Sometimes the darkness and I burn in the lights.
The ghost says it is sorry. It says, “I cannot control these lights. This part of the garden does not belong to me.”
We walk by giant plantcakes. Green leaves and red flowers sit atop them like frosting, and my stomach rumbles.
The darkness crackles. The ghost asks, “What did your friend say?”
I tell the ghost that the darkness said that it’s okay about the lights, that they don’t really hurt all that much. But of course that’s not what the darkness actually said. I try to not think about what it actually said, because I think that maybe the ghost can hear my thoughts too.
My stomach rumbles again.
The ghost says, “You can’t eat the plantcakes. Well, I mean, I guess you could, but then you would have to answer to Her.”
The ghost’s stomach rumbles too. I’m not sure where it keeps its stomach, but I definitely hear the rumble.
The ghost says, “I really am not going to eat you. If I did, I would have to answer to Her too.”
The ghost says, “I do want to, though. Quite a bit. I mean, no offense, but you look very tasty and I haven’t eaten anything in hundreds of years. The void in you would taste like death, but well, maybe I could just eat around it.”