My sister’s corpse reanimated on a Wednesday. Unwashed and grey, dressed in an amalgamation of clothing different relatives insisted she’d be buried in. I quickly assimilated her into her previous life; reacquired her Taurus, moved her into my spare room, and bought her pungent drugstore lotion to mask her overripe stench. I argued with the IRS about tax evasion in death as my sister’s corpse moaned, hobbling sock-footed around my living room.“I guess we’ll fill out your W-4,” I told her slack jawed face.She grunted, her stiff fingers scrabbling against each other, staring at her grave plot outside.
by Lauren Punales