Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

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    I regain consciousness in a darkened storeroom. It’s piled high with bundles of instruction manuals, cases of empty green bottles, and the propeller from a small crop duster. My body is crumpled in the corner, bundled in musty beach towels. The
entire house is still. I listen to the clattering music of a thunderstorm pelting the roof and the wind whipping against the windows. Somewhere overhead I start to make out the soft sounds of a late-night colloquium. The voices of the oracles.
    Maybe we should have a viewing… But what if he’s not… We didn’t do anything the last time it happened… There could be a cool ceremony… Yeah, you might as well invite the cops… Maybe it’s easier to pitch him in the river… But what if he’s not… We could have roses everywhere and pennies on his eyes… But what about afterward… There’s always the garbage dump… But what if…
    I let out a series of soft moans. The voices overhead trail off into silence. Soon there’s the sound of tiptoed steps skulking down the hallway. Sara appears in the doorway with crossed arms and observes me. My forehead blazes. Every hair root on my head is a pinprick of pain. The hum of the song still rings in my ears. Eventually I find the words that have been circling my mind for most of the day. I wheeze: “Did the last person who got the blank sheet really die?”
    â€œThat’s right.” Sara’s speaking voice is unexpectedly harsh, a pinched nasal twang. “Not every prophecy comes true. But that one sure did.”
    I say: “Maybe there was a mistake this time.”
    I say: “How about another reading.”
    I say: “I don’t want to die.”
    Sara chews her lip. In the faint glow filtering through the window from some distant street lamp, her lovely features appear almost embryonic. It’s as if her body has cultivated an ability to erase traces of emotion, the way unprimed canvas absorbs paint. “I’ll give you a second reading,” she says. “But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”
    I nod, but she’s not finished.
    â€œAnd you leave tomorrow morning,” she says. “I never want
to see your sorry ass again. If there are even rumors that you’re lurking nearby, you’ll regret it.”
    My fevered mind traces Sara’s path back upstairs by the diminishing echo of her footfalls. She’s greeted by the tense murmurs of the other oracles. This time their conversation is more discrete, volleys of whispers discharged like soft fireworks. They all seem to be pacing at once. Several minutes pass before the trio arrives in the storage room, the assistant oracles ferrying candles to better light the proceedings. In her upturned palms, Sara cradles the red sugar bowl. She calls us to order by rattling the ceramic lid against the edges as if it were a bell.
    Sara tips the contents of the bowl onto the wooden floor. It’s a collection of neon yellow capsules. She pinches a pill between her thumb and forefinger. It’s embossed with a smiley face. “We use these to tell the fortunes,” she explains.
    â€œThey’re pretty mind-blowing,” one of the assistants adds.
    As Sara selects the pills, my fevered mind hits upon an idea. “If I took it, could I see my future?”
    Sara and her assistants exchange a look that’s more complicated than I am right now. “I guess so,” Sara says. “But it’s a bad idea. Most people can’t handle it.”
    â€œI want to take it.”
    The assistants shake their heads but Sara remains noncommittal. She squeezes her eyes shut and sucks in her cheeks. Finally she hands me the capsule. “There’s no guarantee you’ll get a different reading,” she says.
    I balance the smiling capsule in my sweaty hand. It seems to be winking. Patches of dye rub off the edges. A yellow stain