woke up early in the morning and turned it off and began her day.

As of late she’d been wondering if dead people really did go to heaven, or whether they just got buried in the ground and that was it.

None of her friends knew the answer and said to her that maybe there was no way to really know but that it seemed likely that when you’re dead and gone you’re worm-bait and there’s nothing left to go anywhere but down in the ground, and being buried in a box under tons of earth didn’t seem like anyone’s idea of heaven.

But not to worry, for if it’s down under then you’ll not know anymore, and if it’s up to heaven then all is well, right? So either way there’s nothing to worry over.

Yet Miss Pretty wanted to know for herself, if for no other reason than her peace of mind, now, while she could have peace of mind and certainly before old age enfeebled her beyond all inquiry.

She wasn’t much into praying but she did begin asking questions out loud as she pottered about her room and so it shouldn’t have been such a surprise when she was answered out of the blue later that day as she was taking the air by the open window when a hardpan of deadlight crept in and said:

“Do I speak to you?”

Miss Pretty took fright then and screamed and set her chimes to ringing which caused the hardpan of deadlight to melt into the shadows to disappear leaving Miss Pretty staring in horror at all the shadows of her room where it might be hiding to spring out at her, at any moment.

The X-ray dog that was lurking about in the bushes of the garden stuck its head in the open window and said:

“What’re you screaming about?” but only succeeded in giving Miss Pretty another fright, and two frights in one day was quite enough.

Miss Pretty ran for the door in the clothes and shoes she was wearing and grabbed her suitcase in passing and began fumbling with the locks and bolts to get out, all the while with the fear of god in her that she would be caught by whatever was in the room behind her.

Out on the street, with eyes wild and moaning she hurried to escape and caused some concern to the pedestrians that were able to see her, but she was past and gone before they could quite realise, leaving them wondering if they really had seen her.

When she came to the train station she waited for the first train out of town and settled herself on a wooden seat in the empty station and hoped no one else would come along and disturb her.

After a while her head began to nod and before long, the ordeal which had worn her out drifted away as she dozed off to the hum of the trains travelling along the tracks to somewhere else.

The X-ray dog settled down near her to guard her against all comers and before long was asleep too.


“Ning-Ning,” said Miss Pretty the ghost of all she could be.

"Very- very," said the story opening up.

“Chop-chop,” said the river of time.

And then fourteen miles of river opened up under the story and took it far away; but it doesn’t matter where you are; if you’re nowhere, somewhere or anywhere, whether enlightenment comes or not you’ll find you’re really only where you are.

In the night of one-eye and two-step sure to please on Jagan-oo-dee beach where the story stood in patchouli sandals by the ocean of huge, it came to a pause all of a sudden when it ran out of fuel to carry on.

“Safety first,” called the golden virgin from her book of romance.

But the story didn’t want to be safe, it just wanted to move.

The wound was a full moon of incremental pathways of its choosing that took it closer to that clarity and away from the huge illusion that had surrounded it since forever.

But we do not pass Andromeda this way without singeing our toes and so when the night comes we ask to be forgiven and take our sack full of treasure home with us and in this way the dreaming becomes pure and then, when the singing tree asks for its tune back, we gladly gave it and all the better it is too for having been sung, and sung so well.

It was the ghost of all the old beliefs that said this from out of the deep dark pit where one day escaping, it came to fly on the ocean huge again and glad we were that it did so, for long it spent in that dark, bloody pit making moans that kept us awake.

“We are not amused by your secrecy,” said the X-ray dog to Miss pretty; “but we have ways to entice you to open up.”

Shivers Saturday in the divergent test and 2nd grade erection assistant to the shovels of the night was speaking topographically out the back of his mouthful of pie just then and almost caught what was being said, but the end of the line came and no more words were uttered in the scramble to exit the train.

Miss Pretty, the X-ray dog and the triage of four porters exited the train in a straight line dead at three in the afternoon of it all and was immediately assaulted by the baggage of noise and sights in the station; and if the angels had any messages, she’d not hear them.

“Get me out of here,” she threw back over her shoulder to the gang and then ran for the exit.

The gang grabbed the luggage and followed as best they could and were not heard about again until near the end of this story.

“Shade your eyes then and bend into it the broken burdens one by one until your head is too heavy and the doors close and you scream, and if the big mister comes to take you away then scream some more in the elastic echoes,” said the X-ray dog trying to frighten Miss pretty who was lost and would not say anything just then.

Ribald and taciturn were a pair of musketeers, and 30 shirts for an echo was a thief who had a big bucket of death and carried it around with him wherever he would go and scratched it on walls high and low grinning fair.

Oh what must we do with him in the diary of a diary where the big huge plankton grows?

Nothing; let him die his own death alone.

So down into the deep, oh the deep he was sown, to sit in the shadows of the grief he has known with the elastic echoes; and for this that can never be we have a machine that will turn you and turn you.

No-no don’t frown at the cow, you silly man you. You must have had cheese for breakfast, now look what you’ve done.

Oh what can we do with you?

And now the man with the grin is on the turn and here he comes, racing up the street on his rubber motorbike.

Run boys, we’re in trouble now as we walk down the backstreets of the life full of those elastic echoes.

And the wind of the raging loss shouts many encounters deep with the dream thief, and the other one we don’t talk about much, the sacrosanct bitch of loneliness.

“Where is this that is not that for a stranger in a strange land?

Dream me this beneath the diary sighs so I can turn you into concrete where your appetites confirm you live so small and die this every day until you’re dead and lace up this shoe with your arrogance.

Tie up that sign in the centre of your universe to make the small smaller and the hole deeper, and wind up that monkey and let it loose into the fray of your thinking.

And snip at the edges of all you hold dear until it turns away from you. But oh, to let us live here and now in the riches of all this and sing the praises…” moaned the X-ray dog.

“For the love of god give me an apple so I can eat it with my teeth,” said Miss Pretty to the stupid dog that wouldn’t stop talking.

But the goal is the journey and it calls like some whisper from another place so strange; stronger and stronger it calls until it is answered by Miss Pretty:

“What am I answering in this place too joined and sure or sailing blind,” said Miss Pretty all chatter-gun suddenly in the spiritualism pie.

“Something still alive in this one boys,” said the half-moon burbling in the heat.

“…and a bottle of your best pain killer to spend the night; and take that cigarette out of my face before I die,” said Miss Pretty to the kiosk boy while looking for a direction to head towards.

Miss Pretty didn’t care about what was being said, all she wanted was coffee without mildew; not a crime surely?


“Oh my aching bones,” moaned the backstreet hero from his grave and clutching his knees, hips, hands and feet all over until he was curled up into a ball of misery, aching and moaning.

“Get up,” said the moon, “You’ve work to do.”

“I’m too old,” he said, and rubbed his knee with his cracked jaw that clicked every time he moved it.

“It’s not over until you’re dead buried, and even then you can come back as a ghost,” said the assemblage dumpage hanging out of a rusty tin can discarded long ago into the dust that grew at its feet out of the grass roots that were once dreams that had tumbled out of the sky screaming into earth never to fly again, and none the wiser as to why but accepting it as told.

“I’m going back to sleep; I’m too late, by the length of my life to be a hero,” said the backstreet hero doing just that, leaving the story clueless and without a leg to stand on.


A subversive ghost with arms as big as the Titanic waddled into the story and set about her squashing shadows by the dozen until she was eventually overcome, and steam-punked she joined the tide of the converted and became another machine steaming about the place and gnashing with her mechanical teeth all that got in her way.

On passing a bakers an overly large baloney sandwich sailed out of the window into her mouth and gummed up the works which caused a deal of concern to the hard-pressed workers down below in the steam factory and made them think about going on strike.

When the witch of chips was informed there was a subversive in the ranks she sent the invisible ghost to sort it out.

The invisible ghost was an old soldier retired long ago and had set up shop these days as a hardpan of deadlight that never went out before dark and answered only to the witch of chips who had found him hungry and lost and wandering in a back alley crying with his head pressed to the ground, defeated and broken.

So she had press-ganged him into working for her and paid him in old boots with worn down rivets, and the occasional smack in the face to make him see things her way.

“If only I could remember my name,” he would say.

“You don’t need a name,” she would say and throw a pair of old boots at him. “Put these on, you’ve work to do.”

And grumbling he would put them on and smile through his missing teeth as she told him what she wanted, and nine tenths of the time he’d come back after doing the deadly deed like an old dog with no other home and then would wait for further instructions.

His arch-rival was the X-ray dog that would smell him coming from a mile away and would rush to bite at his heels and hound him back out of town, until the witch gave him a potion that made him invisible in the night but didn’t hide his smell which would make the X-ray dog run in circles trying to find the source, and not finding it would bark and bark and wake people up and have them opening their windows to shout: “shut up.”

One night someone threw a rubber alligator at the X-ray dog, and narrowly missing him by an inch it lay there in the road unmoving.

When the X-ray dog went to sniff at the rubber alligator it suddenly came alive as if moved by an invisible hand and began snapping its jaws to which the X-ray dog, tail between its legs ran for it pursued by maniacal laughter that came from nowhere.

One day, the witch of chips hopped on her broomstick and flew far away leaving the invisible ghost lost in this story.


And above the wind where we sleep there is the murmur of the tides turning…but tonight we have the ghost of all our yesterdays that plays with words and jumps up and down and goes: woo.

So, it is night and the ghost has an aversion to being fit and it has a voice. What else is there to know?

Perhaps there is more going on here…Can the ghost cry? Hmm.

Right, now then, you know ghosts are not real, right? I mean, they’re faster than snails, aren’t they?

Oh, enough about ghosts and snails…

The ego is a dump set in the hierarchical interstices of the brain that can’t transcend its own boundaries and as such seals its own fate.

In time it comes to know this but through fear and denial it chases its own tail in an illusory world it builds around itself.

The first step towards being egoless is to understand that the ego is no more than a passing fad in humanity’s evolution.

Until then the world is full of ghosts that come out of the wood-work at dawn to sharpen their spears then chase along the circular patterns of their run-ins.

OK, I think we’re getting somewhere; but is it worth knowing?

A saucer full of lobotomized mosquitoes were swimming listlessly towards the edge of all they knew and couldn’t say in the dungeon deep, where the shackled prisoner was shouting that he knew, but that no one could hear him. As luck would have it a little mouse crept into the prisoner’s cell and began a tap dance that calmed the prisoner down which enabled the story to be carried on.

A plain huge, big as an ordinary smile of love sang a song of the blue light of destiny as the boys from the up above of down below gnashed their teeth and scribbled all was well on their blackboards.

A big smile raised its head about here and said: “this is a strange story.”

The Gravesend gang who were all dead and buried long ago readily agreed that this was so; so let us proceed as if one life isn’t enough and two would be better.

“How many would you need anyway,” said the virgin ghost, “and why would joy smile like that, taller than the sun and wide awake as you are to say such in the scrambled face of eternity?”

The holy grocery machine in the oriental of time had time for thought and so thought about the usual stuff that came from nowhere: wouldn’t you like to go to all the places that you’re in love with, and wouldn’t you like to find yourself there? All aboard the love train then.

“Excuse me,” said the X-ray dog from next door.

“What is it?” said the baloney sandwich waiting to be eaten.

“Depression as a lemonade bowl full of goodies looking into the esoteric eyes of a long day can be a tad boring if you do it for too long,” said the X-ray dog from next door.

“I agree with you entirely,” said the excruciating agony putting in an appearance.

“Hoy!” said the X-ray dog, “we don’t allow that around here.”

The baloney sandwich looked on with a bemused expression that said it was not going to dance to any of this.

“I entirely agree with you,” echoed a voice from out of the blue.

The X-ray dog walked off to look for a bone, shaking its head at all the messages that were appearing from nowhere.

“We come by here so frequently to dash ourselves against these walls and you can see it in the eyes of pain of those who can’t find a way out or grow wings to fly.

Are we the experiments of the generations that came before and thought to make us as they would have us?

We are undoing all this and all their scheming has been for nothing…

But I am visible and they can see me in my nakedness where my tears talk so loud in the shivers that assail me down my face and in my heart.

So repeat after me: I am in joy and this is not my inheritance, but theirs, those sleepless ghosts that cry in the dark to be heard.

Death is not the end…we can still hear them…justice comes,” said the voice of the X-ray dog from next door with a bone in its mouth.

“The sex machine was in a quandary with her legs up to her ears, for how would she fit into what could never be said? But not to worry, the menu was written long ago and is not up for improvement and so now we know the difference between half a pound of what we don’t have and the longing to find the fire and jump in and be burnt to dust and then come back again as more than we can ever say,” said this about the sex machine trying to fit it into the story somehow.

“I guess that in the tertiary adjuncts of the mind where we wander lost and alone re-cycling the masks we wear into more durable beliefs and too where redemption is another polished word doing the rounds there are few doors and none we would choose to enter.

And unless we are blessed by that touch of grace that enters our hearts from the secret place we will wander without sanctuary or a place to rest and tasting only the meagre scraps of what we once thought into being.

How did one fall so low from such heights of privilege?

Perhaps in the unconscious dictations we let distract us there is that which listens and sets into motion the thoughts that get away from us and those that just come and go.

Maybe there’s a certain irony in this that if we could understand what is happening we could turn it around and have it work for us instead of against us; but how does one capture the quicksilver flowing of our wishes to bottle them, for as soon as we see them they are gone or turned to stone?

I do believe we are best answered by that inner voice, the one that has always been with us and in knowing that the outer questions become stepping stones over the little river of life, and 60 or 6 then becomes the same,” said an old drunk who had seen better days and was just then passing the garden.

“Ah, if only we could bottle it,” said Miss Pretty.

The garden was sniggering in the background and trying not to make a sound.

The baloney sandwich sighed softly as it went into the gardener’s mouth to disappear forever.

The X-ray dog and Miss pretty who were the bones of this story met the old drunk who was just passing by the garden gate.

“The end of the world is nigh,” he said and clung to the gate in desperation.

The plastic lateness of an abandoned hour moved inexorably to catch up to all that had been left behind and as it moved against time the jaws of a doomed rock chomped down on it and bit it in half so that there were then two pieces of eternity that couldn’t find their way home from there.

“Join the club,” said a silver dollar that had been lost for a hundred years, its voice moved by the doom of being in a storm drain for so long that it had lost all hope.

The hundred years that had grown up around the silver dollar groaned: “doom, doom,” it said.

And then the doom said: “I’m so tired of you.”

A packet of soup fell down into the drain from out of the pocket of a passerby and the groan shouted in glee: “dinner time.”

They all set upon it hungrily, all except the silver dollar that couldn’t do anything but watch as the soup was devoured.

The X-ray dog and Miss pretty together with the old drunk looked to see where all the noise was coming from but saw nothing out of the ordinary and so turned their attention to each other over the garden gate to slide this way and that as the dreaming tumbled them into the sea of their aloneness that crashed upon the shore of where they had all ended up.

The old drunk was a scow who couldn’t help himself anymore and had passed through the veils one after the other until there was nothing left but himself and a pair of rusty boots full of holes that couldn’t go any further.

The debt slave of their imputation was hanging about near the rubbish pile of all this and hoping to pinch something to take home and call it a trophy of worth; but the trophy of worth was a pile of dust on the mantel-piece in the front room of an idea that couldn’t go any further either.

“There are more laws than we can break and all of them were made to protect the privileged to the detriment of the rest of us,” said an ex-government agent swimming against the tide and wishing he’d stayed in bed.

“The government is a joke, and if you can’t see it then you are lost in their power; furthermore…” he said, but got no further, as the last of his strength ran out and he was washed out to sea.

A man with flowery fingers and one leg so short his pants rode up his leg to his knee had a fixation and was talking to it as he crossed the road to the other side.

“Oh bless us for what we collectively dream in the hive mind of humanity; we are all on this little planet called Earth and our fates are joined, even though sometimes we live on the island of doubt.”

The X-ray dog heard this from the man as he passed by and so before any more could be said it raised a red megaphone to its lips and spoke into it:

“Now hear this, now hear this, I hear what you are saying,” said the X-ray dog trying to find something to say through the red megaphone that was broken.

The megaphone squeaked and said: “If you can’t be here then be there.” And then it said no more.

The broken script of a seeming stray circus of exclamation points began to expound for want of a word to explain the concept that had no word of explanation and so became lost in all the other words that came along to fill the vacuum.

Along the seventh parallel of this blue moon of a thought that was cave diving under the waves in and out of the luxury of a good stroll in the park, surrounded by all the ghosts of old ideas the quartermaster could not be found to account for the exception that was trying to get in and say something.

Under the floorboards of all this, the crazy gang were holding down the concept that could explain everything. The concept was struggling mightily, but it was no use, there was no escape for it, at least not in this story, maybe the next one.

The X-ray dog and Miss pretty held hands as a rumble shook the ground. It was a rumble that had come all the way from the far reaches of an epiphany and was on a mission to devour everything from within.

Closer and closer rumbled the rumble until it could go no more and then without a backward glance the rumble turned into a sinkhole that swallowed everything down into its black depths that was so deep that not even a word could escape, except one burp to show its appreciation.

And the moral of this story is: there’s always something to appreciate if you look hard enough for it, and sometimes even when you don’t look.

Anyway, Gustav Strontium 99 had more ideas than could be counted by the ordinary man and he wanted to share them bad, but a suitcase full of money made an abrupt appearance falling out of the sky and so Gustav Strontium 99, being nobody’s fool picked it up and escaped all the way to the magical wood and turned into a tree.

After an ageless age of just being there, a wooden house sprang up next to the tree, so the tree knocked on the door and was let in by a nervous old doorman who showed it to a back room where it could belong without getting in anyone’s way.

The compressed urge of a tarpaper of love slid gently down into the depths of all this and wound itself around the tree’s roots where Harry Houdini was escaping from the after-life.

The secret agent called Joe with only one tooth left was hiding in the bushes of the garden by the wall of the wooden house and spying on the Sasquatch mouse that was playing in the cider of the sundown.

The faceless idiot was also hiding in the bushes over on the other side of the garden. His grin, which someone had stuck on with glue when he was a child, stared in complete happiness at the mouse playing.

The sun was going down fast and making deep shadows race across the ground.

At the back of the house, Arthur the electric demon-ghost was building his escape rocket to Mars and had got as far as securing a jar of dandelions for fuel, five rusty nuts and a hammer which was quite an achievement all things considered.

He was scratching his head and looking up and wondering which way Mars was and would he need to take a pair of sunglasses with him when he went.

It was dark out the back of the house so the moon shone bright as it came up above the trees.

“Maybe I should go to the moon instead,” said Arthur to himself and put the hammer he’d been holding down beside the rusty nuts and went inside for a cup of tea.

The secret agent yawned with nothing to report yet, and the faceless idiot lay down and went to sleep.

It was twilight in the front garden; the moon not yet raised enough to shine there and the mouse had gone inside to its nest and a large piece of dried cheese it had found in the kitchen the night before.

The holes of an encyclopaedia that was abandoned behind a rustic armchair leaked secrets that wanted to be found by anyone that was looking for them but nobody was looking just then, they all had their own ideas to follow for better or worse.

The secrets spread out around the room and hid in the shadows waiting to pounce when the time was right.

Gustav Strontium 99, in the middle of the room and who was now a tree was unmoving and silent and truth be told was fast asleep.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck a peculiar hour and said: “bless us for what we may dream until that time comes when we are but a memory of a memory of a memory.

The deadly duo, who were all but indifferent to all and sundry except themselves and were called the Doom-son twins were the cats whiskers of the opening doors of their mother’s eye for them, but she had passed on and so now all they had was each other.

They were so alike that it was as if they were talking to themselves, when they used to talk to each other that is; these days they never said a word anymore, just raised an eyebrow when the wind of an opposing thought raised their hackles, which was not often but more than a month of blue moons.

One day they were out riding a motorbike when they came upon the endless sinkhole and down they fell until they reached bottom which hit them unexpectedly.

After they picked themselves up and got back on the motorbike they rode around in circles hoping to find a way out in the pitch black but never did and turned into ghosts forever going in circles.

A clock on the tower of their dreaming had rusted away to an ecumenical shine somewhere at the back of the midnight quire and was making hand signals to Leonard Cohen to say the sixties were over and can we stop singing now.

In the downtime between this and any other tale that can be told, the dance of Zen gang can be seen rowing their boat along the horizon and singing: “row, row, row your boat…”

“And we will be taking the next bus to sunset with emergency hope,” said the revolution that was not getting off to a good start.

Government agents came then and fixed a manhole cover of doom over the sinkhole and abandoned everyone to their fate.

And now for the fishing frequencies of Miss pretty:


“And as to Medusa’s strange farewell: well, as I raced there with a frail manuscript from the ashes of failed splendour, a yellow sun set on a sea all milky white with mist swirling about and the sky shot molten over the black cliffs of nowhere.

I was astray on a thrown emotion of blind love and strange wild dreams crashing through echoes and words full of breath, finding too much credence and the value of light, just unbelievable.

I was not alone with that feeling driving me, I also had a bucket to fill with anything I could find there, and the sky like a gorgeous woman claimed my soul.

Then drunk on time, coat too big, shoes falling from my feet, couldn’t speak with all the crazy thoughts whirling in my head.

Trains were coming, life was passing, with wind-blown inspired colours staring at trees in life’s passage as people with sympathetic emotions and passions and magical identifications, laughed in streets full of intimacy that appeared from nowhere to tango.

Leaves fell strangely to the ground, the muddy ground, worm-full, filled with awe filled spirits impassioned in incredible desires and long lost hopes as the time flew by with imperfect thoughts in soporific endless nights full of timid tarts with cries of redemption in the haste of the rush.

The wolf prowled the desert of this careless moon inflicting hopeless dreams on sanity’s martyred trust, while playing on that song planted in my spirit, helping me through that rough ride of black as black gone astray in the rushes eating potatoes beside the road with the virgins with no background or moral principal to fall upon and a free entry to any circle of anyone’s desire.

All was a metaphor in that rush to a place that few could see. Drunks danced in that lost hour of abandon, happy people and sad people too, and loners and crazy people felt something happening then, something turning, a forgetting, an uprising of soul, of spirit where nothing matters, except music to walk to, to dance to, to move to.

Being alone with that moment totally, painting my shadow on life to see how it felt, and gloriously filling the night dancing free and throwing my soul to the sky, and always wishing for too much.

And my soul-mate, or nemesis in the cities of speed and moron depression with suicidal feelings and committed empty whisky bottles washed up into the forgetting, oh the forgetting.

If you find me on the edge of your razor blade with the bad cuts going deep counting the numbers we could never go, bless me and move on and don’t count the dirt or the evil or the tickets you leave behind… leave and don’t look back…and anyway, it’s just my way of leaving you…

…and then there was the root reboot that came un-slung to undress and moved between us to call: come this is the way between the sheets of it all…

I woke up dead and it was a Friday morning, what the hell, another week over

So I escaped from yesterday, there’d been so many of them…but another one would come too soon…

And riding an iron machine with rock and roll thunder, pushing eighty on a road screaming at the sparkling precious gate while stars burned bright in the sky, running fast from the demon full of dread hearing the full moon wolf again rushing to the oblivion, maybe in some crazy woman’s bed with shadows playing on the wall above as outside, someone would walk sleep hidden and another would prowl alleys for prey full of guilty reams not quite poetry, raving caught in a spider’s charcoal web, not simplicity but complicated with the minds cello tape stickiness.

And then I cried out: I must paint a picture, I must run, I must snarl, I must sleep.

Nights passed in green grass green madness, green dream while rain beat down on the roof top of fey with a thousand tin sticks sliding down the window panes making fuzzy edges through the glass.

And time, as it moved, like velvet, pushed the inexorable pointing finger to stab and transfix consciousness and left nothing but brutal realizations of mortality and life’s preciousness slipping away with a vain feeling of trying to catch up, with beautiful hands outstretched to grasp that allusive yearning to set it right.

But never catching up, always more, always something else in the dance of life; existence perplexing by its very nature my heart to expound by consciousness the answer.

But in the darkness a faltering belief has no wings to rise above tomorrow, and my beating breathless breast almost exploding with wonder in my scarecrow beggar’s body reaching for the fantastic rainbow and enchanted by the pure one who flowed with a perfect elegance walking with my heart; to the ocean then, the ocean of love, far from the prison.

I cradled my arms and rested my head and thought of my mystical soul-mate.

Somewhere I knew she was. I called out to her: are you far from here? Is it dark there? Oh, it is dark here and everything is falling, pulled by gravity relentless in its fact with a timeless feeling that is sometimes filled with a howling.

I walked past the kissing gate with feet so far below in the giant hugeness and my reflection fleetingly seen so surprising in its betrayal of emotion less than what I really wanted to feel.

So I hurried on from that unkind fate, from that unwanted insight so brutal in its truth, on past impotent speech in worlds of stone hard illusion and smiles of heavy art.

I passed ones disenchanted by the social circus while toiling in life’s vast cauldron, the wretches wrapped in Circe’s flattering arms.

And then passing the forlorn ground of life’s gay abandon so firmly cold in that ground there whispered the beguiling memory remembered from before I grew so old: the dancing in morning’s first light such a life-time ago.

So much forgotten; oh to feel light again and to continue in elegance and dignity far from the chilling thighs of irreversible doom.

Sometimes time is steel driven, disguised as hot sun in a place between the fool and lifeless movement waiting for the saint, the mystical warrior, the wanderer whose heart would be bursting like waves crashing stupendously upon the illimitable shore with thoughts like the resounding whitecaps or the hell spawned thunderous surf in the crashing angry ocean eager in its heavy swell and heaving depths to crush and smash and certainty of death.

I was driftwood thrown up on that shore. I was the moonstone gleam in the eye. I was the wolf from the nightmare. I was the stricken one by the witches spell, burnt at the stake, metamorphosed in the crystal ball, chased by the weird sisters and Medusa’s burlesque mutation. I was the rain kissed sigh of abandon, the echo of life pining away, until my soul will be claimed by the arms of Isis, to be free then, at last moved by Isis’s charms, by her soft fleshly delight.


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Ghost Stories

Miss Pretty was a quiet vegetarian and didn’t go out much for fear of being seen, but she had friends that came to visit and for whom she was grateful; they brought her things like chocolate or a small bottle of beer, and sometimes the occasional invitation that she would regretfully decline. When she felt the pangs of loneliness coming on she would talk to her cat or the parrot she kept in a cage or listen to world radio in the kitchen over a large pot of tea, and sometimes a biscuit. Every night at 7pm sharp she went to bed and listened to her favourite station on the wireless called: ‘Oh My Gaud It’s a Cracker-box’ to which she would fall asleep to before the end and the wireless would play all night, influencing her dreams until she woke up early in the morning and turned it off and began her day. As of late she’d been wondering if dead people really did go to heaven, or whether they just got buried in the ground and that was it.

  • ISBN: 9781370760510
  • Author: Dean Moriarty
  • Published: 2017-07-27 13:20:08
  • Words: 36295
Ghost Stories Ghost Stories