Wednesday 19 December 2012

S is for Schlaf-feuer

I looked down at the couch on which I rested and saw that I had created a dent in the cushion. Suddenly I had mass. My head swam with images of the things I could do; I could touch things, pick them up, manipulate them. I was immortal (or so I guess, I mean can anyone other than James Bond die twice?) and I could do things. I could become the coolest superhero on the planet; I could be as reckless as Iron Man, and probably ten-times drunker as I assumed alcohol wouldn’t affect me). This was awesome!
Then I thought back to the way Jonathan had said it. He had sounded like he was a doctor telling me I had six weeks to live. I thought through what he must have meant: I was now visible. I could start a riot the second I left Jonathan’s house. A floating, honest-to-God spirit! They’d dump John Edwards in a second to get their hands on me. And what could I tell them? That they had secret basements full of emotion and that apart from that I had no more idea about the afterlife than them? I’m sure that wouldn’t impress anyone and it might make some try to kill me properly.
‘Can I die?’ I asked Jonathan.
‘That is a matter on which I cannot comment. I have only heard of one other realest spirit before and I know not where they are now. I shall try to contact one of their friends, though.’
Jonathan hovered above his chair and began flashing colours again as he contacted the Never-roam. He wasn’t gone long, though.
‘It’s the strangest thing but I can’t get a hold of them.’
‘Maybe they’re out.’ I replied distractedly.
‘Honey, they’re the Never-roam, remember.’ Wisp reminded me.
‘Oh yeah. Maybe …’
‘There can be no maybe. If she is uncontactable then something is very wrong. I shall try someone else.’
Jonathan flashed colours again and this time he found a spirit quickly. He seemed to be concentrating harder than before, as though he had to shout to be heard and the other voice was equally weak. I imagined radio static over their conversation.
‘I see.’ Jonathan said, slipping out of the talk. ‘I have some bad news,’ he addressed us as his colour returned to normal, ‘we believe that we have fallen victim to what the Germans call Schlaf-feuer — sleep-fire.’

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