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Barbarella writes. And writes. And writes. And that's what she's been doing for as long as she can remember. One day, she hopes to have writer-groupies.

The Resurrection Shuffle

by
Barbara Welton

DON'T DO ANYTHING BUT BREATHE

That's how easy it was at first. I was so happy breathing. I was happy with the darkness. I wasn't aware of anything being wrong or amiss. It was only when shapes and colours and worse than that, people, started evolving out of the comforting blackness that I began to scream and swear and rip the flesh of my hands open on my surroundings.

I was in the ground. At least, that's where I thought I was at first. There was no reason for me to think I was anywhere else. Everything was black as pitch; there were no sounds other than those I made myself - my breath, my voice, my boots kicking against anything they could find, my fingernails scraping and splintering over the surface of whatever it was that encased me. The world I was contained in smelt like the earth, like a garden shed that's been closed up for too long over winter.

If I pressed upwards too hard, might six feet of soil descend upon me? Had I been buried? I shouted as loud as I could, my voice bouncing back at me far too quickly and loudly, making it clear the "ceiling" of my world was mere inches from my nose. No sound came back to me after the ring of my shout died out.

They could've told I wasn't dead, couldn't they? Surely we don't make mistakes like that in this day and age? I tried to remember how I might've come to be here in the darkness. Tried to recall if I'd been ill or involved in some horrific transport accident. Nothing. I couldn't think.

Hang on. Don't do anything but breathe. Stop your brain for a few moments and enjoy the comfort of the blackness.

Okay.

How long had I been here? I didn't feel very hungry - that gave me a little indication, surely? I tried to remember how long I could normally go before my stomach began its most demanding rumbles. Cool, I couldn't have been here any longer than six hours, then. I managed a smile at the dark.

A short quiz focussed my thoughts and gave me my bearings. Name? Dan Chiswick. Age? Almost twenty. Occupation? Disappointment to my parents. Address? Friends' couches. Height? Six feet, three inches. Weight? No idea, but every mother I've ever met has expressed a wish to feed me up. Hair? Dark brown and probably in desperate need of a wash. Do I smoke? Yes. Do I drink? And how! Do I use drugs? Yes, but I've never paid for any. Can I drive? Yes. Do I have a car? No, man, I have THE car. Can I sing? According to the last girl I had a shower with, I can. Am I straight? Not entirely. Education? Disappointment to my parents. Age I lost my virginity? Seventeen and a half. Favourite drink? Dark beer. Favourite food? Green curry. Favourite book? Wuthering Heights (disappointment to my father).

I dozed for an untold period of time, lulled to sleep by the mundanities of my own personal inventory. I awoke with a rock hard cock in my pants but couldn't remember what I'd been dreaming about. I ran my hands down my body and enjoyed the feel of the bulge in my jeans. Hey! Jeans? If I'd been buried, wouldn't they have bullied and pummelled me into a suit? My hands grabbed hastily at the rest of my garments. I was wearing a t-shirt and my leather jacket! My favourite dragon belt buckle was secure on my studded belt, and my heavy duty combat boots were what I had been kicking at my surrounds with earlier. My parents would have touched their toes for the Pope rather than allow me to be buried in clothes I actually liked.

So this wasn't my coffin. I hadn't been interred after a service I couldn't have cared less about and would have declared a steaming pile of hypocritical crap if I'd actually been there to witness it. There wouldn't have been tears shed for me. This wasn't my grave.

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