It was only after resurrecting his wife that Sam discovered how truly unappreciative some people can be.
“What are you talking about? Have you even considered how I’ve been feeling?” Sam asked her, tapping his free hand against his bare chest.
A large ruby-and-gold pendant drifted lazily upon a patch of velvet chest hair between two soft man-boobs. The “Golden Valley” he liked to call it. It stood out boldly against the sun-fearing albino of his skin.
“Please!” Beth retorted with an exasperated eye roll. “Spare me your sensitive side! You know what, ex-husband, caveman, necromancer, whatever, you’re are all the same – only think about yourselves until you find something your silly little raise-the-dead stick can’t fix.”
“Okay, first off, this is the Dark Staff of Häal, okay?” Sam raised the slender pine rod in the air. “And B, you can’t generalize about all necromancers, or men, for that matter. Just because I cheated on you when you were living, and again, it was an accident, does not mean I didn’t care about you.”
“Sam, you cheated on me twice with my own sister!”
Sam held up an index finger for clarity.
“Okay, identical twin sister! It makes a difference, and both times it was at night. Not sure if you’re aware, but it’s dark at night!”
“And how can you possibly say you loved me, Sam? You had me killed!”
“The Dark Lord made me an offer! Besides, we were having issues.”
“What about Benson?”
“God, I miss that dog.”
“Sam!”
“You know what? You’d still be in your casket it weren’t for me, so how about we call it good and get to the point?”
Beth narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.
Sam’s posture sunk while he waited for something from her. “Well?”
“What do I get out of it?”
“Umm, hellooo! Is another shot at life not enough?”
“Jesus, does the stick have all the sense?! Because there’s clearly none in your head.”
Beth gestured in irritation at the wooden staff to which Sam was staunchly gripping. It stood over him by a foot, its white polished tip shimmering with a collection of glistening precious stones.
Sam blinked a long, painful blink.
“Again, it’s a staff.”
“Whatever! We’re not getting anywhere, so why don’t you just return me to Death’s door and let’s be done with this!”
“Oooh, yeah, about that…”
Sam’s lips widened in an apologetic smile.
“What?” Beth’s face winced in confusion. “Are you serious?! You can bring the dead back to life, but you can’t return them? Why?!”
“Because! I’m only a First Level! That’s a totally different staff. Look, it’s hard to explain, so can we just -”
Beth rolled her eyes, “A different staff?”
Sam’s belly jiggled wildly as he waved the staff and his free hand in wild irritation. “What’s the big deal?! It’s breakfast! That’s it! Some eggs, you know? Some bacon! Maybe toast, a splash of coffee and bam! Done! What’s so hard about that!?”
“Don’t yell at me, Sam. I’m not in the mood.”
Her hand shot forth, holding up an index finger.
“Come on, Beth! Breakfast, that’s it! Breakfast!”
She eyed him and tilted her head.
“And I’ll take you shoe shopping on Saturday. I hear Macy’s is having a SAAALE!”
She squinted and smirked.
“And you won’t have me killed again?”
Sam gasped, his eyes widened in surprise.
“Whaaat? Are you kidding me? I never wanted you dead in the first place, kitten. That was just a one-time deal.” He tilted the staff and nudged her in the shoulder. “Besides, Nate says I get one complimentary raising per year. And guess who hit his year mark last Wednesday!?”
Sam spread his arms, tilted his head, and smiled wide.
“Nate?”
“Yeah, the Dark Lord. The title carries a lot of weight, though, you know? He told us ‘Nate’’s fine, helps take the edge off.”
Beth shook her head and allowed her arms to swing back to her sides.
“Oh, put your stick down.”
Sam dropped his arms and cocked his head.
“Seriously?”
“Stick, staff, whatever! Just put it down!”
Sam turned and leaned the staff against the living room’s faded blue La-Z-Boy.
“Now sit down before I change my mind.”
Beth turned and stomped out of the room with another exasperated sigh.
Not more than twenty minutes had passed and Beth returned with a decorated tray of sights and smells. Sam, still standing, eyed the tray and began licking his lips.
She walked past him and set the tray down on a flimsy coffee table beside the recliner and pointed at each dish, teasing him with several more seconds of patience.
“Cheesy scrambled eggs, three Swedish crêpes, hash browns, four slices of toast, coffee, more than a dash, by the way, and OJ, just the way you like it, mild pulp.”
“My God, it’s good to have you back in the kitchen,” Sam said without looking up.
“And don’t ask me why, but how about I go out and get the paper from the mailbox for you? You know? A little something to make your morning more complete, I guess.”
Sam looked up at her, speechless.
Beth smiled. “Just eat, you big goof.” When she got to the doorway she stopped. “And, just out of curiosity, why the no-shirt thing?”
“Keeps the Spirit Balls in flux,” he said in a spurt of words. “Connects me to the Earth.” He slapped his ballooning gut twice without turning to her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
She shook her head, turned, and walked out of the room.
He heard the front door close and shoved the first Swedish crêpe into his face. The lingonberry butter rolled over his tongue and his eyelids sunk in a curtain of ecstasy. He couldn’t have made a better choice for his yearly bonus raising. He lifted the tray and positioned himself in front of his faded velvet throne, the intermixing of scents almost making him dizzy.
With a plop, Sam gave into the soft cushion of the chair, setting the tray upon the half-moon of his belly’s corpulent distention. The second Swedish crêpe was already halfway in his mouth when he heard the crack of wood on the floor.
A dazzle of light burst from behind the recliner and flooded the room. A thick white mist encircled him and a bold voice rocked the frame of the room.
“YOUR SUMMONING IS HEARD.”
Shit, Sam thought, taking two more swallows of the crêpe. He looked down at his heaping fork and hesitated. Just one more bite, he thought.
“THE BODY COMES FORTH!”
“Wait, what?! Not yet! I just sat down. I didn’t -”
Sam held his tray up and made to sit up. His chin curled into his ballooning stomach and he fell back into the recliner. With momentum on the second try, he rolled forth and stood, setting the tray back on the coffee table and recovering the fallen staff from behind the recliner. A crash startled him and he turned back around, wielding the staff in a low fighting stance.
Before him, his living room floor was painted in his still-steaming breakfast.
“LET IT BE RISEN!”
Sam raised his arms in frustration and spun in several circles, raising his voice as he turned.
“What!? Shit! Let what be risen? The Dark Staff can only summon within a 50-foot diameter! This is my house, Nate! There’s nothing buried anywhere near he—”
Sam stopped, his irritation draped with a combination of curiosity and apology. And from the front of the house came a commotion of screams and growls.
With almost masterful reactive speed, Sam crouched and snatched the last Swedish crêpe from the breakfast wreckage and quick-hobbled to the window.
“Sam!”
Beth ran toward the house, her rage mixed with hysteria and terror, and Sam understood.
Behind her, the mammoth body of a half-decomposed canine galloped with an almost playful ease. Rough strips of dried flesh flapped across wide spaces of bone as it ran. Its jawbone, half-exposed, lolled as it trotted after Beth.
Sam’s eyes were wide and he chewed his crêpe with a slow distracted pleasure, watching the spectacle he had caused. Sam unlocked the latches and thrust the window up in time to hear another of Beth’s screams.
“I hate you, Sam! Benson, NO! NO! Saaaaam!”
It was too late when she reached the front door. Benson was already airborne, his dried hungry jaws catching her in the neck as she attempted one last guttural scream.
“Get ‘er, boy! Get ‘er!”
Sam screamed from behind the open window.
Beth’s body propelled into the front door and flailed for several seconds on the ground before it stilled.
Benson’s tail, malformed and decrepit, wagged in swift cracked jerks as it continued to gnaw at her body.
And from the window, while the tartness of the lingonberry butter still swished around in his mouth, Sam gave a deep self-contented sigh.
God, I’ve missed that dog.
L.P. Stribling is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and has been writing both fiction and poetry since 2009. His strongest interests are in linguistics, dark fantasy, and comedy. He is constantly searching for the perfect mingling of all three. He and his wife live in New York. His website is located at http://wwwl.lpstribling.wordpress.com/
Tags: flash fiction, L.P. Stribling