Ghost Story

He smiled at me as he floated past, drifting into transparency as our eyes met, and heard him whisper inside my head as he passed, “Hello Michael.” I turned my head in the direction whence he came, and he passed again, floating in the same manner, “Hello Michael.” It took me three rounds of the same thing to realize that my ghost was not talking to this Michael, but to some other Michael set in the same time as he. I backed up and entered the shop behind me, in search of warmth and some answers.

Writing Prompts

So, I did promise to have some writing prompts, and admittedly it's not easy. Here they are:

• Write about a character who discovers that they can change the colour of anything they choose.
• Write about a character who has died recently, and is meeting ghosts on their path to whatever their destination is.
• Write about two schizophrenic characters, who are seeing the same "imaginary" person.
• Write a poem about a cannibalistic shaman who travels the ancient world in search of prey.
• Write about a magical item or talisman that controls what people see if they're in it's vicinity.
• Write about a character who can do see how people will die.
• Write about a character who can hear the dead, and is controlled by them.

So, those are a few. I hope they help out whoever reads this! I guess if they don't, at least they'll help me!

Eat my shorts

I've stumbled onto the singular last vestige of truth - that all the talented makers of shorts are now dead. They've been attacked, tortured and murdered; those who were not killed were turned into Iscariot-like shadows of their former selves, twisted and bitter, all semblance of colour sense lost in the blood-dimmed tide.

They now make board shorts - once for hardcore surfer skateboarder dudes with big chests, scarred shins and spiky hair - with floral patterns and pink colours. They make them with delicate green swirls, strawberries, and stylish purple blotches.

Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with practical mens fashion?

They didn't know.

They couldn't hear me breathing. They couldn't feel my limbs trembling or sense the trepidation or see my eyes flitting nervously left and right. They didn't know that I lay beneath them, sweat trickling and pooling on my lower back, dust settling on my cracked lips, muscles cramping from hours of waiting and decay. They didn't know that I was dead. Then again, neither did I.

They say you never really know until you know. Which is stupid, really, because how can you know? You don't pass through walls. You don't see things they can't. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. Hell, there is no tunnel! You breathe, you get hungry, your muscles ache and your sweat pools. How could you possibly know? I didn't, right up to the point where she started screaming.

I guess that's understandable, isn't it? I would scream too if I saw a dead person in front of me, because - what's that? Oh, I said they didn't know, of course. Let me explain (I really shouldn't have to, that's how stories work) - she wasn't there, where I lay waiting. The group of people above me (of which she was not a part) didn't know that I was dead. At least not yet.

I like the rain

A small cross hung unnoticed from a telephone wire suspended across the street. Rain pitter-pattered against cool window panes and shiny streets, a soft, almost undetectable mist rising as a result. Fresh air and comfortably cold people, dressed in swanky coats, yarny scarves, and warm boots wandered the pavements, glazing over the funky coffee bars frequented by funky young people. The scene’s black-and-white photo appeal eased into calm Sunday morning as artists and writers ambled towards stationery shops and bookstores to make their living.

Bloodletting

Ripples spread outwards as his head emerged from the water. He stood up, the water lapping gently at his waist. His chest was bear, his scars and tattoos visible for the world to see. He stood still, letting the silence take him, the moonlight glinting at the water's edge. When the water had almost stilled completely, he pulled the dagger from his waistband and raised his left arm. Steam rose off the water's surface as he lowered the blade to his forearm. Bubbles churned the water as it heated, the spirits around him screaming silently and frothing around him to enter his body. The blade sliced a two inch long cut in his flesh; blood welled up but did not spill. He let his head fall back as the blackness took him, the feint sound of chains clinking filling his ears. Only one spirit entered, joining the ranks of the others that he had killed.