Here’s an except from Jeff Jackson’s Mira Corpora

“Ignore the dead body on the floor. It’s just earning a living. The partygoers step over it as they ferry rounds of drinks from the kitchen to the den. Everyone is careful not to disturb the body’s composure. It lies face-down in a puddle created by the unplugged refrigerator. Its skinny arms are bound behind its back with black bandanas. The body is mine, technically speaking. But let’s not get hung up on unnecessary details.

The body is in its typical corpse pose. One of them, anyway. Its white T-shirt is soaked and ideally transparent. Its mouth emits discreet bubbles in the puddled water. Its eyes are open but unmoving. They’re perfectly dull, which takes more skill than you might imagine. The body isn’t paying much attention to the party. I’m there but I’m not there, which is as close as I can come to describing the situation without devolving into metaphysics.

The body’s eyes idly register a new shape swimming in front of them. A middle-aged woman with bushy chestnut curls and tiny sparrow hands. She stares intently at the body. She occasionally bends low to study its nonexistent expression. There is eye contact, of a sort. The body can’t tell what the woman wants. Her gaze has an unfocused intensity that would be hard to read even in the best of circumstances.

A clock chimes in the next room. Corpse time is over. Too bad. It’s always been one of the body’s favorite tasks….”

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