“Where’s Donald?” demanded the ethereal presence of the woman known as Ethel in her mortal life.
“How should we know?” Stu replied from behind the cello. “It’s not like we can text him, being that we’re spirits.”
“He’s probably haunting his children again,” sighed Ellie at the microphone. “He’s into the literary tropes.”
“This band is nothing without percussion,” moaned Ethel, hovering over the keyboard. “Donald needs to be here.”
“Would you say,” joked Ellie, “that our band’s just a ghost of itself without him?”
Not wanting to hear any more bad puns, Ethel’s spirit fled the empty stage.
Feels good to have my first Friday Fictioneers story of the year posted.