White. Ghosts. by Tonya Eberhard
She wanted to see ghosts. They ran off
after rehearsal to a downtown restaurant.
It was closed, closed and dark. In the cold,
they loitered around like a bunch of bums.
She insisted on seeing ghosts. So they sped
up an icy slope in a black car. As it jolted to
a stop, the high beams illuminated the
mausoleum. She wanted to change out of
her uniform into a skin-tight, hip-hugging top.
To be something sexy, not Catholic good.
Unbuttoning the winter coat, it was the
first time undressing in front of a boy. She
shivered in the white cotton undershirt, white as
their icy exhales. She put on sexy, but couldn’t be it.
Glancing out the window, she saw the shadow of a
man with a black dog going past. She screamed.
They sped down the hill to a sleazy gas station.
She never wanted to see ghosts again, but
he doubted her sanity. ‘You’re depressed,’ he said.
She turned and saw her reflection in the car window.
A face angular and pale, that of a ghost, staring back.
Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.