The writer sticks his hand out of the dirt. The dying dandelion in his fist screams a sound that can only be described as yellow. The hand grows an arm and the arm grows a man. This man is no ordinary undead corpse. He has unfinished business in his hometown.
Rigor mortis makes pedaling his rusty bicycle a challenge. He doesn’t mind the time it will take to two-wheel it crosscountry from the West Coast to the Midwest. He has nowhere else to be besides back in the grave. He doesn’t like it down there. He’s been afraid of the dark ever since he was a little boy.
The miracle of his rebirth bites down on his brain with metallic teeth. It’s painful for an organ to be stagnant for so long and to suddenly move one hundred miles a minute in the space inside of his skull. He could ride his bike to Mexico, Arizona, Paris, or Mars. He stops in a crossroad trying to keep up with his own wanderlust thoughts. He remembers his own advice when living; “Don’t think!” Death drips off of him as he pedals faster down the road.
He knows to go home. He doesn’t know what waits for him there. As soon as he hits city limits, his bike shatters. The two tires ride away down into the deep ravine. The September wind blows his cobwebbed hair. He breathes in and out, realizing he’s been holding his breath the whole trip.
Walking down the tree-lined streets he ran through as a child, he sees it all; the statue riding a rocket outside of the library. Across the street, a brewery serves his stories in a glass. Finally he sees the new museum. His name is on it. He cries, “I’m alive! I’m alive!”