Séance in a Grad School Apartment

I buy an old television, the kind with an ass that takes up three square feet, the kind with a face that goes gray in confusion when I power it on.

 A plague doctor from 1347 calls in with a warning about masks —  stuff it with powder made from viper’s flesh instead of cinnamon and nutmeg, even though we’d all prefer the scent of pumpkin spice.

 Then my mother’s voice comes through scrambled but still shrill in the static. You’ve gained weight, she says, look at those meaty thighs. Eat nothing but cabbage soup until you feel you’re about to faint.

 And after Eleanor Roosevelt appears in a technicolor pink hat. I want to set the record (not so) straight —  Amelia and I fucked while flying over Baltimore in April of ‘33.

 When the back of the TV starts to smoke, I thank the spirits for their time and wish them safe travels back to heaven or hell.

After all, the best way to stop a haunting besides holy water is good manners.

Lauren Michelle Finkle is an emerging writer from San Jose, California, where she resides with her dog Annie. Her work has appeared in Westwind, Bluing the Blade, and From Whispers to Roars, and is forthcoming in West Trade Review. Lauren received her BA in English and creative writing at the University of California, Los Angeles.