I've Been Deader Read Online Free Page B

Journal, Sept 2
     
What a day to start keeping a journal. On top of everything else, mother's dog died last night. Mom's been widowed for almost four years. Dad was killed in a bizarre landscaping accident that I don't feel comfortable writing about just now. I'm not usually around for Mom. I was just visiting her when all the weird stuff started happening. I was supposed to fly back to Chicago last night, but those plans are on hold for the moment. Sparky was Mom's only real companion for the last three years.
 
After finding Dad in the compost heap, mother was devastated. We all thought she'd follow him in a matter of weeks. Not necessarily ending up in the compost heap, but you know what I mean - just a joke between us girls, dear diary. When I'm a published writer I'll have to come back to you and do some serious editing!
 
Anyway, I guess you could say Sparky was a kind of Christmas miracle. That scrappy little puppy saved Mom's life just by being there for her on those lonely nights. If you're not a dog person, you won't understand, but a dog can be just like a person for some people. Maybe better than a person; certainly better than a lot of people I've come across recently, if you can call them people.
 
Anyway, again last night Mom was making a batch of smores for St. Jude's kitchen of hope, like she does every time this year. I guess she figures if the homeless and starving can make it through another year, they deserve a few cookies. Only last night ... last night ...
 
The thing is, Mom's getting on in years and she doesn't see as well as she used to. But she's so vain about her eyes, especially the glass one. Always cleaning it, she is, and showing it off to the Jehovah's Witnesses when they come to call. Usually that's enough to convince them to peddle their Jesus elsewhere. So she didn't notice the roll of Brawny paper towels close to the stove. But she noticed when it caught fire.
 
She panicked and just stood there watching it burn. She could have burned the whole house down if it wasn't for Sparky. That beautiful, crazy dog threw itself on the small fire, smothering it before it got out of control. I know the cynics will say he was just going for the smores. But you don't know Sparky. That dog was all heart, and a lot of fur. Flammable fur.
 
Anyway, by the time we put Sparky out, it was too late. The smores were cold and Sparky was overcooked. I think it was too much for Mom. She took to her bed and won't get up. She just lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. So now I'm stuck in Jersey with a semi-catatonic mother upstairs, no television - long story - and a batch of ruined smores. If she's not more responsive in the morning I may have to take her to a hospital.
 
That's all for now, Journal.
 
Ttyl
     
    As proof that either God or the Devil appreciates irony, George Potts turned on Monday morning, just in time for work.
    George was Comfort's sole mailman and until Sunday morning, its oldest living resident. He was balder than bald on the old dome, scarecrow thin like most octogenarians, and had a habit of scratching and prodding various body parts whenever the mood struck him, again like most octogenarians. In his sole concession to vanity, he sported the largest snow-white mustache the good people of Comfort had ever seen. Annie, the hostess at the Broadway Diner, enjoyed teasing him about it.
    "If you want to see the Tuesday special, I think there's still some buried in there somewhere," she'd say when he walked in every Friday evening for the blue plate. George would always shoot back, "If you want a mustache ride, all you gotta do is ask, darling." Good times.
    The last day of George's life started off just about as good as a Sunday could get. It was a bright sunny morning and he had big plans for his one day off. His son and the not-so-grand grandson canceled their weekly visit and George would be lying if he said he was disappointed. Most days he enjoyed blessed few moments of quiet, and