What if the freshly-dead refused to drop as gravity intended — and instead, simply floated away? In my latest short story, “Exodus of the Dead,” I answer this question, envisioning a world where crime scenes are harder to discern without a victim and nobody fights over the airplane window seat. Written in the magical realist tradition of Italo Calvino and David Eagleman, the story is playful yet serious, fantastic but deeply human. Here’s an excerpt:
Death is tragic enough without having to get the dead down from the ceiling. No one knew why it happened, but starting one late-summer afternoon, the freshly-dead refused to drop as gravity intended. As though the last breath was wind in their sails, steadily they ascended like balloons, disappearing into the clouds. All across the world, patients lifted from their hospital beds and families came home to loved ones bumping the ceiling fan.
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