Here are some attempts to tell stories in as few words as possible.
"I have nine lives," she said grimly.
"I'm trying to get through them as quickly as possible."
She stepped off the ledge.
In the middle of the night,
My dead sister rings me.
"Help me," she says.
"It's so dark here and so cold."
"I hate this house," Mother told us. "It's haunted."
Eventually, we found a buyer, but on moving day we found Mother, collapsed in the kitchen. Now she haunts the house and the new owners are suing us.
He makes her a cup of tea, but it goes cold.
She's not coming back, he thinks.
Christmas Day:
"I'm leaving you," he said,
so she poisoned his Cherry Lambrini with antifreeze.
It was the third time I'd seen him, in as many days.
"Stop stalking me," he said.
"Stop haunting me," I replied. "You're supposed to be dead."
In the end, they all preferred my doppleganger to me,
and it was I who had to leave my life.
Every morning, she sits by the window and weeps.
"You've been dead 10 years," I tell her.
"Isn't it time you accepted that?"