"Beautiful. Beautiful. Just beautiful."
  In death, Sandra's soul found repose as a dance critic. Wayward souls
love dance, so it kept her quite busy. And most days were a parade of
delights.
  "Lovely, just perfect," she said to a solo dragonfly. "I hope to see
more from you." The dragonfly dipped its wings in thanks and departed,
buzzing. Sandra motioned for her next visitor.

  Perpetual mists shroud Limbo, keeping audiences small and giving keen-
eyed individuals like Sandra great power. Even with eternity to spare,
nobody wants to wait in line for a bad show.

  One day, two recent arrivals showed Sandra their new duet. Their first
work had been typical of the barely-dead: full of pain and loss and shock; 
forgettable, as that pain itself always, unbelievably, is. She gave them
harsh words in private and softer ones in public, hoping for growth.
  The new duet was sexual and anxious. As its vivid technique unfolded,
Sandra felt the crowd grow larger at its edges, most of the newcomers
probably unable to see anything. By the end it almost seemed to Sandra
that she remembered the smell of skin.
  They wouldn't need her help to spread the word, she realized as she
heard cheers begin, but she would do her part.

  The fabulous duet stayed on Sandra's mind unbidden for weeks. Other
flecks of sense memory arrived in its wake, irritating her with mumbled
recollection. Cotton over breast. The taste of summer water. How bricks
smell. Eventually, she found that she always woke from sleep with the
momentary sense of having a ring around one finger. Usually the third,
sometimes the fourth.
  She found herself giving more bad reviews.

    Third day of the new month: another private show, this time humans and
birds working together on a delicate, academic piece. Thinking they deser-
ved her subtlest critique, Sandra was deep in concentration when fireworks
erupted in the middle distance, almost too far away to see. She excused
herself awkwardly and ran as fast as she could.
  From closer up, the firework shells could be seen to explode in an array
of complex shapes, mostly, tantalizingly, facelike. When she reached the
site Sandra realized there was more: a river of sounds (from where?) and a
smell like lavender and meat. At the center were her dancers, flailing
about in joy and regret, smiling in the way nobody smiles in Limbo.
  With a jolt she remembered what the ring on her finger had been for. And
a name came to her--a last name? A place?
  Unseen by the delirious performers, she began dancing. It hurt, like
forgiving someone or waking up too early. She slowed down: a little.

written for brookeinportland while standing up 7/20/08

I used to write notes after these stories, to apologize for particular mistakes or expose what I thought were the interesting parts of the improvising I had done. But reading those notes now is a lot more painful than reading a bad piece of improv writing! So: These pieces are all written on a manual typewriter, off the top of my head, in less time than I would like to take (90 minutes at most, except in the few cases that extend past a single page), without revision. They are therefore often lumpy and usually contain at least one awful mistake. But many of them would like to be your friend. Deal?

- everything is by Aaron Mandel; please ask first if you're about to steal something -

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