Salt

He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. An honest tombstone, if not a bit terse and macabre. Peter John Quistgard, Esq. Aug. 23, 1987-Aug. 23, 2008. He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. What bothered Morgan most was the grammar. Particularly the word barfight. It should be two, he thought. Bar fight. But now was not the time for linguistical musings. Now was the time to be serious. There was work to be done.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”


Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.