When Constance Dawson died, no-one really noticed nor even batted an eyelid, for she had been ill a long time and also, a bitter old bitch.
When she came back a few days later, re-materialising on a Saturday morning in the middle of the town’s farmers market, the overall response had been a bit more energetic, some gasping, some downright fainting but most whipping phones from back pockets in the hope to catch the eerie sight.
Unfortunately for them, the cantankerous lady had no photographic integrity, even though she was very much there, as testified by a shaky, snotty woman stuttering that, yes, yes, most definitely felt her brush past her arm.
Constance didn’t look at anyone. She pinched her lips as she always did and walked through the gaping crowd, slithered between the cheese stall and the overpriced donut stand and made her way through the common and into the woods.
Once there, she walked up and down a few paths, obviously looking for something, leaves crunching under her ethereal feet, joggers stomping to a halt at her sight before sprinting the other way.
Finally, she stopped by a tree and smiled, rubbed moss with a clenched fist, brushed cobwebs and pressed her body against the trunk, feeling herself fading from the feet up.
She laid her lips on the carved heart, the bark around the initials scratching her pale mouth, leaving a small, bloodless wound.
Thank you, she murmured, as she dissolved into infinity.
B F Jones is French and lives in the UK. She has flash fiction and poetry in various UK and US online magazines. Her flash collection, Panic Attack, and poetry chapbook, Last Orders, will both be published by Close To The Bone late 2021. She tweets from @fijo_frenchie.