Molly pushed her index finger against the tip of her nose, as if it were a button that could heighten the smell of pre-death. “I love this aroma of anticipation,” she said to Stanley, who was marinating in a tub of cold water.

Stanley held his elbows and shivered. When he spoke, his teeth clacked together. “I thought we were gonna have sex.”

“Way too early for that.” She opened her mouth and winked, as if he just might like what she had planned.

Molly had initially found out about Stanley when visiting her therapist friend. Upon snooping through some confidential files, she’d found the following note scribbled at the bottom of a page: Stanley is the most suicidal client I’ve ever had.

Molly had shared many of her quirky ideas with her therapist friend, including her philosophy on prescription birth control: It wasn’t foolproof; therefore, she wouldn’t use it. If you climbed into bed with a warm body, no matter what precautions you took, you could get pregnant.

Molly didn’t like babies. She found it annoying that they had so much life ahead of them. She preferred dead people, who had their whole life behind them.

“Here you go.” Molly pressed down on the top of a red click pen. Excitement shot through every vein in her body, and she could feel her blood lighten and percolate, as if a champagne cork had been pulled and the celebration was about to begin. She placed the pen in Stanley’s right hand—the hand she’d made him keep dry.

Stanley nodded and began to cry. His tears made her think of embalming chemicals leaking from a corpse; the foamy soap around his nipples reminded her of a lactating mother more than a lover that she was about to experience; his fingernails were long enough to pick a banjo.

“Remember, vertical not horizontal.” Upon her leaving the room, Molly pointed at a white pad of paper.

Her strategy for remaining barren stayed a secret, but her proclivity for dating suicidal men became a constant source of gossip and speculation. Afraid of picking up a charge of assisting suicide, she moved on to other types of men: chemo patients, death row inhabitants, and when desperate, she trolled the interstate for fresh traffic accidents.

Eventually, her pregnancy fears began to increase. What if there were a small amount of postmortem emission? Did such a thing exist? If sperm can live for 72 hours in open air, could it live for 72 hours inside a dead body?

Enough is enough, she decided. Molly started taking the pill, became a hospice nurse and only assisted men who, at same point in their life, had undergone a vasectomy.


# # #

When Molly The Necrophiliac Went On A Date With Suicide Stanley by Match Ryan
originally published May 14, 2008



Match Ryan holds the MFA in Writing from Spalding University. His fiction has been published in Word Riot, elimae, Pequin, Yellow Mama, Bewildering Stories, Clockwise Cat, Boston Literary Magazine, and Writers Notes. He is an editor for Best New Writing and a professor of English at Concordia University St. Paul.

Big Pulp credits:
When Molly The Necrophiliac Went On A Date With Suicide Stanley


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