by Sarina Dorie
Like most autopsy conventions, the room smelled of formaldehyde and chloroform. And like most other events, a few of those corpses entered in the "Most Beautiful Corpse Contest" looked a little too beautiful to be dead. Even with the make-up to camouflage the unearthly beauty of luminescent skin, their eyes closed and hiding the shining eyes, and their perfect stillness, I knew a few weren't dead; they weren't alive either — they were undead. As head judge of the contest, not only was I in charge of selecting the most beautiful corpse, but also weeding out any vampires, fairies, and otherwise unnaturally beautiful immortals who were not true corpses. Then I saw him across the room, resting in his casket, his expression peaceful, arms crossed, not looking a day over twenty-nine when I'd last seen him two hundred years ago — Edmond Dumas, my ex-husband. "How bad do you want to win this contest?" I asked, raising the wooden stake.
Sarina Dorie currently lives in Sapporo, Japan, teaching English and belly dancing. In her free time she paints, writes, and enjoys going on dates with her pirate boyfriend, Jack Sparrows. (Well, that's what she tells her students anyway.) Her art website is here.