Wings

“If I had wings, I could fly thru the air,” said Harold the Ghost.

“Oh hogwash,” replied Miles, twitching his tail with venom. “You’re a wingless ghost old boy, and last time you tried to fly, you ended up in a puddle of bones. Stop this nonsense.”

“Yes, I know Miles,” Harold said, patting the top of his head. “I’m philosophizing. You know, to be or not to be kind of a thing. I thought you’d like to have a nice interaction with me.”

“Harold, I think you mean interpersonal communication. Could you speak with less of a whine? It really gets on my nerves. And holding an intelligent conversation with you would be, well, like having a conversation with a cat. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Please, don’t cry.”

Harold snuffled. Blood dripped from the holes in his skull that would have been his eyes and his nostrils. “You’d rather talk to a cat. I know; I’m such a bore. That’s what Lilith always said.”

Miles stood up on his hind feet, and handed Harold a pink handkerchief. “There, there Harold. Of course I’d rather talk to you. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re jolly good friends. Blow your nose, Harold.”

Harold blew his nose, causing a volcano or red snot to erupt from his nostrils.
“I think I’m going to bleed to death,” Harold said. “I’m feeling dizzy.”

Miles sighed, long and deep, while counting silently to ten. “You are dead, Harold. Shall we practice materializing? Turn those red eyes into a merry blue, hmm?”

“I don’t think I can practice, today. I feel, well, sad.”

“What about that dreadful, I mean, provocative and interesting, poem you’ve been working so diligently on. I’d love to hear another read thru.”

“Really,” said Harold.  “I finished another stanza, and I think it’s ready to go into your computer thing so we can print it out.”

Oh cats, thought Miles. He’s tricked me into helping him with another poem.