Tuesday, November 4, 2003

The last thought that flashed through George Hatterly’s mind before he died was where Donna had hid the knife while they were having sex.

The knife sunk into his sternum up to the hilt and the life drained from his eyes.

And he blinked.

Because suddenly there, below him, a naked forty-year-old man was slumping backwards, a knife protruding from his chest. Donna was just taking her hand off the hilt, the murderous rage in her face giving way to, ironically, surprised horror. And, of course, the dying man was him.

He groaned inwardly. He looked down at himself, which was transparent and colored a sickly green, like a bad Hollywood special effect. He was a ghost.

How inconvenient.

More to come….