The Ghost Writer (5)

Copyrighted

Sorry it’s so short…

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“This is it Dean! I can’t take it anymore. I’m really starting to get freaked out,” Casidi greeted Dean when he came to pick her up for church.

“Baby, did it happen again?” His own confusion shown through those dark eyes.

Casidi merely gestured to her bedside.

Crossing the room in three strides, Dean bent over to inspect the typewriter.

“Are you messing with me Casi?” He asked, holding the pages between his thumb and his finger.

“No! I’m not freaking messing with you. Someone is messing with me!”

“Calm down, sweetheart. Where are the other pages?”

“They’re in my desk.”

Dean took a moment to read through the stack.

“This stuff really flows. Your dreams are intense.”

“I’ve never had a dream like this, Dean. And this has never happened. I want you to keep the typewriter in your dorm tonight. Please.”

“Of course. Now, come on if you still want coffee.”

“Please.” She mustered up a smile. Dean put his arm around her.

“What’s wrong?” He asked when she flinched. Casidi slipped her sweater off her shoulder to reveal the bruise.

“Who did that to you?!” His mood turned red.

“I did. In my sleep. Let’s just go.”

Dean hesitantly shut the door behind him. He didn’t like what was happening to his girlfriend. She was a mess. Hopefully getting the typewriter out of the dorm would be enough to calm her down.

Just as the door clicked shut, the window slid open.

“They’re going to move the typewriter. How are we going to monitor her if they take away that element?”

“Well we’ll have to figure out where the boyfriend lives.”

 

The Ghost Writer (4)

Yes, yes I know it has been a while, but that’s alright. You can always go back and read the last three installments. (Found under the category Fictional Thoughts)

*Copyrighted*

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Casidi didn’t want to fall asleep. The dream would come back, it would end up written up on her typewriter, and things would just be weirder.

She called Dean up.

“Baby it’s two in the morning. Don’t we have church tomorrow?” He answered.

“Yeah, but I can’t sleep. This dream thing is really weirding me out.”

“It’s only been two nights.”

“Well, yeah, a recurring dream is one thing. A recurring dream that ends up on my typewriter the next morning, complete with editing? That’s something else entirely. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Then put away your typewriter. You can’t type anything up if it’s put away.”

“Oh… that’s a good idea.”

“Get some sleep, beautiful. Coffee before church?”

“It’s a date, handsome.”

“Ok. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Casidi felt her body relax. Nothing beat hearing her man say those words.

“Goodnight.”

Dean hung up and Casidi set to putting away her typewriter. It went in it’s case in the closet across the room. She pulled the sliding door closed and promptly fell asleep.

………

She and Dean were in a car. But his name wasn’t Dean here. It was Charlie.

“Where are we?”

“On our way to San Antonio. That’s where the answers are.”

“That’s hundreds of miles away.” Dream Casidi went with the bizarre scenario, hoping it would make more sense.

“Not anymore. We’ve been on the road for three hours. We’re getting close.”

“Dean did you do this?” Casidi gestured to her bandaged side.

Dean/Charlie glanced over. “No, you did that. We stopped at a gas station remember? And stop calling me Dean. I don’t know who this Dean guy is, but there better not be anything going on with you and him.” He looked rather put out.

“Sorry. I’m still light-headed from… blood loss.”

Charlie’s face softened. “Does it hurt baby?”

Casidi focused on her side and washed in mind-numbing pain. “Oh!” She gasped. “A lot!”

“We’ll get you to a doctor after we get to San Antonio. We just can’t risk going anywhere else.”

“Who’s after us?!”

Something smashed into the side of their vehicle.

……….

Casidi shot out of bed as her alarm rang the beginning of Sunday morning. She hopped out of bed and got in the shower. Her mind was reeling. How was this dream continuing every night?

She didn’t feel rested at all. Her sheets indicated that it had been a restless night.

Casidi leaned against the wall of the shower and yelped in pain. Craning her neck, she spotted a large purple bruise on the back of her upper arm.

“What the-” Obviously she had been a bit more restless than she thought.

She dried off, put on a dress, and was on her way out the door to meet Dean when her peripheral vision caught something. Her typewriter was out of it’s case, by her bed, with two new sheets typed up cleanly.

Mockingjay Part 2

***SPOILERS***

Well, I mean, technically they’re not spoilers if you read the book.

Ok, I watched this last night with my lovely Bohemian Hippie Goddess friend and her little sister, who doesn’t have a blog title yet, but she needs one.

I will think on that.

And this movie… oh my fluffy pink cotton candy.

I forgot how many feels I really had for this fandom.

It was beautiful. Francis Lawrence is incredible. He really brought the book to life and stuck to it very well.

Oh goodness, where do I start….

GALE! I HATE YOUR FREAKING GUTS! GO AWAY! STOP LETTING KATNISS KISS YOU!

KATNISS STOP KISSING THE SACK OF LARD!

Seriously though, it’s great for the story, creates a lot of conflict, but I would be so much happier if Gale and Katniss were actual cousins and had more of a best friend relationship. Because Gale was likable in the first book.

THEN HE BECAME A CLUMP OF CURDLED MILK.

Stop being curdled milk, Gale. Just realize that she is not yours.

Jena Malone is the perfect Johanna Mason and how does anyone look that gorgeous bald?!

I cried when Finnick and Annie got married. Real tears.

I cried a little more when Bogs died.

The sewer scene was literally the most stressful thing I have ever sat through.

I cried when Finnick died.

I cried when Pollux was crying because Castor died.

I cried when Prim died.

I wish I could express my joy at seeing Haymitch kiss Effie. It was just such a simple, innocent, pure kiss. I ship them so so so very hard. They are perfect together. I want to see their future together. Suzanne Collins, pleeeaaassseee??

And, of course, Everlark babies. Adorable-ness.

So… yes. It was most perfect.

Tears.

Crimson Peak Review

***SPOILERS***

Crimson-Peak

Ah, the beauty of this Gothic Victorian Romance/Suspense.

Guillermo Del Torro outdid himself.

Not only was the cast perfect in their roles (Hiddleston KILLED as Sir Thomas Sharpe) but the set, the music, the lighting, the attention to detail was just all so breathtaking.

But let’s start with the cast. As I said, Tom Hiddleston made a perfect Good Villain. Mia Wasikowska effortlessly played the naive, lovestruck authoress.

And Jessica Chastain. Holy cow. Who knew someone could play an incestual murderess with such grace, elegance, and poise. She was ruthless as Lucille Sharpe and played the role so well I forgot she was ever anything else.

Charlie Hunman and Jim Beaver (Bobby Singer!!!) were wonderful in their roles as well.

And that murder scene!!!!! Poor papa Cushing never saw it coming. But oh, it was brutal. The entire theater cringed when the sink broke.

I could go on for hours about the waltz scene.

I loved when Alan tipped his hat to Thomas at Mr. Cushing’s funeral. Like a silent “You take care of her”.

I really could just keep going but there’s one thing that just won’t leave me alone about this movie.

The ghosts.

There were three different colors of ghosts. Edith’s mother was a black ghost. The ghosts of the murdered wives were red. And then at the end, Thomas’s ghost was white, almost transparent.

Why?

My theory:

Edith talked so much about how ghosts are linked to certain places and events. I think the color depended on how they died.

Edith’s mom was black because she died from sickness. The murdered wives, and Lucille’s murdered baby, were all blood red. They died gruesome, hateful deaths.

The confusing ones are Lucille and Thomas, who both died gruesome deaths yet neither one had a red ghost.

Lucille was black. She died from sickness. Obviously, she wasn’t right in the head. For pity’s sake she had sex with her brother and murdered her mother. She died because of it. Her mental illness haunted her and that’s why she was black.

But what about Thomas? Why wasn’t his ghost black then?

He wasn’t insane. The incest, that was all Lucille. Thomas grew up believing that was ok because that was all he ever knew. Thomas didn’t murder his mother. Lucille did. And it was Lucille’s idea to marry into rich families and kill the wives off.

Thomas died because of love. He saved Alan, he saved Edith, and he tried to save Lucille, even though he knew that what she had done was wrong. He wanted to change her, to save her.

He was just so innocent and loving and forgiving.

That’s why his ghost was white.

Yes, yes. I know. I’m obsessed. So sue me.

Anyways, I’m always up for a lively discussion about this masterpiece of a movie.

Psych Ward

Copyrighted


It was hard seeing him like this. Being led through dreary halls, probed with needles, stuck in rooms with no windows. But I held his hand the whole time.

They couldn’t see me.

Whenever we would have a minute alone he’d glance at me, piercing gray eyes that didn’t belong in that grimy, unshaven face.

“This isn’t fair,” He rasped.

“I know.” I placed my hand alongside his face. My pale skin glowed against his rough exterior.

“I just want to be with you.” A tear made a visible path down his face.

“I know sweetheart. But I’m always here.”

“They won’t let me see you sometimes.” He started to get angrier. “They won’t let me talk to you. I can’t touch you!” He shook at the restraints he was in.

I kissed his forehead gently.

” I’m always here. I’m right here with you.”

The men came and got him again. They started leading him somewhere new, somewhere I hadn’t seen. I had to run to keep up.

“Where are you taking me?” His legs went limp, but the men dragging him along didn’t miss a step. They had dealt with this before.

“Tell me where we’re going!”

“We’re just going to help you Mr. Jones.”

“My name is not Jones!” He screamed like an animal, he kicked, he bit, he swore. It tore my heart into pieces.

“Maria?!” He called behind him.

“I’m here baby,” I said softly, tears choking me. “I’m here.”

“Maria!”

“I’m right here. I’m always with you.” But as I said the words I knew something was about to happen.

They led him through a door and it slammed in my face. I reached for the knob but couldn’t grasp it. This had never happened before.

I rushed to a large window. The glass was too thick, the walls had to much padding. He couldn’t hear me. He couldn’t see me.

He thought he was alone.

The men hefted him onto a table and strapped his legs down. He arms were still stuck in that horrendous jacket. His chest was pinned against the cold metal.

I could see he was screaming, the veins popping out of his neck.

“I’m still here!” I screamed.

A long needle was presented to a man with gloves on.

“No. You can’t do this! He’ll forget me!” I wailed as I pounded on the glass. Nobody in the room noticed me.

The needle was inserted into his arm. Even as it was drawn out I could feel it.

I was the ghost inside his head. And they were forcing me out.

“I can’t leave him! He needs me! He loves me!” I hit the glass with my failing strength.

“It’s been so long since he held me,” I whimpered. I was starting to go and I couldn’t even tell him good-bye. It was the car crash all over again. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.

“Don’t make me go,” Even I could hardly hear my own voice.

They were giving him some sort of medication. I barely caught the pills being forced down his throat as my legs gave out and I sank to the floor.

I tried to tell him that I loved him but the words wouldn’t come out.

My world became white.

It’s Hip to Be Square

Yes, it’s hip to be square.

But for how long?

What if everyone decided to be square in order to be hip?

Then no one would be hip. Square would be the new hip.

The song would be titled ‘Square to be Hip’. Everyone would want to be hip because it’s square which replaced hip as square.

Plus, what’s so special about a square? Is it the only parallelogram that matters?

You should strive to be a trapezoid. Or a rhombus. Perhaps a dodecahedron.

Destroy the stereotype that it’s hip to be square. It’s hip to be any sort of parallelogram.

These random ramblings have been brought to you by Golden Boy and Wild Thing.

Book Review: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

First of all the title is incredible.

Incredible.

This book is written in the form of letters to and from the main characters. It follows a writer, Juliet, as she discovers a literary society on the island of Guernsey.It is set shortly after World War II.

It’s an adorable story filled to the brim with quirky and interesting characters. There’s such a variety of personality traits and settings.

There’s enough heart-wrenching twists to make the story deeper than simply an odd adventure.

I don’t want to give anything away because I don’t want to spoil the beauty of it, but if you’re looking for a good book, here it is.

If you have already read it, I would love to talk about it!

The Ghost Writer (3)

(Copyright)


Her attacker stood over her, face hidden in a shadow. Casidi’s side burned again. It’s like it never stopped.

“Casidi,” the sinister voice said hoarsely. “You’re about to be saved.”

Casidi didn’t even have time to be confused. There was a loud clang and her attacker fell to the side, revealing Dean holding a trash can lid.

“Cas! Come on.” He grabbed her hand and helped her up. Suddenly her side was healed.

“Dean, what’s going-“

“Who’s Dean?” He replied.

“That’s… that’s you.”

“No. I’m Charlie.”

“What?” Casidi stumbled as he pulled her along. “You look like Dean. Where are we going?”

“San Antonio.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where we’ll find answers.”

Casidi’s alarm buzzed her back to reality. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and took a moment to realize how weird it was for her to continue a dream the next night. As far as she could remember, that hadn’t happened before.

Her eyes roamed to her typewriter, almost subconsciously.

A fresh page, typed up. There was part two of her dream.

Casidi found Dean at lunch.

“You were there this time. You saved me from the guy who stabbed me.”

“I have been trying to tell you I’m the man of your dreams.”

“Except your name was Charlie.”

“Whoa, who’s Charlie?”

“You.”

“But I’m Dean. Why wasn’t I Dean in your dream? Do you not like the name Dean or something? I could change my name to Charlie if you feel that strongly about it.”

“Oh good grief,” Casidi laughed. “I like your name. I don’t know why you were Charlie.”

“You know, I read this article about how you never see new faces in your dreams. Always someone you already know. So maybe you were just using my face, and that guy isn’t supposed to be me.”

“Maybe. I wonder whose face the attacker had.”

“Who knows. Anymore weird typewriter incidents?”

“Yes, actually. Just like last night, every detail typed up to perfection. There was even a misspelled word crossed out.”

“Huh. What have you been eating before bed? More importantly…” Dean leaned across the table. “What have you been drinking?” He cracked a smile.

“A Dr. Pepper.” Casidi stuck her tongue out at him.

“Mystery solved! Don’t drink Dr. Pepper.”

“I had water the night before.”

Dean huffed and crossed her arms. “Stop poking holes in my half-baked theories.”

The Ghost Writer (2)

Here is the second installment of my pet project The Ghost Writer.

(This idea is copyrighted by me)


The typewriter had been a gift from her boyfriend, Dean Calloway, for her 19th birthday. As far as Casidi knew there wasn’t anything special about it. It couldn’t read minds or anything. How her dream had ended up on there in the perfect mystery novel form was beyond her.

Finally, Casidi pushed the odd incident out of her mind and worked on her Modern World History assignment.

At 7:30, Casidi donned her jacket, packed everything into her book bag, and set out for the café. She and Dean have a standing date every Friday morning at 7:45 and they haven’t missed one since the spring semester began two months ago.

He was waiting for her in their spot. As soon as Dean spotted her, he stood up and pulled out her chair.

“Thanks babe,” She said as he kissed her cheek.

“Anything for you,” Came his reliable answer. He sat across from her and adjusted his brown-rimmed glasses.

“So… something weird happened this morning.”

“What would that be?” Dean pushed a mocha towards Casidi, like he did ever Friday morning.

“You know that typewriter you got me?” Casidi clipped her long auburn hair out of her face.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I had this crazy dream last night, woke me up even, and it had been typed up. Every last detail, just like some fiction piece.”

“You probably did it in your sleep. Didn’t you tell me you sleep walk sometimes?”

“Yeah, but do you really think I could do that in my sleep? I mean, it was written well, the spelling was all correct… I don’t know, I just think it’s really weird.”

“What else could’ve happened though?” Dean asked as he sipped his steaming hot Americano.

“There isn’t really another explanation is there?”

“Well…” Dean got a glint in his eye. “The typewriter could have come alive and read your mind. Or you’re being possessed by some evil Japanese spirit… have you been to Japan recently? Or you are unknowingly part of some dream experiment. Or you are doing drugs. So which is it?”

By this point Casidi was laughing. “Ok, ok, I wrote it up in my sleep.”

“Mystery solved!” Dean spread his arms wide, causing a few sleepy eyes to glare at him with distaste.

They continued on with their conversation, talking about plans for the day and assignments they hated, not knowing that the entire conversation was being listened to.


A Break From Reality

Time to inject some fiction back in my blog. Here’s a little idea I was playing around with.


Casidi Porter was slowly bleeding to death. She had escaped her attacker ten minutes ago and was being the chased through the dizzying streets of her city, holding in the gushing red liquid as best she could. The pain from the stab wound was unbearable. Her side burned with an intensity she had never felt before.

She heard footsteps, quick and heavy. Her heart leapt into her throat and she staggered along the alley wall faster. Any moment now the cold-blooded killer would be upon her. The lamplight from the street was not enough to navigate the dark pathway and she tripped over a garbage bag. She could hear the man’s breathing now, so peculiarly calm while she was in such a panic. Casidi wanted to cry out in agony and despair but she refrained.

“Where are you going, Casidi?” the sinister, smooth voice called from the beginning of the alley. It had a silken undertone that would’ve been comforting if the voice was not so cold. Casidi couldn’t hold back the whimper threatening to escape her lips.

“I’m coming for you, Casidi.” his laugh then echoed around her, bouncing off the brick walls and crashing into her ears. Casidi had only moments before he finished her off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Casidi shot up from her dorm room bed in a cold sweat. She frantically grasped her side, checking for the wound, but her hand came back free from the sticky red blood. Her clock informed her it was 5:12 am. She needed to get up in 45 minutes anyway, and there was no way she getting back to sleep. Casidi decided to start her day early.

Her room was dark and deathly quiet. She didn’t have a roommate, she was the extra person at the end of the hall. As she crossed the small space to the bathroom, she noticed something odd. Something had been typed up on her typewriter. She examined it closer and discovered, in shock, that it was her dream. Her dream had been typed up in every detail, from the pain of the stab wound to silky smooth tone of her assailants voice.

She didn’t remember doing that last night. She had just woken up.There it was though. Every breath, every footstep, every drop of thick red liquid that had splattered onto the cobblestone ground.

She settled on the insane notion that she had written the entire thing up in her sleep. But a doubt tugged at the back of her mind. The spelling was perfect, correct grammar, interesting sentence structure…. it was written up like a mystery novel.


I would love some feedback for this. It was my mom’s idea and I have a couple interesting thoughts concerning it. Please talk to me 🙂