Whining and Ghosts

Time to write!

Ok, but guys, I have an excuse. The prompts have just been really awful. Like write your life story. Hi? In a blog post? All of it. In keeping with the popular instagram and twitter trend... #Idon'tthinkso. And...and...and... things like describe your favorite pet and what makes you unique. I just can't write these journal-esque prompts on this creative writing blog. It won't work and I won't do it. I have been writing though. Whether on my other blog or working on my novel or updating my resume, I have been spending time with the word, which is better than nothing. However, today I will pick a prompt and write.

Assume Ghosts are real. What are they like?

Matt used to tease me about ghosts. He told me they could come out of the furnace at night and breath bad dreams into my nostrils.

Ghosts don't come out of furnaces and nightmares certainly aren't the result of ghost breath, but that doesn't mean that ghosts don't exist.

I was seven when I saw the first ghost and I didn't really think anything of it. It just looked like an old lady on the bus, and since she wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary it didn't bother me. It wasn't until I started seeing things more unusual, things that no one else was seeing, that I realized they were ghosts.

Like the little boy sitting on top of the swing set, dangling his legs between the chains. I had been terrified he was going to fall off, but when I'd run to get the playground attendant, she told me there was no one there. Miss Tinnsey didn't ever trust me after that, she called me a troublemaker and accused me of acting out in order to get attention, but I'd just wanted to make sure that little boy was okay.

It wasn't just Miss Tinnsey the playground attendant who thought I was acting out. In junior high my drama teacher called me worthless and a serious "over actor" because I reacted to parts of the scene that "weren't happening". My parents didn't understand why I always insisted on them talking to me about the people who were in the room, so I could ascertain which people were there and alive and which ones were just hanging out post-mortally.

Because it's not like you can just tell. They're not misty, or dripping, or oozing. They aren't wrapped in chains or bandages, and certainly none are draped with sheets. Their normal appearances meant they didn't really frighten me. But the fact that I could see them did.