There's one version of this story you haven't heard. It begins with a dead girl who isn't dead. Her name was, is, Lauren. Pressed blue, Oxford shirt. Clean nails. Long blonde hair and a firm grip on the promise of sadness. The opportunities of despair. You might have seen her. For a moment, before the end of everything, she was everywhere.

She turned back to the box, surprised to feel how right it felt, cradled so close to her heart, as though, if it were possible, the best thing would be to never open it, but to slide it under her skin and keep it there, warm and shut and safe.

Goosebumps covered her arms. The autumn air was cold, but not that cold. It was silly, Annabelle thought, to feel so connected to something so small, so strange. She held the box away from her and opened it slowly.

A whisper of smoke escaped. Maybe it was dust, or dried leaves. It smelled like rotten bananas.

Inside the box, there was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Or, at least, nothing that Annabelle could see, even after turning the box upside down and shaking it.
Annabelle did not generally curse much, beyond the occasional shit or crap, but, at this moment, she could not think of anything better to say than, Fuck you, box. She said this directly into the box.

A blue bird fell dead at her feet, a bright still thing among the fallen leaves

The woman's gloves reminded me of home, the sunset sky over Tampa Bay. My parents had lived as modern day pirates. They took me out on the boat with them sometimes, into the salt-burned wind, their big old sailor's coats billowing and their bright hair waxed and still. Every time they went over the side, my heart stopped. Every time. They were there, and then they were gone. It didn't matter how often I saw them go over. Or how often they climbed back. They plunged down into the dark, leaving my terror behind, and then they returned, their black hearts sated by the delicious flush of finding what others had lost: jewels, bones, ships, airplanes.

Something tried to open inside Katie's chest. Something like an old trunk unclasping, ready to be packed for adventure. It was stupid. The image. The feeling. She hardly knew the man. And despite his magical appearance, in fact, precisely because of his magical appearance, she distrusted him. Katie had lived long enough to know that however adventurous, believing and trusting in magic were doubtful foundations on which to build a life.

wherever i go, magic happens. lights blink on and off. cars take flight. televisions switch over to other time zones. sitcoms from the 50s. post-reality romances from the future. it’s not something i can control. it’s just something i have to live with. it probably has something to do with having died and come back to life. but that’s another story.

Her fingers tasted of ink and saltwater. She kept a jar of sand on her desk. She liked to dip her hand into the jar while she thought about whatever story she was working on. She loved the cool slip of her fingers between the grains. The memories it brought with it. Of waves. Of her back warmed by the sun. Of her muscles unknotting. The smell of seaweed and coconut suntan lotion.

Whatever wall blocked her melted away in the palm of her hands and the way forward always, eventually, revealed itself.