Kirsty Greenwood

A recently deceased woman meets “the one” in the afterlife waiting room, scoring a second chance at life (and love!) if she can find him on earth before ten days are up… If she wasn’t dead already, Delphie would be dying of embarrassment. Not only did she just die by choking on a microwaveable burger, but now she’s standing in her ‘shine like a star’ nightie in front of the hottest man she’s ever seen. And he’s smiling at her. As they start to chat, everything else becomes background noise. That is until someone comes running out of a door, yelling something about a huge mistake, and sends the dreamy stranger back down to earth. And here Delphie was thinking her luck might be different in the afterlife. When Delphie is offered a deal in which she can return to earth and reconnect with the mysterious stranger, she jumps at the opportunity to find her possible soulmate and a fresh start at life. But in a city of millions, Delphie is going to have to listen to her heart, learn to ask for help, and perhaps even see the magic in the life she’s leaving behind…

The Love of My Afterlife

Sophia

I immediately think of how the piles of bin bags on the street start to stink in the heat of the summer sun. How the rats become bold enough to emerge in the daylight and look you right in the eye. How the onslaught of tourists arriving into Paddington train station wheel their gigantic suitcases down my road at midnight, waking me up. I think of the chewy smog that feels unbearable when it’s warmed up in rush hour. Like pollution stew.

Merritt shrugs. “Who the fuck knows? They keep that shit under lock and key. But I have heard rumours of a place called Nevermore. Apparently acoustic song circles and making their own pea hummus are a big thing over there. Word on the street is that it’s a completely screen-free environment too. Not even televisions.”

“I know. And I heard Eric once mention a place called Clevermore, where they communicate entirely in Ancient Greek and sit exams for fun.”

And then there was the whole fifteen minutes in which Leanne absolutely lost her shit because I wasn’t keeping my eyelashes still enough for her to stick individual lashes onto my existing lashes and create a “cat’s-eye vibe.”

“Does it even matter?” I’d asked, to which she’d had to “step outside for some air.”

For a start I’m choking on a burger. Not even a premium or homemade burger but a cheap microwaveable one I grabbed from the corner shop after work. And then there are the clothes I’m wearing as I choke: pickle-green socks paired with the worst of all my nightwear—an over-washed, oversized atrocity with a cartoon of a grinning star above the slogan Honey, It’s Time to Sparkle and Shine! My TV is paused a quarter way through The Tinder Swindler, and my laptop is lit with one solitary tab: a Google page on which I have enquired, “Are microwaveable burgers real meat?”

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