cellardoor

I was listening to the town fountain, eyes closed, imagining what it would sound like with blood instead of water. A group of teenagers walked past me, pulling me out of my reverie. There were male voices yelling, pleading. My eyes snapped open and I watched the drama walking past me. There were two girls and two boys, probably around thirteen or fourteen. The girls were ignoring the boys, who were trying to get the girls to forgive them for something stupid, something involving some woman’s breasts.

I grinned at the misery evident on the faces of those boys and flipped to a new page in my sketchbook. As they turned the corner and walked out of sight, I began sketching a rough outline of the fountain in front of me, which was an exquisitely boring thing; soft, with frogs and fish and happy fairies. My fountain had jagged spikes and ridges, and bats, and dragons, and naked fairies with vicious eyes. My fountain could never exist in this town square. I giggled to myself as I chained the four teenagers to the fountain, which was soon to spout blood. If I was somewhere private, I would have laughed out loud at my genius.

“Hmm… it’s pretty good… but-” a male voice whispered in my right ear. I turned to see nothing.

There was a sliding noise to my left, and I turned back to see a guy about my age inching over the edge of the bench on his back, ever so slowly. He was upside-down to me. “-But, how come you only draw things you think are sad?”

At first, I couldn’t help but laugh at him. Here was a complete stranger, who came apparently from thin air, asking me why my drawings were sad. And a weird looking stranger, too. He had on blue glasses and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up (in January!?), and with him upside-down, his long brown hair made an inverted mushroom inches above the ground. As I looked him over, I noticed the word “orange” written on his inside left arm in thick orange letters.

I laughed for a good long time about that “orange”, and his hair. This kid was obviously baked out of his tree.

When I managed to calm down, he was sitting next to me on the bench normally, grinning, his hair only slightly messy. “So, why do you only draw sad things?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know… it’s easier to get inspiration for the sad stuff.”

“Ahh… but what was sad about those kids who walked past you?”

I gave him the fisheye. “How long have you watching me?”

He turned to the sky and laughed with every part of his body, somehow. I began to edge away from him. “I was following those kids and I just happened to see you. You seemed much more interesting than they did.”

I sighed, relieved. “Oh, alright then. Um… what was your question?”

“What was sad about those kids who walked past?”

Could he be that high, to not recognize heartbreak? “They were all unhappy. The girls caught their boyfriends looking at another woman, and the boys lost their girlfriends. Who isn’t sad in that situation?”

He grinned at me like he was about to unleash a royal flush in a high-stakes poker game after all bets were in. “The girls were a lot happier than they looked. They were happy because their boyfriends wanted them so desperately that they chased them down an entire block begging them. What’s more flattering than that? And the boys may have seemed very unhappy, but did you hear how they refused to give up? They had hope. What’s happier than hope?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just stared at him. I had never heard anything so intensely correct in my entire life.

He laughed and looked skyward again. “There’s always a different emotion under the surface.” He pulled a light blue marker out of his pocket and drew a circle/triangle fish over my drawing before I could stop him.

“Hey! What the hell, man!? You ruined it!”

He looked me directly in the face. “Did I ruin it, or did I stop it from ruining you?”

I didn’t understand. “What… what? What do you mean?”

He shrugged and capped his marker. “I’m not sure... but ignore that sketch. It’s not going to get you anywhere.”

Arguments ran through my mind, about censorship, and free speech, and how art is sacred, and… and… he was right. He was totally right. Drawing nothing but sad stuff wouldn’t help me move forward in life.

“Who are you?” I wanted to know everything about him.

He smiled. “Call me the ghost of kindness. I’m not the ghost of kindness, but go ahead and call me that.”

“I… how long can you stay?” I felt myself blush. I wasn’t trying to sound so desperate, I just couldn’t help it.

He frowned slowly and rested his hand on my shoulder. “I have to leave soon. I’m sorry. But there’s other stuff I need to get done today. I will see you around though, don’t worry. I promise I will see you.”

“I… but…” What was this? I was practically crying over him. How could someone be so much… so indescribably the way he was? “You better keep your promise. You better.”

He hooked his right pinky around my left. “I will.” He broke apart our link, looked at the sky and sighed. “Look,” he said, pointing straight ahead of us but still staring at the sky. His finger led my eyes to a deer that was staring back at us from behind the old train station turned ice-cream shop.

“Oooohh…” I cooed.

Suddenly the lights on the train crossing sign started flashing, and the bars dropped down to block the road. The deer jumped and ran away from us, in the direction of the whistles I was just starting to hear.

The ghost stood up. “I have to go now. But I pinky swore, don’t forget.” He smiled at me.

“Okay,” I whispered, trying to smile.

He crossed the street, weaving through the cars that had nowhere to go until the train passed through, and walked after the deer, down the side of the tracks. Before he disappeared behind the ice cream shop, he held a hand up, and waved it goodbye.

I waved to his back before it moved out of sight, and looked down at my sketchbook. I hadn’t noticed it when he had drawn it, but the blue fish on my sketch had a smile. I laughed at the silly fish, turned the page, and started sketching the ghost sliding over the back of the bench. Happy things.

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If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.

cellardoor

first two:
www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=52024
www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=52121

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If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.

bobothegoat

Much like the previous two. They definately are connected, but it seems each one can stand on its own pretty well. The Ghost is definately a strange, likeable character. I think somebody earlier described him as that person you always want to meet in real life, but never actually do (well, I never have, at least).

The only thing I wasn't quite sure about was the fact that the narrator's gender didn't seem clear. At first I thought male, then female, then I wasn't sure what to think.

But as is, the current narrator of this one reminds me of a few people I really do know, of both genders. Actually, high-school seems to be teeming with them. So perhaps the gender of the narrator is actually unimportant.

This is really looking like it might be a sort of anthology. It looks like you could end up with a novel-like book.

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Bobo the Goat

Sigg

it's funny cus when i read ur "ghost" stories, they are so well written in a simple way that you make it seem easy, you know what i mean? It's got a cool surreal yet very real mood/feeling to it. Damn good once again, keep them coming or i will have to hurt you.

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cellardoor

bobo
i'm not sure if the narrator's gender is important. it was supposed to be female, but now i'm not sure. i wish i had worked in details about how she was female, but i had this image of a girl i know drawing in front of a fountain, and since i knew it was a girl i forgot to add details. i'll work on it, and thanks for the anthology thing.

sigg
thank you, and yeah of course i'll keep posting. haha. the next story should be in a few days.

__________________
If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.

mjk

i'm enjoying these stories and hoping to see more. the ghost of kindness is definitely an interesting character.

also, i like the anonymity of the narrator's gender in this third installment.

you've got me intrigued. what's with the markers?

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"Words have no power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality." -Edgar Allan Poe
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Creative Scribblings - a collection of odds and ends

cellardoor

so, you thinki should keep it genderless?
what if, in a later story, they meet again, in third person narrative?

__________________
If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.

mjk

if you're planning on using a third person narrative and the gender of the characters involved is integral to the interplay between characters than i suppose you shouldn't keep it genderless. but why would you switch to third person when you're writing in the first? i really like the switching of the narrators in the first person through the stories. perhaps none of the narrators would appear again in the continuing story of the ghost of kindness? so much conjecture, it really all depends on what you plan to do with this story.

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"Words have no power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality." -Edgar Allan Poe
***
Creative Scribblings - a collection of odds and ends

Raging_Hopeful

Brava! Once again you have managed to thrill me with this likeable and mysterious character. In fact, this third one packed more of an emotional/moral punch than your first one and you achieved more here (description-wise). Excellent excellent... I look forward to reading more! Keep writing!

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cellardoor

mjk
you inspired me to do something really stunning with my finale. thanks

raging hopeful
all i can say is thanks, and of course i'll keep writing

__________________
If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.

cellardoor

what should i call these? installments? episodes? chapters?

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If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.

kalibantre

I don't know but I fucking love them. the ghost is the guy you always want to meet in real life, it's that simple.

I'd say have them meet again, but keep the structure the same, keepo it in third person. It'll be obvious it's the "artist" because the ghost or they will surely mention the fact they've met before.

if this is over a number of years say will the ghost age?

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~kitty

mjk

sweet. if i've given someone else inspiration that completes my day. but damnit, where's my own inspiration?!?!

as for what to call them... i think any of those would work, depending on the length of this story. i would tend to lean towards "installments" myself, as they are three stories that can stand alone.

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"Words have no power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality." -Edgar Allan Poe
***
Creative Scribblings - a collection of odds and ends

Cocoamonkeyhead

wow...this story is amazing...if i ever met you in real life i would bang you like a mexican hooker on a saturday night....in conclusion this story is the fucking best ive ever read

cellardoor

kalibantre
thanks a lot, the ghost is based off of someone i know very well. i'm not planning on having it span more than a day

mjk
i guess installments will work. yeah, installments will be good. and thanks again for the inspiration! haha.

cocoamonkeyhead
nice name. and.. thanks.. i'm kind of creeped out, but thanks.

__________________
If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.