Collision by Michael Czyzniejewski

Light my candles in a daze ‘cause I’ve found God.

—Nirvana, “Lithium”

The hardest part about being a ghost is getting over the sex, as in watching the living go at it. It’s ironic because when you first die, you swear to yourself—if we’re decent at all—that you’re not going to do it, not going to violate people like that. It’s easy at first. You have other things to worry about: seeing your family react; attending your funeral; watching everyone mourn; rooting for them to move on; hoping silently they don’t. On a personal level, you’re coping with what you can and can’t do anymore: you can’t eat; you don’t have to work; you can’t sleep; your bills have disappeared; your notion of the afterlife was a lie; you can’t feel; you can’t have sex, not with anyone, including yourself.

Eventually, you get past all that. Decency is thrown aside. Every ghost caves. Maybe it’s boredom. Perhaps curiosity. But it starts with nudity, with peeping. Once you realize you can see who you want naked, you can’t help yourself. You visit your wife. Your husband. Your exes. Your neighbors. Your teachers. The mail carrier. The checkout lady from the grocery story. That new partner at work. Movie stars. Rock stars. Strangers you follow home. Everyone showers. Everyone changes clothes. The living don’t know you’re spying, so what’s the harm? And when you realize that ghosts used to watch you, stare at you, mouth agape, inches from your body, sometimes less, you even start to feel entitled. Why would you not do this?

Eventually, and predictably, nudity doesn’t cut it. You can only look at so many boobs, so many butts, so much genitalia before you want to raise the stakes. That’s when you search for people actually doing it. They’re so easy to find. Biology, after all. Overpopulation. Lust. Perversion. Hotels and motels are the hottest spots, followed by college dorms and neighboring apartment complexes. Bar parking lots. Office supply closets. Walmarts after hours.

After you watch and watch and watch, anyone doing anything anywhere, you start to get picky. You want someone easy on the eyes. Your fantasy girl. Your fantasy boy. Someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone better at it than you ever were, doing things you never dreamed. You spend that quality time with them, and when they’re done, when they part ways or fall asleep or turn on the TV, you move on to the next house, the next room, the next parked car. You might have ten, twenty prime couples you visit on a regular basis. Dozens sometimes. You can watch all day, then all night, then all day again. Time no longer applies to you, to your new obsession.

The living don’t know this, but the average fuck features around a dozen spectators, so many more dead than living at this point. Any given encounter is surrounded by ghosts, ghosts floating, ghosts staring, ghosts cheering and clapping. A talented couple can garner a humongous following and each of their sessions becomes a main-event prize fight, bedlam in the bedroom.

The real key, for experienced watchers, is finding someone new, to you and to each other. You discover someone attractive and skilled, and horny, and you keep them to yourself, just you and the participants together in that room. A bit of privacy. You can get lucky, keep someone like that for weeks, even months. You develop a bond. You feel like you’re a part of it. It’s beautiful. But eventually, word gets out—word always gets out—some loud-mouth ghost stumbling onto the scene, and before you know it, your favorite couple is suddenly a sold-out show, ghosts packed in, elbow to elbow, cheek to cheek. Nothing ruins voyeurism like other voyeurs. You move on. It’s sad, like a breakup, but then you find someone else; you always find someone else.

Some ghosts never get over the fucking, the watching. Maybe it speaks to our basest instincts. Maybe it’s what we’re meant for, the real meaning of life. Or maybe it’s watching the living really living, the most alive they can be. That’s the general consensus. It’s not like there’s studies, but most ghosts I talk to? Nothing makes them feel more like they’re alive again than watching people fuck, watching them climax. I believe it’s transitive. For that brief moment, I feel what the living feel, feel it’s happening to me. Maybe that’s what cumming is: The brink of life. The brink of death. The collision of one against the other.

I am among those who haven’t gotten tired of it. Not yet. I’ve met ghosts who have. They say they’ve had their fill. They feel guilty, invasive. They say there’s other things to the afterlife. They want to watch a sunrises. They watch sunsets. They stare at mountaintops and explore deep jungles and plunge to the bottom of oceans. They wait for flowers to bloom, for babies to be born. They attend concerts and plays; they watch movies and read books. Some learn languages. Most visit their kids and grandkids and great grandkids, etc., as much as they can stand it. Ghosts stargaze. They hunt mushrooms. They bird.

I hope I can get there one day. I’ve been dead for seventy-nine years and it hasn’t lost its luster, watching people, making that connection. I think that’s longer than for most ghosts. I’ve wondered if I have a problem. I ask that of myself when I see other ghosts staring at me, in someone’s bedroom. It’s in their eyes, when they see my clothes, figure out when I’m from: Haven’t you moved on, old timer? It’s probably my imagination.In reality, no one’s judging me. No one cares. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Or for whom. Maybe it’s the first step in moving on. Or it could be me embracing who I’ve become. Either way, at least I’ve taken a little break here. What time is it, anyway? There’s somewhere I have to be.

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MICHEAL CZYZNIEJEWSKI — Michael is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has received a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.

Art by COURTNEY BURTON — Courtney is an artist, writer, and musician living in Springfield, Missouri. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming on SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, Ghost Parachute, and Moon City Review.