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Ghost Boy Blues 7

The hardest thing is knowing that in this pale facsimile of existence she’ll never love me. She’ll not be the one that got away. She’ll be the one who never even noticed me. I know I’m a ghost now, but it seems I’ve always been. Even when alive.

I look around me wondering what kind of boy she would like. Maybe I can’t attract her as me, but with the possibility of possessing a live body, why not become someone she does find attractive? I walk by all the kids in the hall, checking out every boy I pass, asking myself, is it him? Everyone gives me a big fat no, so I start passing through walls (a weird feeling) heading into classrooms in search of the perfect boy I could be.

In English class, they are composing poetry. According to the chalkboard, everyone is supposed to be writing a haiku, using the meter scheme of 7-5-7. She seems to be the kind of girl who likes poems so I try the assignment for myself. I stand there a few minutes, looking at everyone else busy penning potential brilliance and all I can come up with is this:

Smells like teen haiku

But reads like E.E. Cummings

I’m failing English.

I know, right? No wonder I could never get the girl. Death certainly hasn’t made me any more interesting. Damn it.

But leaving the classroom, I see him. The boy I am not. The perfect guy to attract the girl of my dreams. He is sitting in the front row, wearing his letter jacket, and perfectly aware every girl’s eye is more on him than the assignment. He is the teen poetry. I’ve even him seen him talking to her before out by the lockers, while she and her friend laughed at something he said.

I can’t help myself. I want to be him.

– – – –

A/N: a big thanks to everyone who has been following and liking this little exercise in flash Fiction or stories that even the writer doesn’t know where it’s going 😉 With that said, I had never intended to name my character here, but in order to flesh out the story I’m thinking maybe I should. But what do you think? Should my narrator have a name? Or is it better to keep him nameless? Do you think the reader makes a more personal connection to the character with him being anonymous? Thanks for any input you may have on this topic or the growing story itself. By the way, yesterday was my birthday, so go eat some cake in my honor 😉

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Ghost Boy Blues 6

I think everyone at one point or another has wished to wear another’s skin, to be someone else other than who we are. Call it envy for what another has, or perhaps just wanting to escape the dull or lonely existence that is our lives, but either way everyone has dreamt to be more than just us.

I think of this as I walk the halls, looking at every fellow student I pass. What would it be like to be the school’s star quarterback? The valedictorian? Or maybe just that party guy everyone wants to hang out with? Or what if I could be one of the teachers? Perhaps the principal? No, that would be weird. I know a lot of kids wish to be grown up, and I guess I have a few times myself, but most of the grown ups I know don’t know how to have any fun. It’s like they have forgotten something vital to happiness. I never wanted to be like either of my parents. It’s not that I don’t like them or anything; its just I don’t want to be them.

So if I am to attempt to inhabit another’s body it has to be a student. There are a few things that concern me about even that though. One, how much of me will be in control? Being in another’s body, will it be as an observer or will I be able effect change within that person by taking over their will or actions? Second, once inside, am I there forever? Or will I be able to shed that body when I choose and perhaps pick another?

These things bother me, but as there is no ghost manual, the only way to answer the questions before me is to go ahead and make the leap into the unknown.

Vampire Boys Of Summer (Revamped) Ep. 3

Missed an episode? Find your place on Vampire Boys Of Summer (Re-vamped) Main Page

 

3: Tramps & Trumps

“Out of the way, sluts,” said several girls at once. We knew this wasn’t like our playful banter, this was The Trumps. Every school has a trio like them. The prima donna divas of the school hall. You can always spot them by their haughty, self assured walk, or the way their expensive clothes set the weekly trends of high school fashion. They always play with their hair in class, flipping it back and forth to be noticed, whether it is blond, ginger, or brown this week. And with one look they can stop a conversation or create a new one that everyone wants to hear. Girls either fear them or want to be part of their clique. Boys want to sleep with them, or at the very least, get to second base, which I’m told is pretty automatic. If you are good looking enough to get a date, it’s not going to be a wasted night.

We called them The Trumps because they acted like the rich elite of the whole school. Seeing themselves as Goddesses or something, they made like they were better than everyone else, and if anyone, boy or girl, went against them, the retaliation was vicious. Bullying was an art with The Trumps. In fact, rumor had it Amanda Trump had bullied Samantha Connor into attempting suicide last year. Sam’s only crime had been that she had unsightly burns from a house fire on the right side of her face and arm, which meant just about everybody could pick on her and get away with it. In addition, she had bright red hair, which just added to the ridicule as everyone teased her with the name “firestarter.” Amanda Trump of course, with not a sympathetic thought for anyone, went a little further and tried to set her on fire every time she saw her in the hall. When Samantha walked by, she’d run up behind her, flicking a lighter and attempting to ignite her clothes. On the outside, the girl seemed to ignore the taunting, but apparently it wasn’t like that on the inside. One night Samantha Connor took an overdose of sleeping pills and set her bedroom on fire. Maybe she thought she was just finishing the job the fire should have done years ago, but she survived the attempt and her parents promptly moved the family far away, claiming the school officials dragged its feet on the bullying issue. But since Amanda’s mom was on the school board, and no one could prove Samantha’s attempt was a result of being harassed by a student or students, everything was swept under the rug. Personally, I think Amanda should have been beaten with the rug.

The other Trumps, Chrissie and Kari, were actually cousins and they absolutely hated anyone that Amanda told them to, which at that moment in time happened to be Angela. It wasn’t her fault; just like Samantha Connor, she just happened to be the wrong person in this life. And she also happened to be the ex-girlfriend of Amanda’s current boy toy, Devin McCullough. What was silly about that was that Devin and Angela had been going together in the sixth grade and that was like four years ago. You would think if Angela still wanted him she would have made her move by now. Of course, try to explain that to The Trumps.

After shoving Angela into me, Amanda, with a self assured flip of her strawberry blond hair, gave her a look that said, “I dare you to say something.” I helped my friend steady herself as the girls passed by. Chrissie and Kari, both mimicking Amanda with a similar toss of the hair, snickered like the trained monkeys they were. You have seen this very scene in teen movies since the dawn of time, and if you think its all make believe, you’re wrong. This happens all the time. And unlike the movies there would be no one riding in to save the day. There were no heroes here, just cowards and villains. As if to prove that point, Colin Deeds, the biggest coward of Chelsea Valley, came up to us and handed Angela her math book, which she had dropped.

“You shouldn’t tangle with them,” he said, trying to sound like he was offering solid advice. But like Samantha, Colin was one of those kids whom no one seemed to associate with, or even wanted to. He had unkempt, greasy brown hair. Acne dotted his face, marking his cheeks and planting one unsightly pimple on the side of his nose. His clothes were always mismatched, nothing going together, not even the color of his socks, which you could see because he wore his pants so high. If there was a nerdiest geek in school, Colin was it.

Because of this, I gave him a look one reserves for an irritating gnat that has managed to reach places you’d rather they hadn’t.

“What do you know?” I said and jerked the book out of his hands.

Angela was still embarrassed from the push Amanda had given her, but I knew it was an even bigger embarrassment knowing a nerd boy like Colin had been witness to the whole event.

“What do you want, Colin?”

The boy looked at Angela and stammered out his answer. “I…I just wanted to help.”

“It would help if you’d get lost,” she said.

“Oh. Oh, okay.” He hung his head for a moment and started to walk away. He reminded me of a pup that had been beaten, but with the devotion of a pet, he looked up and said, “Have a nice summer vacation.” Then, he moved off down the hallway, his book bag slung over his shoulder, nervously running his fingers through his never combed hair.

As Angela and I started off in the opposite direction, I looked at her. “Maybe we shouldn’t have been so mean to him.”

She shook her head. “He’s a pest. He’s been crushing after me since grade school.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he lives right down the street from me. Sits outside on the curb waiting for me to come out. Rides his bike in the alley behind our house. He even buys me stuff and gets one of his nerd buddies to give it to me. I mean, some of it’s cool stuff, but I don’t like him like that, and I swear to God I never will.”

“Hey, no God swearing.”

“Oh. Forgot about your God thing.”

Angela knows I believe in God. She doesn’t put much stock in it though. It’s not something that affects our friendship. I just think she’s been taught not to believe by her parents and teachers alike. It’s that kind of world now and something we just don’t talk about.

As if to prove that, she changed the subject. “I don’t think I want to go to sixth period.”

Knowing that one of the Trumps was in that class, I didn’t blame her. But also knowing we couldn’t leave campus, I was at a loss. “What do you want to do then?” I asked.

“I got a couple smokes.”

I smiled. Her mom smoked these cocktail cigarettes she kept in this fancy flat box. They were rolled up in pretty colored paper and had a stronger scent than your usual blend. I think you were only supposed to smoke one, and then only with your favorite after dinner drink. We didn’t have any alcohol, but we did have a bathroom stall that had an air vent overhead to blow the pungent smoke up into. I knew I’d have to walk part of the way home just to get the smell off my clothes but that was okay. I was never in a hurry to get home most days anyway. But then again, most days up until now didn’t include trying to introduce yourself to the vampire next door.

“Vampire Boys Of Summer” 2018 Paul D. Aronson.

Keep Reading Episode 4

Ghost Boy Blues 5

I look up at the stars every night, searching the heavens for that one bright light that could take me back to yesterday. I know it’s a hopeless wish now, but I just want to change everything and everyone, to keep them from this sad state of being. I wish I had done something with myself in the classroom instead of sitting in the back, trying to avoid everyone else.

Maybe if I had interacted more, or made friends more easily, things would be different. Perhaps I would have had a girlfriend, or been popular in a clique of my own. But the truth is I was too scared and shy. I don’t know why this is, or why it has taken death for me to want to talk to others and make friends. I find myself wishing to communicate now, whereas before I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want to be picked on by the bullies. I didn’t want to be teased by the giggling girls. I didn’t even want to be called on in class. But all of those things happened anyway. And now I can’t seem to even leave the school grounds.

Another great cosmic joke. School was hell for me in a lot of ways and now it seems to have become my personal purgatory. I tell myself if I could only get out of here then my spirit could roam free the way it’s supposed to. Or at least that’s what I assume spirits are supposed to do when they no longer have a live body. Perhaps that’s it then, I need a live body to inhabit. Hmm.

Ghost Boy Blues 4

I almost kissed her once. I was alive then, though not living. Not really anyway. I had a beating heart, a fairly intelligent brain, and yet I was the class cushion all the bullies wished to stick their pins in just to watch me squirm and bleed.

She never laughed like the other ones did. Perhaps that’s one of the things that attracts me to her now. Even though she was a year older and out of my league as far as looks and grades go, I couldn’t help but entertain fantasies of a different world where only she and I existed. But the truth is no such world exists. Girls like her don’t go for guys like me. Even when we’re alive. Being dead just complicates things even more.

But anyway, I was talking about how I almost kissed her once. I don’t think she was ever aware of it, to be honest. She was lost in her own little world, getting books out of her locker. She looked so beautiful that day in her school uniform. Though everyone was dressed like everyone else at school, she seemed to be luminous. There was a soft glow about her, and it was even more evident when someone tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around, flashing them a bright smile that could have lit up the whole room if the power had gone out. Of course, I’m using metaphors here, but my thoughts at the time were anything but, for in that moment I was compelled to leave my lonely spot in the hallway, walk right over there and plant one right on her cheek. On her lips if I somehow missed.

I didn’t do it though. I stayed right there at my own locker. Frozen. Unable to move, or even smile in her direction. Call me chicken shit, call me a loser. They both fit. For when I really thought about it, the only image that came to me, the only response I could imagine was the look of horror on her face as she saw who kissed her. The rearing back of her hand, or possibly the fist of another boy who’d come to her rescue because shed been assaulted by the creepiest boy in the school.

Its funny because that’s how everyone thought of me when I was alive and visible to everyone who wished to humiliate or pick on me. But I guess the joke’s on them after all. Being dead and still strolling the halls definitely makes me the creepiest.

But what can I do with that?

Monday Morning At The Springtime Cafe (short story / flash fiction)

It’s Monday morning and I’m sitting at the Springtime Cafe once again, watching all the A.M. people get a kick start to their day. Coffee, danishes, breakfast, conversation, whatever one needs to begin is right here. There’s even a duo set up with their acoustic guitars in the corner playing a cute little Ingrid Michaelson song. Several waitresses move about, taking orders and offering their own voices to the conversations at the various tables and booths. This morning I spot two of them right away.

Mags, or Maggie for long, is a middle aged lady, perhaps 40 or so, but she moves through the place like she’s twenty-five. She has blond hair, from which I can spot a few grays, though I never try to look that close. She gets picked on about that enough by some of the regular guys who come in and perch at one of her tables while awaiting their carpool. Of course she usually just shoots them down with a look from her steely, gray eyes. If that doesn’t work she has a tone to her voice that might remind you of your mom telling you a whipping is coming. For this reason alone, I can’t help but like her.

The other waitress is just as likable, a little more bubbly perhaps, because of her age. If I had to guess she’s about 30, maybe a few years younger. If Mags acts and moves around like a younger woman, then her co-worker flies around the room like a college girl late for class. Her name is May, and perhaps her parents should have been scolded for naming their child Maybelline, but she too made the best of the jokes and cajoling from the guys who frequented the cafe, some of them drawn indoors by the sight of her alone.

I speak from experience here. I myself was just tooling down the street on the way to a cubicle job I hated when I looked over and saw the brunette waitress through the window of the cafe. Her hair was long then, falling over her shoulders and slightly down her back. From the street, I saw her smile at a customer, and from that day I knew I would want her smile to be at the start of my morning for the rest of my life. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but as if on cue she arrives at my table, while I sit here like a dumbfounded idiot watching her approach and jotting it down. If I drew instead of writing about her, she may take more notice, but as it is I’m just another guy, maybe a teacher at the local college, working on a thesis or grading papers while waiting for his coffee.

“Still at it,” she asks, as she steps up to the table, the soles of her white shoes tapping lightly as if a near perfect dance routine had come to a temporary stop.

“Yeah,” I sigh with a smile and fall in love again for the tenth time this morning.

NaNoWriMo 2017 Final Update

I don’t like how the term ‘final update’ sounds, but as November is over so is another National Novel Writing Month. I didn’t finish as well this year, but I did give it a push and made it to 20,000. That was roughly 40 pages, so I shouldn’t be too disappointed. I wrote as steadily as I could, but I didn’t get in as much writing time as I did last year. I also found it hard to stay focused on the novel I was originally writing and ended up slipping into other stories. But again, I am happy that I accomplished what I did and though I couldn’t write for very long each day, I did write which is what NaNoWriMo is designed to do. 😉

The story i was working on is not ready to begin being serialized yet, which is something I always try to do, but I hope eventually to share it with readers here. I am itching to get back into blog posts again though, so expect some short writings, flash Fiction, maybe some prompt writing in the days ahead. Perhaps by the start of the year I’ll have a new novel serialization ready to start sharing, or will have begun to get back into “Vampire Boys Of Summer.” I am feeling a little vampire obsessed these days. Big thanks to everyone who encouraged me last month in my writing. Whether you posted a comment in my updates or just a put a like on them, that helped push me along and make the progress I did. It is greatly appreciated my friends.

And Perhaps this is nothing more than a teaser, but here’s one thing I had trouble with in NaNoWriMo this year. Since I generally write in first person, I had trouble with some of the descriptions of my characters. It’s a lot different when you are not making first person observations and instead must provide more details for the reader. So here is how I first introduce my main character in November’s novel attempt. It’s basically just how the person is dressed, which has always made the fashion illiterate within me cringe. But anyway, hope you enjoy this little paragraph.

The stranger walked across the lot towards Glenn, who was leaning against the wall outside Millie’s Quick Mart. His long black cloak spread out behind him In the early evening breeze, and his long dark hair almost seemed to dance in that same air. Beneath the cloak, he wore a burgundy and black Victorian style trench coat, which would have made him fit in with the other patrons of Steampunk Charlie’s. Barely discernible under the coat was a white ruffled shirt, pleated, with gold buttons. Glenn noted the way the top button seemed to shine brightly, as if it had been buffed to a finish, and the thief within him considered the fact this guy was probably loaded, and not with alcohol. Offsetting that idea however was the fact the stranger was walking and not being chauffeured in a fancy limo. Still, it didn’t seem he had been walking long, for his boots looked brand new. Made of leather, there were no marks or creases in the material. Black laces ran up the side, wrapped around silver buttons at intervals until tapering off at the top in a small knot. Rounding off the ensemble was the fact the stranger was wearing gloves, which appeared just as new as the rest of his outfit. Perhaps the costume is a rental, Glenn thought, just as the stranger reached him.