Morgan LaScribe is reporting live from Marfa Stewart’s ramshackle shack in the heart of the Nevada desert. A rusty kettle hisses over a pile of coal as LaScribe hunches in a tiny chair at a child’s table, her microphone readied to record comments from the Ison zombie sister of the first lady of holiday whip cracking.
‘Bring out your inner child. Bring out your ‘trounced upon by society and people like my sister,’ inner artist to make a stunning winter scene. Simply glue dried pasta to a board and paint.’
LaScribe looks at the camera and begins: “Last month the appearance of the Ison comet in our solar system created a temporal shift. This hiccup in time brought countless numbers of the recently deceased back to life. Today, we’re speaking with Marfa Stewart. She’s going to tell us a little about herself and give us a few great holiday decorating tips.”
LaScribe turns her attention to Marfa.
“So I understand that in life—your before life—you suffered at the hands of your sister.”
Marfa nods and gestures wildly enough to send one of her fingers flying across the room. “She was always the perfect one,” she says. “We were conjoined, you know. We were separated at birth, but she knew about me. Her TV show, and her magazine Living grew in popularity so that she could not risk the stigma of our conjoined-ness to enter her star-studded world.”
Marfa walks across the room to retrieve her finger. She’s short, standing less than four-foot tall. She snaps the finger back into place, and shakes her hand.
“So tell me,” LaScribe wriggles around in the child’s chair, trying to get comfortable. “How do you feel?”
Marfa smiles, “Well it’s great to be back—you know, living. I’m eager to catch up on Twitter and experience a true renaissance. I did shrink a bit while I was, well—dead. And parts of me keep falling off.” She reaches up just as her right ear slides down her neck. Pushing it back in place she misses by an inch or two making it uneven with the other ear.
Marfa lifts the kettle and pours into a chalice which she hands to LaScribe.
LaScribe places the cup against her lips. She cringes as the thick, black substance steams down her throat. Coughing slightly, she continues, “so tell me about your latest project.”
“Well Morgan, I am starting my own magazine filled with uberfabu decorating ideas. My magazine has a green slant, you know, recycling, re-gifting and making art out of found objects. So unlike my evil twin diva sister who wants to destroy the planet and kill all of us with her unrealistic expectations, I want to bring earth love to my readers. Hey, I am the one who understands about being dead, you know. The name of my magazine is…” She leans close to LaScribe in a BFF-let-me-tell-you-a-secret-kind-of-way, Re-Living!
LaScribe leans back and scratches her forehead as the stench from the once-dead, (no amount of perfume is going to cover this up), crawls through her nose.
“Cool name.” LaScribes eyes are watering. “What teasers would you like to share with broad readers right now?”
Martha eagerly lurches to her workbench and catches her jaw as it falls into a pile of art supplies.
After clicking her jaw back into her mouth she begins, “here we have the best recycled garland for your Christmas tree. See, Coors cans are beautiful in the afterlife-just like me. Coors-Light and Coors regular beer cans make perfect silver and gold decorations. Place them on a long string, alternating colors—subtle and sparkly.”
LaScribe’s voice cracks but she continues, “And how about this pile of pasta, what magic do you create with macaroni and glue?”
Marfa looks right into the camera. Her smile is lopsided, but coy.
“Morgan, bring out your inner child. Bring out your ‘trounced upon by society and people like my sister,’ inner artist to make a stunning winter scene. Simply glue dried pasta to a board and paint.”
LaScribe dives into her next question. “I know that those clever little gift bags are environmentally friendly as long as we reuse them over and over. How do I extend the life of my gift bags?”
“Well Morgan, with a good roll of Duck Tape you can keep that bag alive forever—just like me! Cut out silhouettes of Christmas icons and adhere.” Marfa holds up a bag that was once red and green. The tiny figures seem arranged to look as if Santa is beating up his reindeer, and a rumble has ensued involving several angry elves and an archangel or two.
Staggering and coughing, LaScribed manages, “Thank you for sharing your story, and I wish you all the best with Re-Living!”
As Marfa busies herself with the Duck Tape and reattaching her nose, LaScribe pours the contents of her cup into a dead cactus plant, and excuses herself.
The sun sinks as Marfa waves goodbye, catching her head as it slips off her neck. She closes the door.