The Ballad of George and Becky

Here I present the chapter following the first chapter of Victims of the Bridge (current title of Ghost Brigade). Still raw. Still contains some suicide.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I’ve walked about thirty minutes away from the car before I get to what I think is a good spot. I’m actually pretty much in the middle of civilization, but I have no reason to think I’ll be found here.
The sign out front for The Crawfish Kitchen still hasn’t been properly taken down, but the For Lease sign is definitely up. This poor building has probably been twelve different restaurants, none of which have remotely succeeded for more than a few months. At this point, no one’s dumb enough to try to make it into another one. It’s not a good location for much of anything else, though, so the first person I would have to worry about finding me is someone in a deconstruction crew. That operation isn’t going to happen anytime soon, though, so I’m sure this will be fine. The interior is cool, and there’s a nice little room in the back with no windows or doors outside.
Anyway, it works for me, and, as far as I can tell, George isn’t terribly upset with the place. So I settle down, sigh, and ready the knife.
There’s got to be a better way to do this. But I don’t have a gun—someone would hear the shot, anyway—hanging myself sounds even more horrific, and I don’t know what the heck pills I’m supposed to wash down with alcohol to die and not just get extensive liver damage. And, you know, this worked once. Why take any chances?
I still get quite a bit of bile in my throat before I hack it open. And then it’s the same fun all over again. Pain, dark, waking, George.
I at least get dislodged from the floating part with less force this time. Maybe the guy is starting to get an idea of what he’s actually doing.
Letting out a long exhale, I put my hands on my hips and nod at the corpse. “Good enough for you?”
George, tapping his right hand on his thigh, looks around the room. “Uh, yeah. Nobody comes here, I guess?”
“No, I just felt like killing myself an extra time for fun.”
He laughs weakly, putting his hands back in his pockets. “Let’s get going then, huh?”
He turns and starts to walk into a wall, but I just watch him. He’s halfway through before he pauses and looks back at me.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
There are too many responses to that for me to pick one.
“First of all, I go by Becky.”
“Right! I know—I remembered; I just—” He cuts off and scratches the back of his head. “Never mind. Sorry.” Slumped, he spins to properly face me. “So, Becky, are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure.” I just manage to stop myself from trying to lean against the wall. “I’m just wondering if you’re seriously going to lead me off into your grand plan without telling me anything about it.”
He smiles. “Nothing wrong with jumping into things and then learning how to swim, right? I hear it can be more effective that way.”
“Sadly, I don’t care. Tell me what’s going on.”
He slouches. “Well, it’s a pretty long story, but, basically, a big plot is about to come to fruition, and innocent people are going to die if we don’t do something.”
That sounds like the basics of something, all right.
I take another step away from my body. “So what are we two ghosts supposed to do about it?”
“Oh! Actually, I’m useless.” Of all things, this doesn’t seem to cast a shadow on his mood. “But I’m pretty sure you’re the one that can stop this. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to get to you.”
“Okay.” I put my elbows back. “What’s so special about me?”
He tilts his chin up a little. “Your abilities, for one. I’ve never sensed any so strong.”
“Pardon?”
He pauses, his eyes rolling up a little. “Maybe that sounds a little weird, but you’re a ghost now, so you should be able to sense this stuff, too.” He grins, looking back at me. “Can you figure out how many special abilities I have?”
I focus for a second, but either I’m too skeptical to sense anything, or George is completely making this stuff up.
“Sorry. I’m not getting any vibes from you.” Other than the lack of brainpower, but I don’t think it took a sixth sense to figure that one out.
He doesn’t stop smiling. “That’s because I don’t have any special abilities! So you get the picture, right? I know what’s going on, but only you’re strong enough to stop it. So, you wanna start walking?” He points a thumb towards the wall.
“Sure, what the heck.” It’s not like I have anything better to do. If I did, I wouldn’t be lying dead in a cursed restaurant building.
“Great!” He spins on his heel and strides right out of the building. At least, he disappears behind the wall, and I have to reason to believe he didn’t come out on the other side.
Fisting my hands loosely, I go to follow him. My first time phasing through a wall. Somebody take a picture.
I still brace myself as the metal approaches. Strictly speaking, I don’t really know what I’m doing, but it can’t be that hard, right? My ghost can already move and walk without thinking about it. Going through walls ought to come just as naturally in this form.
I hold my breath, keep stepping forward—and then I stumble and fall flat on my face. I can feel spongy concrete pressing in on my face, although it doesn’t hurt. Guess I can’t complain, then.
“Becky!”
Well, I can’t complain about getting hurt.
I’ve pushed myself to my knees before George is grabbing at my shoulders to haul me up the rest of the way.
“I’m sorry! I should have warned you about the step down. Are you okay?”
“For cripes sake, your Chosen One ought to be able to take this much.”
“Uh, right.” He pulls back, scratching the underside of his jaw.
That’s when I realize how oddly dark it is out here. It was only afternoon when I stepped into the building, but now everything seems to be obscured in a hazy shadow. The concrete is specked with white spots of old gum, the clouds are black, the brickwork is greenish, and, now that I think about it, it’s as if I stepped into a negative. The kind you get back in film strips when you get the pictures off your disposable camera.
And then there’s George, who doesn’t look like the kind of surreal X-ray of a person in a negative. He just looks like George, as normal as he gets. A glance down at my shoes proves that I’m still in the positive as well.
Ghost world. Fun stuff.
George is watching me, his head tilted to the side a bit, so I sigh and rest my hands on my hips.
“Sorry. Just getting used to the scenery. I’m ready to go when you are.”
“Huh? Oh.” After a brief survey of the area, he starts walking, and I follow. “Did you not step outside before?”
“Not as a ghost, no.”
“Huh. Well, yeah, this is how it looks. You get used to it.”
“How long have you been here, anyway?”
“Thirty years now.” He lets his hands swing at his sides as we walk through traffic. I can’t sense anything as a car, then a pickup go straight through me. It’s kind of neat, though.
I’m having a little trouble keeping up with George, even when his legs aren’t all that much longer than mine. “So you’re at least an expert on how things work on this plane, right?”
“Of course!” He scratches the back of his head. “At least, I’ve figured out a lot of the ropes by myself. I don’t talk to many other ghosts, though, so I doubt I know everything.”
“Are you a little too galling for them?” I don’t imagine that most of the recently dead or otherwise wandering would take too kindly to such a broad enthusiast.
“Um.” He puts his hands back in his pockets, and I get the feeling he might not be sure what “galling” means. “I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like everyone’s ignoring me, but—” slouching, he looks up at me with some awful puppy-dog eyes— “you’re the only human who’s ever seen me, and I’m starting to wonder if even the other ghosts don’t notice me.”
Yawning, I smack him on the scapula. “Don’t worry. You’re annoying enough; I’m sure they’re actually ignoring you.”
“Uh, thanks.” He doesn’t quite straighten up.
We make it across the street, and he takes a sharp left once we’re at the sidewalk.
“Where is it we’re going?” I find myself sidestepping some freshly spat gum, more out of principle than anything else. “Kill People Headquarters?”
“Not exactly.” He picks himself up a little and glances down at me. “To be honest, I kinda thought you’d need a little more time, you know, to get used to being a ghost.”
“Oh.” I watch my feet as they go over the pavement without incident. “The look of this place is dizzying, but otherwise I think I’m all right.” Exhaling, I toss my hair behind my shoulders. “Let’s go and do something. Hit me with your best shot. I can take it.”
Huh. Did that come out of my mouth? I guess being dead is kind of liberating. No more depressing life. No more normal. Just having no idea what’s going on and actually not minding. I’m not sure what it is. You would think being the only one able to save multiple people’s lives would be a lot more crushing of a responsibility than just trying to survive classes in a way that won’t wreck your hopes for med school.
Yet here I am. Let’s go have an adventure. It beats the crap out of sitting through yet another class’s lecture on action potentials, and it’ll be nice to get a chance to do good for some people before ten more years of school have passed.
“All right, then!” Shoulders back, George charges ahead an an even more unreasonable pace. “Let’s get cracking.”

An Average Class

This is just a section of Ghost Brigade that I wrote recently. It may or may not be something that has happened in real life. Thought I would share.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I make it to my 8AM lab before I realize what I’m doing. Top-notch thinking here. I guess I have time. Showing up for a class or two might keep anyone from suspecting I’m going truant all over the place. I do wish I didn’t end up showing at lab, though. Three hours is a lot more than one, especially when we’re just doing more lecture.

I pull up the document with my notes as the teacher sets up his slide show and starts yammering. More nervous system. Everybody’s favorite. If he goes over action potentials again, I’m just going to strangle myself here and now.

I briefly wonder if Selena might be in this class, but quickly dismiss it. Pretty sure she’s some sort of art major. How dumb. We’re here to prepare for careers, not mess around. Although I guess I’m not paying as much attention to the lecture as I should. So sue me. It’s a little droll compared to saving lives with ghost powers. I’ll have time to get back into the swing of things after all that is resolved. Or maybe I’ll just stay dead. Might work out better for everyone that way.

“Now, we know why they’re called myelin sheaths, right?” Dr. Parker pauses to lean back against the blank whiteboard. We give him no response, so he glances at the clock resting on the eraser tray. He looks at us again.

“Myelin.” He waits another moment before forcing out an exhale that makes me envision steam coming from his nostrils. “As in, sphingomyelin? Anyone?”

He slams his fist back onto the whiteboard, sending it rattling. “Come on! This is something you all ought to know! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all about cell membranes.” He seizes a marker without turning around. “What are they made of?”

He eyes the lot of us before a brave girl in the front row proposes, “Phospholipids?”

Dr. Parker nods, turning on the board and beginning to jot down an array of letters in pale green. “What types of phospholipids?”

This time around, the front row is as silent as the rest of us.

“Do you remember sphingolipids at all?” With one last, loud jab of the marker, he turns back around. On the board is a simple chemical diagram of something that is definitely some kind of phospholipid. I didn’t go around memorizing head groups that weren’t on the test, but I’m assuming this one corresponds to a sphingolipid.

With a look of disgust, Dr. Parker puts the marker down and pounds the pinky side of his fist onto the drawing. “You should remember this! Maybe you learned about the cell membrane last year, but it’s still important! This―” he hits the board again― “is the basis of everything we do in biology! You can’t just go and forget it because you already took the test! I’m sick of you people not taking this seriously!”

He pounds his fist into the board twice, the rattling obscuring a few of his words. “―about the tests! We’re trying to teach you the material you’ll need when you’re out there working! You think you’ll be able to just stop and Google up everything? You think that’ll work when some mother walks in with her kid running a 102-degree fever? You don’t have time to look everything up! You people are going to have others’ lives and deaths in your hands, and you have―” slam― “to know―” slam― “your material!”

He punches the whiteboard one more time, and I just notice the clock tilting forward before a grand crash of glass shatters the air. The brave girl in the front row picks up her feet quickly as pieces of the clock cover skid across the ground, and I do a good bit of tensing myself. 

What am I doing here? What on God’s green earth am I doing here?

Dr. Parker looks at the fallen timepiece and lets his fist drop. “Sorry.” He nudges the glass chunks underneath the clock with his foot and steps back to the side. “But you’ve got to understand what you’re getting into with this field. Take it seriously. Be passionate about it. You’re not going to make it in medicine otherwise.”

With that, he resumes the lecture on neuroglial cells.

"30 Days of Character Building," Part 2

And the latter 15 days of the character-building exercise.

16. Are there any blood relatives that your character is particularly close with, besides the immediate ones? Cousins, Uncles, Grandfathers, Aunts, et cetera. Are there any others that your character practically considers a blood relative?

Becky: She’s not particularly close with anyone. Some of her cousins would come over to play Barbies some time ago, but Becky hasn’t really formed strong relationships with them since. She was close enough to consider all of them family, but not favouring anyone in particular.

George: He lived pretty close to some of his cousins, and they would run around and injure themselves a lot. George’ll still keep an eye on them from time to time, but at this point he mostly avoids people he knows since it’s hard to accept he’s no longer in their lives.

17. What’s your character’s desk/workspace look like? Are they neat or messy?

Becky: She’s the kind who organises without actually putting anything where it should be. Her desk at school has a clear area for working and all kinds of junk pushed to the sides.

George: He’s pretty messy. I don’t know if he really has a desk where he worked, and he picked up after himself, but where he actually lived was not safe for females or the more OCD to enter.

18. Is your character a good cook? What’s their favourite recipe, whether they’re good or not? (Microwave mac-and-cheese applies.)

Becky: She doesn’t care much for cooking. She can basically do any kind of simple pasta, and that’s about all she’s put her mind to. Old-fashioned macaroni and cheese is her favourite.

George: He’s actually pretty decent. His favourite would be meatloaf.

19. What’s your character’s preferred means of travel?

Becky: Car. It beats walking, and she does have a license.

George: Walking. It’s a little too much trouble for him to stay focused enough to not just phase through a moving vehicle. He was fine with driving while alive, though (although he probably wouldn’t have wanted to be in a car for a while if his accident weren’t quite so fatal).

20. Does your character have any irrational fears?

Becky: Who doesn’t? She’s afraid of snakes. Regardless of toxicity, if its bigger around than her index finger, it’s too much for her.

George: When basically nothing can actually touch him, most fears would be irrational. He is afraid of needles and sometimes doctor’s offices in general. Not sure if it's a phobia, but he's a bit paranoid about spies, too.

21. What would your character’s cutie mark be? [I've only seen a few episodes of MLP, so I really have no idea what I'm doing with this one.]

Becky: She’s intelligent and sciencey, so a classical atom or something?

George: If he has any special talents it would be his attitude, so smiley-face? Or maybe a leaf or something for his landscaping, er, skills.

22. If your character could time travel, where would they go?

Becky: Again, she wouldn’t go for it if it had a chance of messing up space-time somehow. If there were some guarantee it wouldn’t… She’s not a huge history buff and she's pretty much afraid of the future, so there wouldn’t be any particular events she’d want to watch unfold. She might check out an original Shakespeare play or something.

George: He might just want to relive his three years with Elise. Otherwise, as much as he likes his growing up in the eighties, he’s a bit of a fifties fanboy, so he’d probably run around in that time frame for a while.

23. Is your character superstitious?

Becky: To a normal degree. And then she can actually see ghosts, so I don’t know if that counts as superstitious.

George: He is a ghost, so I don’t think it can be called superstition there, either. He’s pretty big on gambler’s fallacies, if that’s superstition.

24.) What might your character’s ideal romantic partner be?

Becky: She’s not that interested in general, but I guess someone very supportive, and low-key. Maybe a bit of a daredevil.

George: Before he met Elise, he’d probably give some dumb answer concerning physical attractiveness and big hair. After he met Elise, he would say Elise. And these days, he’s kind of dead, so he’s not really chasing anybody else.

25.) Describe your character’s hands. Are they small, long, calloused, smooth, stubby?

Becky: She has good piano-player hands (although the only lessons she’s had were with her grandmother). Her fingernails are kind of stubby, though. Her hands will get dried out in allergy season, but otherwise they’re pretty smooth. She hasn’t done much repetitive activity that would cause calluses.

George: His hands are freaking huge. Not that excessively, but enough that he's self-conscious about them. Probably a few calloused areas from his job.

26. Second day of favourites! Favourite comfort food, favourite vice, favourite outfit, favourite hot drink, favourite time of year, and favourite holiday.

Becky: Fried things drowning in gravy, sloth, blouse and slacks (skirts make her uncomfortable), apple cider, spring, Christmas (being a break from school helps).

George: Meatloaf (this already came up), beer, jeans and a rock T-shirt (preferably Bon Jovi), coffee (only reasonably distant from black), fall, Thanksgiving.

27. Pick two songs that describe your character at two different points of their life, and explain why you chose them.

Becky: Around the time the story starts, “Bring Me to Life” by Evanescence would be pretty good. Even though how she’s “brought to life” is by dying, it describes her pretty well. For a second one… “Land of Confusion” by Genesis for after the story. Because she still thinks the world more or less sucks, but she’s more willing to do something about it rather than whine and try to escape it altogether.

George: The stages of his life are pretty much “0-18: Loser” and “18-21: Loser with a girlfriend” so… Probably have to go with “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel for the latter with the whole “how the heck did a guy like me end up with a girl like you” thing. For the first part, I have no idea. “I’m Alright” by Kenny Loggins.

28. If your character’s life was a genre, what would it be?

Becky: Supernatural would probably be a good choice because she can see ghosts and later become one. Otherwise, there’s not much interesting going on, so I’d be hesitant to say YA or something.

George: His life, specifically? Not Supernatural then. Slapstick comedy, with a touch of rom-com.

29. How does your character smell? Do they wear perfume or cologne?

Becky: She doesn’t do perfume or scented lotions because she’s allergic. She has some scented hand sanitiser, so her hands sometimes smell like cherry blossoms. Otherwise she just smells like a human.

George: As a ghost, he doesn’t have a smell. When he was alive, he probably wore some cologne that didn’t actually smell as pleasant as he thought.

30. And finally: Write a letter to your character, from yourself. [I'm terrible at this as well.]

Becky: Um, you’re cool. We should study for the MCAT together. And watch a dumb ripoff movie to make fun of it.

George: Hey, you should come to that one upcoming classic rock concert with me. It’s not Bon Jovi, but hey. It’ll be cool and remind you of the good old days and such.

"30 Days of Character Building," Part 1

It was a challenge on HabitRPG.com, and I decided to go for it with the two main characters of my weird little ghost story. I did it by day, as suggested, but here's the first half of the exercise.

1. Describe your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?

Becky: She chafes against her parents about as much as she does everyone else. She’s been rather spoiled by them in the past, mostly from her father (who likes to think of himself as the cool dad). Her mother doesn’t spend much time with her but does care about her and expect great things from her.

George: Easiest part: No, they don’t really get along now because they’re all dead, and he’s the only ghost. Ahem. He was totally a mama’s boy, although his father would still come to his baseball games. He got along with each of his parents better than they got along with each other, and they didn’t divorce until he was out of the house.

2. What are your characters' most prominent physical features?

Becky: Does her glare count? Probably not. Er… Her hair’s nice? It’s really curly… I don’t know. She doesn’t stand out much physically.

George: Probably just his size. He’d be pretty intimidating if he wore a big trenchcoat or something. Unfortunately, he’s kind of stuck in his T-shirt and jeans, so it’s easier to tell that he doesn’t really have any muscle to go with that big-bonedness.

3. Name one scar your character has, and tell us where it came from. If they don’t have any, is there a reason?

Becky: If she does, it’s probably from a hair straightener or something. She’s never been very athletic, and her life is pretty sheltered in general. She could potentially have some cutting scars, but probably not. In that case, they would be more like hesitation marks than anything else.

George: He has one on his forearm from an open fracture when he fell off a tree. He’s gotten himself into all kinds of trouble and injuries, but he’s had good medical care, so there wasn’t much scarification. There’s that fatal car accident, but wounds don’t stick around once you’re a ghost in this story, so he doesn’t have any physical scars from that (even his clothes got out unscathed).

4. How vain is your character? Do they find themselves attractive?

Becky: No self-esteem here. She doesn’t think she’s ugly, per se, but she’s well aware that she’s overweight and not particularly attractive. She doesn’t really care about that. She’s not generally vain in other areas, although she does default to believing she’s more intelligent than others.

George: Yeah, he thinks he’s attractive. It’s within reason, but he probably has slightly too high of an opinion on himself in that aspect. Otherwise, he knows he’s a loser. He tries not to worry about it too much.

5. What’s your character’s ranking on the Kinsey Scale?

Becky: This is romance stuff, so I have no idea what I’m talking about, but… I dunno. 0, I guess. She’s dated a few boys unsuccessfully. She’s just not really a romantic person, especially at this point in her life when she’s pretty much done with everything.

George: Hm. Well, the love of his life was female, but he may not be entirely straight? At the same time, I can’t see him ever being seriously attracted to a guy, so probably 1. Maybe 2? I’m bad at this. This is why I don’t really put any romance into plots.

6. Describe your character’s happiest memory.

Becky: It was another lonely Valentine’s Day at her high school. As she rushed between classes, she kept passing a student government-sponsored stand selling a variety of plushies. Although she’s not very girly, she does have a sense for the cute, and she fell in love with an adorable caterpillar plushie. She didn’t have any money, though, so she walked straight past. After another class passed, she considered asking her father, who taught AP Biology at the school, for some cash, but when she next saw the stand, the caterpillar was gone. Nothing else at the stand compared, so she just sighed and went on to lunch. It was just a dumb plushie, anyway. She didn’t need more useless stuff cluttering her room. A smiling little caterpillar face wasn’t going to make everything better whenever she looked at it, either. No big loss. Just another of life’s disappointments.

At least, it was until she got home and found that her father had bought the caterpillar for her during his planning hour that day. She considers it all a little silly, but now the caterpillar is like her symbol of things somehow going right sometimes, so it’s pretty important to her.

George: Well, it’s got to be something with his girlfriend Elise. I don’t know if he would really rank the memories, though. And the positive ones would basically all be the same. Cutesy stuff, George does something dumb and embarrassing, Elise cleans up after him, and then more cutesy stuff. 

7. Is there one event or happening your character would like to erase from their past? Why?

Becky: Hm. Well, if she was actually given an opportunity, she’d be the type to avoid messing with the space-time continuum and all that jazz (even though she’s fine with messing with the material world when she’s in ghost form, but that’s different…?). Assuming the change wouldn’t mess up anything… I don’t know. She tries not to dwell on the past much, so it would be hard to determine what change would do her the most good. I don’t think she’d end up going for it.

George: I hope it’s not cheating to say his death. He died pretty young, which is bad enough, but as a ghost he ended up seeing how hard it was on all of his loved ones. Not to mention basically putting his girlfriend-eventually-fiancée-someday-hopefully in despair for fifteen years and then seeing her find another guy. It’s been kind of rough for him, especially since he has no way of interacting with the human world anymore, not even to give a hug or make his presence known.

8. Day of favourites! What’s your character’s favourite ice cream flavour? Colour? Song? Flower?

Becky: Chocolate chip cookie dough, scarlet, ??? (I feel like she’s not a huge music fan in general. She might have a song she associates with good times, but it’s probably something modern, so I wouldn’t know it.), those purple-budded weed things.

George: Vanilla I guess? (He’s not big on ice cream, but he doesn’t mind sundaes, so that counts as vanilla, right?), yellow, “Runaway” (he basically has my music tastes but is a huge fan of Bon Jovi rather than Journey), crepe myrtles maybe? (I wouldn’t think he’d pay much attention to flowers, but then again he worked as a landscaper).

9. Who does your character trust?

Becky: Apparently she trusted George enough to risk killing herself permanently, but she was also kind of in the mood for that, anyway, so I’m not sure if that counts… The people she trusts the most are probably her online friends. She shares a lot more with them than her parents, that’s for sure. She’ll tend to follow instructions from authority, but she doesn’t really trust them to guide her down the best path, either. Or she just thinks the best path is still too dismal to be happy about.

George: He’s the kind who will trust most people to a certain extent without really knowing them. That can still be broken or strengthened, though. As for people in particular, there really aren’t any options other than Becky seeing as no one else seems able to detect him. So he does trust her, although it’s more out of necessity when things are just starting.

10. Can you define a turning point in your character’s life? Multiples are acceptable.

Becky: It’s a little hard to say. Probably the biggest influence on her depression was giving up on trying to be an original watercolour artist as an occupation. It was her dream for some time, and she had certainly been improving, but she finally decided it just wasn’t realistic and that she’d do med school like her parents wanted. But she also gets a positive turning point in the course of the story. No need to spoil it just yet, though.

George: Hm. He honestly does more running in circles than anything; he’s not that dynamic. I think his outlook on life was really too gradual to attribute to any turning points. Aside from that, he’s had all of the basic schooling, he played baseball for a while, he got a job landscaping, and he got a nice girlfriend. And then he died, but he didn’t change too much after that, aside from giving in to the sadness for a while. So no, I can’t really define one.

11. Is there an animal you equate with your character?

Becky: I hadn’t really thought about it. And nothing really comes to mind. Depressed and snarky animals… Yeah, I don’t know. So no, there isn’t.

George: Um, fainting goat. Yeah, why not? He does tend to be out for the count every time things get dire.

12. How is your character with technology? Super savvy, or way behind the times? Letters or email?

Becky: She is totally savvy. She can’t program or anything, but she can basically work whatever fancy computers and lab tech you want her to. Definitely email.

George: Considering he hasn’t been able to actually interact with technology in the last thirty years, he’s a little behind. He’s at least familiar with those fancy smart phones and such and such, but only what he knows from observation. He definitely never owned a computer, so snail mail.

13. What does your character’s bed look like when he/she wakes up? Are the covers off on one side of the bed, are they all curled around a pillow, sprawled everywhere? In what position might they sleep?

Becky: She’s a side sleeper, and a slight insomniac. She’ll wake up with her sheets either off the bed entirely or in such a mess she doesn’t even bother to properly make it up. She would be curled around a pillow, though.

George: Well, as a ghost, he doesn’t get much sleep these days, but when he was alive… I feel like he would nearly always be exhausted when he finally hit the hay, and he’d just flop onto the bed and sleep. Back sleeper. Probably forgot to pull the covers over him half the time. He did roughly make his bed every morning, though.

14. How does your character react to temperature changes such as extreme heat and cold?

Becky: Well, she hates them. Cold more than heat. If it’s that extreme, she won’t even step outdoors/approach it.

George: He’ll tough it out. He’ll get uncomfortable pretty quickly, but his job entails a lot of outdoor work, so he’s learned not to throw in the towel in such situations.

15. Is your character an early morning bird or a night owl?

Becky: Neither, really. She tries to get as much sleep as possible. Given the choice, she would rather wake up early, though.

George: Definitely an early-bird type. He’s kind of awake all of the time these days, but he's still freshest around dawn.

Welcome to Ghosthood

Well, I've been writing Ghost Brigade (whatever the real title turns out to be), so I thought I might as well post the first (unedited) chapter here. Warning: suicide, not that descriptive.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I’m still not completely sure about this.

That’s probably a bad thought to have in the middle of cutting my throat open.

Of course, it’s a little late now. I’ve probably cut my hand more than my jugular, but I’m still on my way to bleeding out. Hopefully I’ll wake up like I’ve been led to believe. If not, well, I tried.

I slump against the shut door as the walls around me begin to dim. The slacks and blouses hanging on my right get as fuzzy as the sweaters and T-shirts to my left. The shelves in front of me blur until no one book can be distinguished from another, and then until it’s all one greyish smudge. 

Fade to black. Cue curtains.

Or so I would normally expect. For a Biochemistry major, I don’t know all that much about death. Once your brain stops getting oxygen, it starts to die, and then things escalate until all of you is dead. There’s probably some apoptosis in there somewhere. That’s all I’ve got.

And then, after that point, well, you either stay dead or show up as a ghost. I don’t know the details of that process any more than the last one. I don’t have any proof that I’m going to end up as a ghost, either. Just a hunch. And some persuasion from a, uh, “friend” of mine.

I don’t know his name. I’m not even completely sure if it’s a he, it always shows up so faded. While I can see spirits in a lot more definition than the average paranormal photographer, this guy is still hazy in my eyes. But he’s persistent. He’s basically been stalking me for a month now, and, while he doesn’t give off any malicious vibes, I’m not sure why I trust in what I think he’s been trying to say. I guess I’ve just given up enough on everything else. You know, why not? What have I got to lose?

So, here I am. Dying. Or dead. Or something.

The world remains black and empty for an indeterminate amount of time before I start to see a glimmer. Gradually, my closet rematerializes around me, the light growing until I can see every detail.

I can’t turn my head, though. And now that I think about it, I can’t feel the stickiness on my hands and neck. I guess I’m not really back to my senses, per se, but I’m definitely conscious in some way.

My view begins to shift. I can’t feel myself rising, but the floor becomes more and more distant regardless―and then I can see my body below me. Yeah, that looks dead. My hair looks terrible, too.

Still I rise. The lowest bookshelf begins to eclipse the speckled carpet beneath it. The shoulders of my shirts sink below me in a row of colorful streaks. 

So is this just my spirit now? Am I going to keep rising to the heavens? I can’t seem to shake myself from my trajectory, so I guess I’ll find out. Here’s hoping I’m headed somewhere decent. I can’t say I’ve earned, it, but―

A screaming something crashes into me from the side, and I don’t have time to yelp before I’m crashing down onto the carpet.

I do manage to get out an “ack” a moment later, though. I can feel weight still pushing down on me, although it doesn’t hurt, and soon I notice my arms splayed out in front of me. I can wriggle my fingers. And my corpse is still sitting over there. Okay.

“Phew! You made it!” 

I find myself rolling onto my stomach as the weight leaves, but my hand is grabbed and I’m hauled upright before I can shift myself. I at least manage not to stumble back to the floor when I’m let go.

“You feeling okay? Coming over can be kinda rough. Do you remember who you are? How many fingers am I holding up? Can you hear me? Can you talk? Are you hurt? Did I tackle you too hard?”

“S-slow down!” I hold up my hands like I’m about to get slapped with that peace-sign hand being waved at me. I’m not sure that there’s reason to believe I won’t.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

The man standing in front of me hunches a little and puts his hands in his jeans pockets. His build seems pretty intimidating at first, but, after another moment’s investigation, he doesn’t seem to have much meat on his big bones. He’s a mite taller than me while he’s slumping, and he has a lot of hair for someone who doesn’t keep it much longer than the average guy. His facial features are kind of soft in general, although he’s still frowning pretty tightly as he glances between me and my corpse. 

I don’t recognize him as anyone I’ve ever known, but the brown of his shirt and blue of his jeans match the blur of my stalker-ghost. Considering that I don’t recall anyone else in my closet and my body is still very much slumped against the door, I’m pretty sure this guy’s about as dead as I am. This is him, then. I’m not sure how exactly I thought he’d look, but it wasn’t this.

“Uh, miss?” His glance at my ghost this round is a little longer before he averts his gaze to the other me.

I put my hands on my hips. “I prefer ‘Becky.’ You?”

“Huh?” He straightens up immediately and smiles at me. “Oh, great! You’re okay, then? Well, I’m George. Nice to meet you.”

I nod and watch him. His expression shifts to puzzled, and then uncomfortable as he slumps again.

“Mi―I mean, Becky?”

“Yeah?”

“Um―” he scratches the side of his head― “what is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it’?” I wish I had a good three-ring binder in hand to smack him with. “What am I doing here? You’re the one who’s been trying so hard to get me to the ghost side, right? Is there a reason, or are you just a creep with nothing better to do than watch teenagers kill themselves?”

“No, no!” It’s his turn to hold up his hands defensively, although he waves them around, too. “I have a reason. I, uh―there’s something I need you to do. But there’s one problem.” He looks at the other me. “You kinda left your corpse where somebody’s gonna find it.” He pauses, straightens up again, and looks me in the eye. “Or are your parents leaving for a while? For how long? Is there anybody else that comes over here a lot? Are any neighbors probably gonna catch the smell? I don’t know how good the vent system is here.”

“Cripes! One question at a time.”  I grip my hips a little tighter. “So what exactly is the problem here? Why shouldn’t anyone be able to find my body?”

I guess that was technically two questions at a time on my part. Well, at least they’re closely related.

George puts his hands in his pockets and rolls his shoulders back. “Then they’ll probably do an autopsy, right? It’ll be a little hard to come back from that. So here―” he waves at the corpse― “get back in, quick, before somebody shows up. You have to find somewhere a little more exclusive.”

“First of all, ‘jump in’? You mean possess my corpse somehow? Is that possible?” I frown at the body by the door. Even if I could somehow get back inside, it’s already a dead shell. With blood all over it, no less. I don’t think I’ll be sneaking off to any good body-dumping spots without raising any suspicion.

“For you, yeah.” He eyes the quietly buzzing light in the ceiling. “Most of us not so much, but―” he looks back at me with an eager nod― “yeah, go for it. Quick. All you have to do is find somewhere cool and secluded and, uh, do the thing again, and we should be good to go ahead.”

“All I have to do is kill myself again. Great!” I sigh and step straight over my body, my foot just shy of the knife. “This method sucks. Should I just go jump in the river? I bet nobody’d find me then.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He jumps in front of me, knocking me back from my corpse before I can attempt to somehow climb in. I land on my hands and rear with a grunt and glare up at him. He fidgets before breaking eye contact.

“No. Bad idea. You still have to be able to find your body.”

I pull myself back to my feet for the sole purpose of putting my hands on my hips again. Leaning in a little, I squint at him. “Because?” 

“Because you might still need it.” He blinks, apparently confused enough to stop noticing my glare.

I continue to stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to recognize a need to divulge more information.

“Okay, then.” I nudge his shin with my foot. “Let me get to it.”

“Oh!” He jumps out of the way, his back phasing through my hanging blouses in the process. “Okay!” He smiles. “Good luck!”

I try to thank him with the flattest tone possible, but he doesn’t seem perturbed by it. With an exhale, I step over to my body and frown down at it. 

So I’m somehow going to resuscitate myself, and then I have to go kill myself somewhere no one will find me, either on the way there or for who-knows-how-long after I’m gone again. I’m sure absolutely nothing will go wrong with that plan.

I step into my feet carefully, although they’re at such an angle I can’t quite fit them while I’m standing. Nothing happens for a moment so, with a chill of disgust, I lower myself onto the blood-soaked carpet and try to match my corpse’s position. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. Close my eyes, or meditate, or do some sort of proverbial reaching out to the core of my dead body. George looks like he’s cheering me on, but I’m not expecting much sage advice from him if he’s never done this himself.

Wait. I can’t hear him talking.

I open my eyes again to find more of a blur than a man in front of me. I can’t even tell if his mouth is still moving or not, although I’m pretty sure he’s waving his arms.

I start to sit up before I feel the burning in my hand. Looking down at my right fingers, I find them bloodied. That doesn’t surprise me nearly as much as their response when I try to move them. I manage to wriggle my hand for a god few seconds before it makes the cut burn too much for me to continue.

I guess I’m back, then. That’s nice.

Gently, I put my fingertips to my neck. It’s coated with blood, but no matter how much I palpate, I can’t find the cut. It was there a minute ago. I’m pretty darn sure about that. Where precisely it’s gone, not so much.

Well, I can ponder that over when I’m not locked in my closet covered in blood. I have other crap to do right now. 

After glaring hard enough at George to chase him out of the room, I get a clean shirt put on and check out my slacks. They’re a little wet, but you can’t really make out the blood on the black fabric. Good enough for me.

I hastily clean off the knife on my soiled shirt and toss it in my jacket pocket. I don’t bother trying to hide the shirt. There’s a huge bloodstain in the carpet that’s not going to resolve itself anytime soon, so I can’t stop anyone from getting suspicious by kicking the shirt in the corner. Here’s hoping no one tries to snoop in my closet. My parents ought to know better, as should anyone they invite over.

Once they think I’ve gone missing, well, I ought to be far enough away not to worry about it.

I still open and shut the door fast as I get to the bathroom to rinse off. My hand is still stinging, but I guess that’s the price to pay for my hesitation. I’ll just have to man up and deal with it. Until I die again, at least. But that’s a problem for a later hour. Right now, let’s just try to get halfway presentable.

New Fiction Idea #45

Partially inspired by my recent obsession with Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective, and a strange recurring daydream where a girl cuts her hand in the middle of slicing her throat open coolly but dubiously.

Working Title: Ghost Brigade

Genre: Fantasy, or maybe Supernatural?

Protagonist: Becky, an 18-year-old woman with blue eyes and dark, curly hair. She's a little too big to be considered slim, and she's below average height. She has a general depressive aura about her, is very prone to snarking, and has few friends outside the Internet. She's exceptionally talented in the detection of ghosts, although she tends not to pay much more attention to them than she does living people (that's not much, by the way), and it turns out she also has significant powers within the ghost world.

Other Main Character: George, a 21-year-old (30 years dead) ghost who is a total dweeb. He would have quite an impressive stature if he had the muscle to go with his bone structure, but, as it is, he just comes off as barrel-chested but lanky. He's very well-intentioned and determined but generally inept and not very intelligent. He doesn't have any unusual abilities in either the normal or ghost planes.

Antagonist: A serial killer, although not because of mental instability (at least, not that kind).

Setting: A modern-day urban area. Becky lives in an apartment with her parents (it isn't typically haunted). There are both ghost and normal planes, but they're technically the same world, just inhabited by ghosts and the living, respectively. The ghost world's appearance is sort of a negative of the normal world. Some ghosts can manipulate objects or people, but most can't. All can be seen by living humans at some occasions, mostly depending on the human.

Plot: George is determined to stop an upcoming chain of murders, but he's all but powerless. He manages, after some time, to establish a connection with Becky and, knowing her powers, convinces her to join him in the ghost world. Under the impression that her life is going nowhere, anyway, she takes the chance, and George manages to pull her spirit into the ghost world before it can get any farther. She retains the ability to reanimate her body (although she has to do herself in if she wants to go back to the ghost world) and can also influence quite a few things as a ghost. George does his best to lay out the situation he's discovered, and they work together (okay, Becky does most of the actual work) to save the lives in danger and avoid those in the ghost world trying to stop them.

Point of View: First person (Becky).

And I will conclude with a brief spurt of dialogue that hit me (starting with Becky):

"Hang on, can ghosts hurt each other?"
"Well, no, not normally. You're different, though, so you might be able to."
"Oh, so if I did this..."
"Owowow! What—Th-that wasn't very nice!"
"Well, you've been dead for 30 years, right? Isn't pain supposed to help you feel like you're alive again or something?"
"Pain hurts, though..."