prompt: orbs, title: a distorted reality is now a necessity to be free in "the next big thing" flash fiction

Los Angeles has its ghosts, like anywhere, and like anywhere else, most sightings have practical explanation. Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of all hauntings are hoax or heating duct, delusion or drug-trip. Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of all UFOs, stealth-planes from Edwards Base or else the orbs in the photos only dust, getting hit just right by light. I say this in the context of conversations with a bigfoot named Frank, of course, so I’m either witness to that point-zero-zero-zero-one or just another madman with a broken heart, maybe both.

“The supernatural hides in plain sight,” Frank sighed, “that’s how we survive. If something looks miraculous, it’s humbug.” He’s right, there are more lies in non-fiction than fiction, though when done right, just lies of omission, time-compression or not knowing all sides but lies none the less. Fiction can only bear so much false witness while non-fiction holds infinite deceptive-potential.

Elliott Smith was a master of gorgeous sad songs, though most only know him from the Oscars where a track he wrote for Good Will Hunting was beaten by Celine Dion. Such a genius of woe he managed rock-stardom despite being ugly, a feat rare even then, impossible now. He was also stabbed to death in 2003, right around when my girlfriend-at-the-time and I moved to L.A. It was ruled suicide, though it seems difficult to stab yourself in your own chest twice so most believe it a jealous ex, his dealer collecting or both. He started off singing about tragic addicts and it being L.A. Elliott ended the same. So many become what they portrayed, is it some city’s curse or does art sometimes just work this way? Maybe both.

I think I saw Elliott’s ghost once, in Amoeba Records a couple blocks west of where Frank and I sat. There was a free set there by a band that I liked and free’s the best price, so I attended. They limited access to the second floor, though, so no one would monopolize it as a balcony, you had to actually be perusing the kids’ section upstairs, bouncers at both landings.

A man in a suitcoat walked down the staircase, I did a double-take at that resemblance and in a space between second and third takes, he vanished. Both bouncers I knew couldn’t let someone through so fast, let alone looking just like Elliott and wearing standard American burial clothes.

I later read a biography of his with an off-hand mention how near his deathday he’d talked about retiring to the Hudson Valley, having a kid and being one of those dads in the co-op meticulously studying each box of granola out of concern for his off-spring. Maybe this was his shade, going through the motions of vetting out his imaginary child’s music just the same?

If I could meet a sasquatch, why not a ghost as well? “I don’t know,” Frank sipped, “consider the odds of both multiplied, Mike, does anybody get that lucky twice?” I could only respond…

“Wouldn’t it be nice?”