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.

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.


Don’t Fool Yourself

Here is my favorite writing tip:

You don’t write the story.

Yep, it’s true. You aren’t doing the work. You set it up, sure. You have some vague notion of where the plot is going. You probably even have an ending in mind.

But you don’t write the story.

That is the job of your characters. As soon as you create them, don’t try to control them. They have become living beings in your computer or notebook. They have brains, hearts, emotions. They will do what they please.

If you realize this, life will be so much easier. I’m sure many of you writers already have, but this writing rule is just beautiful to me.

Maybe I’m weird. I mean, I am weird, but maybe weirder than I think.

Anyways, let your characters loose in your pages.

What are your favorite writing rules? I would love to hear them!

Alice and the Queen of Hearts

After Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, the girl lost pretty much all sense of reality. She wandered around with a lost look on her face, touching things to make sure they were there and checking her height periodically. She could be found talking to caterpillars in the yard and steering clear of any drink that wasn’t water.

Her pale blonde hair was always kept out of her face by a black headband. Today, she was wearing white denim shorts and a light pink tank top that matched her Toms. Light blue, almost grey eyes looked around without really seeing anything. She mumbled to herself and tripped over her own feet.

A vicious cackle filled the hallway. Alice whipped her head around in terror and darted into an empty classroom as Scarlet Regina made her way down the hall.

The Queen of Hearts herself, captain of the cheerleading squad, Prom queen, all around diva. Her dark red hair was pulled back into a curly pony tail and she was dressed all in red, from her sparkly pumps to the low-cut tank top. Her posse of cheerleaders and boys followed close behind, dressed in black and white with dashes of red.

As she passed by the Mad Hatter and the March Hare they both bowed formally and exclaimed, “Your Majesty!” in mocking tones.

“Off with their heads,” Scarlet gestured towards them with out really caring, then burst into grating laughter again. Her crew joined in nervously.

Scarlet was extraordinarily beautiful, but her eyes were ice cold. Most people associate brown eyes with warmth, but not Scarlet Regina’s. They passed over a crowd as if everyone was below her. If she stared at you too long, you could feel your limbs start to freeze.

For the most part, her threats were empty. She didn’t really chop peoples heads off… anymore. But there were a couple of strange cases concerning students who had disappeared after getting into an argument with Scarlet. No one did anything about it; Scarlet always got away with anything she wanted.

The currently single, wannabe ruler of the school had her eyes set on Philip Grace. He and Briar Rose had split up shortly after Philip became Prom King and Scarlet was positive she was going to get him.

Scarlet peeked into the classroom that Alice had ducked into.

“Alice, dear, are we up for our croquet game after school?”

“Yes,” Alice squeaked.

“See you then, dahling.” And Scarlet sashayed down the hall, swinging her hips full force, as Alice scampered to her locker.

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The Midnight Society

Here’s a glimpse into one of the many projects I’m working on. It’s really just a concept, not too much more than what I’ve posted. If you’ll kindly look past the grammatical errors and awkward sentences, that would be fantastic. It’s just a rough draft. But please, please, let me know if you like it and want to read more 🙂

 

“Floor-length gowns and four inch heels were not my style. But what else do you wear to a mysterious midnight gala that was by invitation only. We were almost to the antique mansion, and my best friend Phoebe and I could hear the classical music. I touched her arm.

“Are you ready for this? Because, this is super weird. Seriously, think about it. What if we get involved in some sort of criminal activity or something?”

“Lyric, this is the chance of a lifetime. I can smell the adventure. Now come on. We can only take fashionably late so far.” She grabbed my hand and dragged a stumbling me to front door.

            A guy, probably around twenty years old and wearing a sharp looking tux, was at the front door.

“Invitations.” Was the only word that man ever said to us. It wasn’t even a question. It was a demand. We handed the small cardstock squares with fancy calligraphy to him. He simply nodded politely and opened the door for us.

And that was the last time I ever saw him.

            I think it was Vivaldi wafting through the air, but I’m not positive of anything about that night. Everyone looked perfectly comfortable there, probably around fifty people. Young men in suits and women in ball gowns floated effortlessly around the room. I wondered if any of them had been invited the way Phoebe and I were.

            I gently touched my blonde hair, hoping the French twist I had worked so hard on would stay.

“Come on, there’s Branden,” Phoebe led me to the handsome man who had given us the invitations.

“You made it,” He observed politely. I didn’t even know what to say, but Phoebe was already taking charge.

“Did you think we would pass up the opportunity to attend a gala hosted by Pacific University’s elite?”

“Touché,” Branden gave Phoebe a half smile. “Well, girls, mingle, eat, and dance. Enjoy yourself.”

He walked off before I could ask why we had been invited.

            Phoebe turned to me, positively giddy.

“Oh my gosh, I handled that ridiculously well. Did you see his face? I was so cool, too, it was just like BAM response!”

I tried to quiet her down, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “Ok, ok, I get it. Now shall we mingle?”

“We shall.” And it was all I could do to keep up with those strappy red heels of hers.

            She was a sight to behold, completely at home in her attractively cut red dress, and her elegant hair-do. Her alluring smile caught every male’s attention.

Me? I’m afraid I’m just slightly more awkward in social situations. I wouldn’t go so far as to say outcast, or wallflower, but small talk has never been my strong suit.

            There was a single person besides Phoebe there that I knew. A girl named Kira Drake. I had my writing class with her. She was friendly and we talked a second about our creative writing assignment due on Friday. One thing about college is that there was always something due, even worse than high school. Seriously, it kept you on your toes.

            A waltz started about half an hour in.

“May I have this dance?” I turned to my right to see where the voice was coming from. A guy, around my age, possibly older, was holding out his hand, peering at me with piercing eyes. For some reason he reminded me of old black and white movies; the tux, gray eyes, black hair combed neatly in an old fashioned way.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to waltz,” I apologized, hoping he would take it as a no. Instead he took my hand and led me to the dance floor.

“Nonsense. I’ll teach you.”

“Oh, um, okay.” I tripped after him. He led me in a simple 1-2-3 pattern that became natural quicker than I had imagined it would.

            “My name’s Lyr-“

“Lyric Anastasia Romanoff. I know.”

I blinked at him, but I realized he must be a member of the party that invited us. “That leaves me at a bit of a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Jason. Jason Clyde.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you Jason,” I remarked. He gave me a quick smile.

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

Were we flirting? I’m 76% positive we were flirting. “