> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.ceteramagazine.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Pete - URL: https://www.ceteramagazine.com/pete/ - Published: 2026-08-27T13:05:49.000Z - Updated: 2026-08-27T22:29:35.000Z - Description: After her husband dies, a widow starts meeting the versions of him who lost her instead. - Author: Jeremy Morris - Tags: speculative fiction, literary fiction, Literary speculative fiction, multiverse fiction ![audio-thumbnail](https://storage.ghost.io/c/f7/b3/f7b3d002-68ca-4de9-9010-1d89bc125161/content/media/2026/08/pete_short_thumb.png) Pete 0:00 /1131.6043083900227 1× > ***Content warning: This story contains strong language and depictions of cancer, death, and explicit sexual content.*** It was a glioblastoma, they said. And it was so fast that she never got to learn the details. With some cancers, you could really dine out on the pain. Make a meal of the despair. But glio was quick. A magic trick. A disappearing act. And now there was no point in knowing anything. He was dead. Everyone told her how sorry they were. Like it was somehow their fault. Like they hadn’t tried hard enough. Like they hadn’t believed in him, and one day he’d just vanished. Like a kid’s peekaboo. Her Aunt Maimsy, the weird one who always wore felt, told her to watch out for the *quiet*. “No one’s ever really prepared for being alone by *themselves*,” Maimsy said. “What do *you* think about when you’re alone, Aunt Maimsy?” Emma asked. Maimsy licked her lips, and laughed like an old crow. Cigarettes and felt made bad friends. After all the casseroles and sympathy cards and awkward hugs. After all the black dresses, and fancy hats. And the funeral “party” that felt more like a country club get-together. After picking out his last suit (it had to be a *good* suit) and the flower arrangements and the tombstone (selected like it was a used car). It, all of it, was only and totally and completely quiet. Terrible. Like that Beatles song, the one where they sang about how “She was on her own.” Except John and Paul harmonized the shit out of that song. “The lyric is actually ‘We’re on our way home,’” Tabitha, her sister, said. “That’s why they *both* sing it.” Of course it was. She broke down and cried into her sister’s wool sweater. Wool and tears made bad friends. She would hear his voice at strange times and in strange places. While taking a piss. And the cat would come in. It sounded like Pete was going out to get some bread. “Wait, wait!” she’d shout. And she’d try to pull up her underwear as she ran to the front door. Which was, of course, locked. There was no one. Only the cat staring at her wet thighs. “Fucking cat,” she’d say. Then, she’d have to walk back down the hall to wash her hands. A postcard from Bermuda turned up. That’s where they went on their honeymoon. It just said: “Miss you babe.” The stamp was weird. She immediately threw it out. Creepy, ghost, shit. One night, late, she had a whole conversation with him. Lucid dreaming, perhaps. They talked about all the people they knew in college. How silly and serious they were. “Remember how you used to always wear corduroy!” she said. “God, you’d think I was the professor,” he said. He could still make her laugh. It had been a while. But she never told anyone about *this* hangout. She didn’t want them to think that she was crazy. She’d smell him early in the morning. After she’d ground the beans. It was faint. *Norwegian Moss* was his chosen fragrance. It was unmistakably there. To recapture his woodsy essence, she’d smell random things: pillows, t-shirts, old socks. *Norwegian Moss* was an old, discontinued brand of *Speed Stick*. Very 70s. Inherited from his father. It made him smell like a wet creek. It’s weird what marketers thought masculinity should smell like. Now, she hung out in obsessive Japanese forums to find the last tubes of it on Earth. After the fifth such smelling incident, she tossed most of his old clothes. She didn’t like how the cat judged her when she smelled his sweats. But she kept the one T-shirt with the NASA logo—just to be safe. Bless her heart, Maimsy, tossing back her third Legion Hall G&T, told her that he would eventually fade from her life. “You’ll see him less and less,” she said, “And at first you’ll feel rotten, but this is a *good* thing. Maybe not *good* as in goodness, but good as in less bad.” At that moment, Emma tried hard to not judge Aunt Maimsy and her Church of the Perpetually Lit Parliament and the Glass of the Beefeater. Its consecration of the ritual of the Scratch Lotto and its canonization of the Princess Diana. Pete would always be part of her life. But then one day, she woke up, and she didn’t smell him. She got dressed, drank her coffee, went about her day and didn’t think of him once. She couldn’t remember his voice. Or his stupid farts. Or his dumb laugh. The first time she realized that it had happened, she punished herself with a box of cookies and a home reno show where yuppies flipped houses after a hurricane. But then the memory wipe happened more and more. He *did* fade. Now, he only visited her on special occasions. He had become a shadow. It was a *less bad* thing. --- She’d found a new life. She took up yoga. She pretended to like hip hop. She got a dog—who mostly got along with the cat. It wasn’t perfect. But, she found a measure of peace. Then, one night, after work, at her corner bodega, she bought bread, eggs and yogurt. Why not? She embraced the convenience. And she liked how the bearded cashier always wished her “a *nice* night.” He wore a pewter Santa Muerte necklace. What was *his* life journey before he got to this spot and gave her change for a container of Oikos? She turned around. And there he was. Pete. She almost ran into him. But he still looked cool. “Hi Emma, it’s good to see you,” he said. She dropped the yogurt. But she saved the eggs. “How in the sweet George Harrison fuck?” she blurted. He wasn’t a shadow. He was real. He was younger. Like when they first met. In his bad boy phase. There was of course the leather coat and the motorcycle. Yeah, Pete was once *that* dude. Then he became a lawyer. But she didn’t care. She held Bad Boy Pete and she kissed him. Like he would disappear. Then she stopped. “You taste different,” she said. And he held her *strange*. Like it was a mirror version of his old hug. Where were her arms supposed to go? And his smell was wrong. It wasn’t just the cheap French cigarettes. Her husband hadn’t smoked in years. This man’s sweat was sweet. Like he’d lived on the *Big Rock Candy Mountain*. What made her think of that song? Still. Still. She fucked his brains out. It’d been a while. Afterwards, she stared at the ceiling. She just wanted to hold that feeling in. But, mostly, she wanted a snack. Cookies? *God, they thought they’d be young forever.*They didn’t know any better. They got old. Bad Boy was a young lover. He didn’t know what she liked. He tried too hard. He was too enthusiastic. Still, he made sure that she reached orgasm. Like a gentleman caller. But when he put his hand on her breasts, she just laughed. “What? Did I do something wrong?” he asked. It was like he was sizing up a grapefruit. He didn’t know. The leather and gasoline were only a facade. He was a sweet, idiot boy. He also wasn’t great at the intimacy part. “I thought you liked…” he said. “No,” she snorted, “you’re what? Twenty-two and… uh, dumb?” “I’m trying…” he said. She laughed louder. “No, no, you’re just… Is this like your first time…” she said. She tried to be serious. She put on her serious face, like in college. But she still found him hilarious. “With an older woman?” she said. He took a deep breath. “You left me like six months ago,” he said. “*Excuse me*,” she said. “You left me six months ago, and I haven’t been able to get you out of my head,” he said. *She lived in his head*, she thought. She bit her lip. “Wow,” she finally said. What else was there to say? She felt embarrassed for him. “What’s your name?” she said. “I’m Pete,” he said. It wasn’t funny anymore. “Pete’s dead,” she said. This person smelled sweet. Like gasoline and jawbreakers. Pete, her husband, smelled like a Norwegian smokehouse. “What if I told you that I’m from… another version,” he said. “Like a Marvel movie,” she said. “More like Star Trek,” he said. “OK, crazy pants,” she said as she got off the bed and put her sweats on. “Where I come from, you left, and I missed you and you died in a plane crash,” he said. “Sorry, *what*?” she said. She needed to take a piss. “There was a flock of geese…” he said. He stood next to her bedroom door. He didn’t get the hint. “OK, well, Buh Bye,” she said. “Time to go.” She had to underline that one. He gathered up his leather coat and distressed jeans and vintage Metallica shirt. “I didn’t mean to…” he trailed off. She nodded to the exit. He left. “Boys,” she said. She was alone again. With a *New York* magazine. And it was quiet. “Huh,” she finally said to herself. She put on an old record. New Order. And made some granola. Who needs to know the details? She added in the yogurt. And the berries. It was a magic trick after all. She’d had fun. She missed fun. --- Then, life went on. Work. Pets. Bills to pay. It didn’t get any more real than that. Bad Boy Pete sent her flowers. With cards. It was sweet. But she’d moved on. She was an adult. He’d call her number, till she changed it. That was annoying. She picked up some pills at the pharmacy. She had a migraine and needed relief. He stood there by the checkout buying postcards. He was older and wore a grey suit. “I thought you might like this,” Partner Pete said. He handed her a postcard from the Seychelles. They’d once taken an anniversary trip to the islands. The suit looked good on him. He was very confident. Somehow he talked her up to a room at the Four Seasons. He was a *partner* (as he frequently reminded her). They ordered sushi. Rather, he ordered the sushi. She’d never ordered room service before. It felt decadent. He smelled of Ralph Lauren and Cuban cigars. She didn’t love it, but she didn’t hate it either. There’s something to be said for male grooming. He owned an expensive phone with an ivory keepsake. He spoke Japanese. She liked those parts. He was in a hurry. The sex was brusque. A little impersonal. And very efficient. Then, as she stretched out, he rolled calls in bed. “Miss you babe,” he said. She made a duck face. “Cool,” she said. When he started to snore, she snuck out. In the elevator, she compared the two Petes. Partner Pete was a 7.2 on the Pete scale. Weeks passed. Pets. More bills. Good coffee. And reading Spanish novels in the park. Suddenly, the Petes started showing up everywhere. There was Surfer Pete with the bracelets. Like those he wore after he’d spent that year in Honduras. Apparently his version of Em died in a mudslide. He was very needy. He wept in her bathroom. She jerked him off and sent him packing. He was kind of useless. 3.0. There was Fast-Talking Pete. She gave him a blowjob in his Dodge Durango just to get him to shut up. It mostly worked. After they smoked a joint. Which was not great. She burned her fingers on the matches. But she liked staring at the flames. She also forgot how weed turned her into a goon. He happily filled the space. “I got to, um, get…” She left. 4.2. There was the submissive one who surprised her in the subway. He could barely make eye contact. “You died in a…” he said. She’d lost all interest in small talk. And glared. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” he said. She nodded in the direction of her apartment. They got home, stripped off all their clothes, and before they got down to business, he sheepishly looked at his toes. “Ummm, I have something to ask,” he said. “Like how specific?” she said. “Like how we used to do it…” he said. She didn’t want to hear about another car crash, chainsaw mishap or volatile chemical explosion. “Like how?” she said. “Please don’t judge,” he said. “It better not be foot stuff,” she said. It wasn’t that she hated foot stuff. She just hadn’t trimmed her toenails. “That’s, uh, in the right ballpark,” he said. She nicknamed him *The Goof*. He crawled around on his knees picking her pubic hairs up with his teeth, while she slowly shaved her legs and furiously rubbed her clit. “The floor is not clean yet, *Pete*!” she screamed and grabbed his hair with something approaching tenderness. “Yes Mistress, Please may I…” he squirmed. “I have given you enough chances!” she howled. *The Goof* looked beatific. This Pete was a programmer in Scottsdale. Too bad. She could never live in Arizona. It didn’t agree with her skin. 8.4. Then there was the Pete with the snore. Who showed up with a sleep apnea machine that he refused to plug in. Who does that? 3.7. And the Warrant Officer who was posted to Guam. He had Southern manners. And Southern charm. He was almost her favorite. Till his night terrors. Unrated. And the religious one who showed up with six kids and the minivan. “Help! Help! They won’t listen to me!” he screamed. She didn’t even let this Pete into her apartment. She had enough drama with a cat and a dog. 2.2. And then Old Pete, who she had to care for after his hip surgery. He’d lost a lot of weight and she carried him to the couch. He was very frail. They were both out of breath. They held each other. She liked how he looked at her. Quiet. 9.3. There were more deadlines and more birthdays. Movie nights with friends. She volunteered at an animal shelter. Sometimes a Pete would send her texts: “Miss you babe.” Which she casually deleted. Other nicknames for her from the Petes included: Cinder, Crabapple, Tick Tock, Apricot (lots of stone fruit apparently), Sunny Side and Buster (after the candy, not the silent film star). *The Goof* called her *Mistress of the Blade*, which she found especially endearing. Bad Boy Pete sometimes stood on the street corner below her apartment. Smoking his terrible Gallic cigarettes. His Triumph motorcycle getting wet in the rain. Later, she hid from Partner Pete in a coffee shop. Never again. She’d rather hang out with her cat, and fall asleep with a good book. --- The dog woke her up. She pushed him out of the bed, rubbed her eyes and cracked open her bedroom window. It had rained in the night. The air smelled fresh. And there was a terrible noise outside. The street was filled with hundreds of Petes. Thousands of them. Some wore raincoats. Yellow slickers with drops on the collar. Many held flowers. Some burned matches. A boombox or two. They all shouted, “We miss you!” A bike-courier Pete knocked over a newsstand. And papers went flying. And she laughed. And laughed. It was how you filled the silence. It was a big choking laugh. And she shouted back, “You aren’t him!” “We are!” They all shouted back. “He’s dead!” she cried. They all shouted back, “You’re dead!” And she was furious. She threw a bowl of yogurt at them. “Go home!” she screamed. The Petes dodged the projectile. And looked at each other. Confused. “Go home,” she said again. This really confused them. Then, Bad Boy Pete shouted, “Pick me!” She was at a loss for words. “Did you hear what I just said…” “Pick me!” Corduroy Pete shouted. “No way, jagoff, she’s gonna pick me!” Disco Pete shouted. And then they all shouted, “Pick Me!!!” She leashed her dog. Picked up the cat. And left through the fire escape. Behind her, the last thing she heard was an army of Petes banging on her front door. She ran down the street. And went to her sister’s. --- Emma gave Tabitha a hug. “It was fun while it lasted,” she said. Then, Emma cried. “I don’t want to know the details,” Tabitha said. Emma dried her eyes. “Are you hungry?” her sister asked. Tabitha made Emma breakfast. She squeezed a fresh grapefruit and her sister inhaled the smell. There was a pot of coffee. Bacon and eggs. A fried tomato like their mom used to make. Tabitha poured the coffee, just as the toast popped up. “Tastes good,” Emma said. Later, on her phone, Emma signed herself up for a kickball team. She’d decided she should meet new people. Another weekend was coming up. --- [![CTA Image](https://storage.ghost.io/c/f7/b3/f7b3d002-68ca-4de9-9010-1d89bc125161/content/images/2026/08/20240523_183129.jpg)](https://www.ceteramagazine.com/#/portal/support) Jeremy Morris has been published in **The Deadlands*, **Neon Demon*, and **SciFanSat*. He's also won a Sloan Writing Fellowship, the Jubilee Prize, and the McGill Short Play Prize. [Leave a one-time tip for the author ](https://www.ceteramagazine.com/#/portal/support) --- ## Author's Note: I lost a friend to glioblastoma. And it happened so suddenly that I only learned about it after the fact. It was the pandemic. And people could just disappear then. But it was like they were alive and weren't. I tried to channel some of that feeling into the story. But what came out was very different from who they were as a person. But they were also a writer, and I think they would have appreciated when a character demands to be born. --- ## Support Cetera Paid members get exclusive perks like bonus stories, the ability to comment, and access to our members-only newsletter, *The Editor's Notebook*. Plus you'd be helping us keep the bills paid. You can check out the subscription tiers below. [View subscription tiers](https://www.ceteramagazine.com/its-our-first-week-on-ghost)