Mortal Ghost

Mortal Ghost
Mortal Ghost Mortal Ghost
Mortal Ghost


L. Lee Lowe
L. Lee Lowe L. Lee Lowe
L. Lee Lowe

© L. Lee Lowe 2007

Cover design by L.M.Noonan

For Jake,
who also should have lived

I, born of flesh and ghost, was neither
A ghost nor man, but mortal ghost.
Dylan Thomas

1

Every night Jesse lies down to sleep with fire. Thi s time, screams and a dark chord
burning. This time, the beam falls before his hair ignites.

Jesse woke with a start, his heart thudding. It too k him a moment to remember where
he was. Something in his rucksack was digging into his cheek. Wincing, he shifted on
the piece of cardboard that was his mattress. The s olid blocks of stone at his back,
rough and lichen-crusted, made good sentries but po or bedfellows. His neck was sore
and kinked, his muscles cramped, and he had pins-an d-needles in the arm he’d been
lying on. He needed to pee.
The dream again. Fingering the handle of his knife, he looked about him. Just after dawn, and the air
smelled fresh and clean, with a dampness that hinte d at rain. His sleeping bag felt
clammy, and the grass along the riverbank glistened with dew. Water lapped close by, a
sound from his past, and he could hear the noisy ri verbirds scolding his sluggishness.
There was no help for it. Wait too long and somebod y would appear. Shaking off the
last whorls of sleep, he unzipped his sleeping bag and crept out. He stretched, then
made a few circles with his head, grimacing as the vertebrae in his neck rasped like the
sound of Mal crushing eggshells in his fist—one of his least offensive habits. A couple of
knee-bends till Jesse’s bladder protested. He glanc ed round once more, for he didn’t
like to leave his things unattended for even a mome nt—on the street, a moment’s
inattention could mean the difference between a mea l and hunger, between safety and a
vicious beating/mutilation/rape, between survival a nd annihilation.
He grabbed his rucksack, thrust his knife inside, a nd sidled barefoot down the
grassy riverbank until he came to an overgrown bush . After relieving himself, he knelt
at the river’s edge and rinsed his hands, then spla shed cold water into his face. Not
exactly clean, but it helped remove the film of sle ep and dross from the morning. Dis-
tastefully, he ran his wet fingers through his hair . He needed a good wash—failing a
long hot punishing shower then at least a swim in t he river. Later maybe—first he
would have to eat. He kneaded the skin above his wa istband; he’d lost weight again, he
supposed. Hunger never quite retracted its claws: o n the rare occasions when he had a
full belly, there was always the next meal to worry about.
It would be another long day.
From his rucksack he removed his battered water bot tle and trainers. After slaking
his thirst he capped the bottle and considered his next move. He always tried to find a
new kip each night, and if he