The Sisters of Nowhere

s i x : b i r d i e

Birdie marched down the crowded street of Nowhere. It was nearly seven and everyone was hurrying to get to work. There usually weren't many people in Nowhere, but it seemed that everyone from every corner of the town was on the sidewalks at seven o'clock.

Birdie had somehow, miraculously, finished her obituary pieces before she had to turn it in to the Post.

She took the steps to the office two at a time but stopped when she sensed a ghost nearby.

They were difficult to see in the daytime, even with her energy making them stronger. But it was the familiar static that crawled across her skin whenever she got close to a spirit that made her pause.

She squinted at the old rocking chair on the porch that was barely creaking back and forth. It could've easily been the wind brushing against it if Birdie didn't know any better.

"Miss Amelia, is that you?" Birdie asked.

The ghost who'd died by swallowing the newt apparently stood from the rocking chair, because it gave one hefty creak as she stood up before slowing to a stop.

"I was just thinking about that article..." a disembodied voice said, speaking into Birdie's mind instead of out loud. Nobody else could hear it except Birdie.

Amelia had proven to be a rather weak ghost. Most of them could be seen and even heard by everyone around them if they were given enough energy. But Amelia filled Birdie's mind with sighs, refusing to put any effort forth in becoming corporeal.

"I'm sorry, but I can't change it now," Birdie apologized. Ghosts were always so particular about their obituaries, which was why Birdie had to write them at home so as not to be disturbed in public.

"Yes, well..."

"I'll make sure to put the first copy in your hands--" Birdie winced, realizing that Amelia couldn't actually hold anything, given her weak state. "Er, I mean, somewhere you'll be able to find it."

"Very funny."

"Have a nice day, Miss Amelia."

Birdie went to unlock the door to the office but found that it had already been opened.

Odd, she thought. She was usually the first one there.

She pushed it open and a friendly bell tinkled overhead.

There was only room for four desks in the building, even though the space was larger than most facilities in Nowhere. This was because a printing press from the 1800s sat in the middle of the floor. It smelled like grease and ink and paper and if Birdie could make a candle out of it, she would make dozens of them.

Her soft smile immediately disappeared when a head looked up from one of the desks in the corner.

What was he doing here?

This "he" was called Sal Hickory. He was three years older than Birdie and owned the printing press which kept the Nowhere Post in business.

He was usually in New York, where he worked for the Times as a journalist. Birdie envied him but consoled herself in the fact that at least she didn't have a nose the size of a horseshoe like he did.

"Miss Penny! I was hoping to catch you before everyone else got here," he said, standing up (and up and up. He was very tall).

Birdie's mouth tightened.

She'd known Sal for several years now, ever since she started working for the Post after school and during the summer.

At first, she'd taken a fancy to him, big nose and all. He'd seemed so scholarly and artistic and honest. But honest people, she learned, were sometimes the most dishonest people on the planet.