Although this post won’t be a word list, it will include a few words John Yeoman liked.

John Yeoman was a friend and mentor to writers for many years. We e-mailed back and forth several times in April, 2016, about a possible update to his site, Writers’ Village, which would enable him to change headers for better sharing via social media. He assured me, “I wouldn’t know what a header tag was if it bit me.”

In another e-mail, he said, “My head hurts! Just remember that you’re talking to a techno-idiot. … BTW: It just occurs to me that we haven’t run a guest post from you lately. … Any hot topics you’d like to explore from the writing world?”

For someone professing to be a techno-idiot, he did well, even starting a new site in 2015, StoryPenPal.

Back to the point.

I was honored to post at Writers’ Village on May 6, 2016. John’s last blog entry and tweets were dated July 1.

Mid-July, I wondered why his Facebook page wasn’t updating. I had grown accustomed to seeing new gems from John pop up on my timeline.

I visited his page and found the following message: “It is with sadness that I pass on the news that John Yeoman passed away peacefully this month (July). His email account is no longer being regularly monitored, and the website and content will no longer be updated.”

A later message stated, “Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone for their kind words. John, or Nick as he was known to his non-writer friends, passed much sooner than originally anticipated after his initial diagnosis. A prognosis of 6 months to a year became weeks, and then days, in a very short space of time.”

John, a consummate professional, never mentioned his illness during our e-mail correspondence, and he responded to several reader questions on his blog at the beginning of July.

Words could never convey the shock and disbelief I experienced when I heard of his passing. I pondered for weeks about writing a blog post. What could I say that would honor him and his wry wit?

In his memory, I decided to post this story from Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories, along with John’s comments. Because those comments contain a spoiler, they will appear after the story.

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You can kill the body but not the spirit. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

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I don’t know which was wetter in that graveyard: the woman’s tears or the pouring rain.

Lightning flashed between the dark clouds beyond the dripping tombstone, illuminating the marker’s final reminder of a departed soul. The rapidly ensuing thunderclap exploded like a bomb in my ears.

As the woman pounded on the freshly laid sod, her form seemed to waver and flicker in the deluge. I wiped my eyes, hoping it would help me see her better. A persistent feeling that I’d met her before poked at my sensibilities. But her memory eluded me, just on the edge of my awareness.

I’m Gardi Gespenst, of Geist Investigations Inc. I’m a paranormal investigator. Some people call me a ghost hunter. I search for poltergeists, ghosts, ghouls, or whatever else you might want to call them.

I wracked my brain for a clue to her identity as I pressed forward and stood next to her. Long, dark hair clung to her face. A heart-shaped freckle nestled just below her left ear lobe. Bottomless eyes the color of the sapphire in my signet ring swam in limpid pools.

Ah yes, the woman behind the counter at the gas station. Gardi, you’ve done it again! But why didn’t you recognize her straightaway?

I couldn’t recall seeing an announcement anywhere. Keeping track of death notices and obits is part of my job, and I’d had a crush on the woman for as long as I could remember. I usually filled up with gas when I was only down a quarter of a tank. I had begun to hope she felt the same way about me. Sometimes I’m pretty dense, but I know when a woman’s trying to flirt.

Strange. I can’t remember her name.

I imagined her on a picnic blanket, reaching out to accept an engagement ring with a tiny diamond that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.

Ah, the vagaries of life and death. Why didn’t I tell her how I felt? I might have been able to save her.

The image of her on the picnic blanket returned.

Warbling birds in the trees. The fragrance of freshly mown grass intermingled with a sweet perfume wafting from her long neck. Gazing into her happy eyes as she accepted the marriage proposal.

Unease enveloped me. The lightning flashes and rumbling of thunder faded from my consciousness. Minutiae. Unimportant. My mind became a whirl of images and thoughts and memories, all leading to … her.

I realized that my imaginings were real.

Even though I knew it was impossible to make contact, I fixated on the woman and reached out to console her. Of course, my hand went right through her shoulder. It always does with ghosts.

Gardi, you silly dolt.

Then my attention strayed to the tombstone, and I recoiled.

Gardi Gespenst
1971 – 2015
Gone to Glory

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John’s comments: “What can I say? This is excellent. I especially like the way you mislead the reader … and then twist our preconceptions again, with the message on the tombstone.”

Rest in peace, NR. Your influence on me and the writing world will be felt for many years to come.

We all miss you.

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