The Ghosts of New York
by Jennifer Pelland
She remembered flailing at the air, as if she could somehow sink her nails into it and cling there until help arrived. She remembered the crash and pop of the people who were landing mere seconds before her. She remembered a fleeting moment of shame when her dress blew up over her head, exposing her underwear to the crowds gathered below. She remembered the burst of shit and piss as she crashed through the awning just a split second before she hit–
The only people who find clarity in certain death are those who somehow cheat it, those who can reflect back upon the experience and use it to goad them into living a better life.
For the ghosts, there is only terror.
After her first fall, she stood by the roadkill smear that was her body, not recognizing what she was seeing at first, until two more bodies rained down from above, splattering on pavement with a crash of glass and a sickening splat.
Then she knew.
Then the North Tower collapsed.
All around her, people screamed and ran while she stood helplessly by the wreckage of her body. Debris flew through her, burying her corpse, leaving the ghost of her untouched.
About the Author
About the Narrator
Rashida J. Smith is a writer, and the editor of the webzine Giganotosaurus. She has been a carriage driver, a zookeeper’s assistant, riding instructor, and a yoga teacher. Currently, she wrangles a small person, noodles around on the cello and makes photos. Lots of folks call her Eddie. It’s a LONG story.