Taken down for editing

Challenge: Write a story based off of a movie quote.

Ink's story has been taken down for editing.

Blood Soaked Dreams

Movie Quote: What a mystery this world, one day you love them and the next day you want to kill them a thousand times over. The Fall, 2006.

Blood soaked into his new dress shirt, staining it bright red. He stared at her dead soulless eyes. They looked up at the clouds without really seeing them. His sobs choked him, he couldn’t breathe. He rocked back and forth by her body. He had done it; he had taken the gun and shot her. But she wasn’t her anymore. She was a devil in disguise. She was dead long before he had shot her. Her body was just a shell of who she used to be. “I’m Sorry!!” He said over and over, his voice cracking. He choked on every word. “I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t look at her anymore. He didn’t want to see her like this. He closed his eyes and remembered the day at the park.

“DON’T EAT THAT!” He yelled. She paused mid-chew. “What?” She asked startled. 

“That one is for after lunch…..” He said slowly taking the cream puff from her hand. Safely tucked inside was an engagement ring. “Okaaayy..” She said suspiciously. They ate lunch together and soon it was time. He couldn’t stop smiling and she noticed. “Johnny what’s going on?” She asked. He tried to hide his grin, but failed. “Nothing!” He handed her the cream puff from earlier. Little did he know it was the wrong one. “Just don’t take a big bite okay? You might choke.” She slowly took a bite. “Mmmm these are good Johnny.” He took a bite of his, swallowing the ring.  He coughed and then a look of panic crossed his face. “OH NO!” He yelled. “SHIT! I gave you the wrong one!” He cried.  “Well babe..a couple days from now you’re gonna understand all this…but uh..for now just enjoy your cream puff.” Liz looked at him like he was crazy. It was going to be awhile till they saw that ring again.

When he heard the police sirens in the distance, he knew what he had to do. He couldn’t go on living this life without her. “For you Liz.” He grabbed the gun. The bullet shot out from the barrel, making its way through his throat and out the back of his head. They lay there together, staring up at the clouds without really seeing them.

Through the Dream

            Alice, Mary, and June were sitting under the July sun listening to Eliza tell a story. The story was something about a dead land, and none of the children really understood the story, nor cared to listen. It was so hot that they would have rather liked some ice cream or shaved ice, or something cold that would melt in their mouths and cool them down. Eliza was oblivious to this, she loved the sun and the heat that came with it.

            The children soon shared a daydream, they were triplets with similar minds, so it was understandable. They dreamed they were on a golden stream, sailing down into a cold land. They were leaving the sun behind, leaving the warmth of the sun and going into the autumnal season of death. It fit the story that Eliza was telling, with all the death that was surrounding them. Mary saw bones in the river bed, June saw grave stones, and Alice saw specters in the water that sung sweetly to her ear.

            Mary and June soon woke from their daydreams, remembering that life was still worth living and that the sun was a thing of necessity. However, Alice stayed in her little dream, and as she dreamed, the colder she grew, like water does from Summer to Winter. Her veins chilled, her lips turned blue. As she grew closer to the specters in the water, she started to leave the real world all together.

            Eliza finished her tale. She shook the children, waking them from their slumber in the sun.

            “Mother, you will never believe what Alice did!” June cried as she awoke.

            “Alice?” Eliza asked, packing their things back into their picnic basket.

            “Our sister,” Mary answered. “She was right here . . .”

            “Oh now, you know Alice died at birth. Please don’t remind me of such sad things.” Eliza sighed, taking her two children’s hands into her own and pulling them home.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173163

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

They put him in the shed. It was a damp cold place where spiders liked to tread. The only light he ever saw was from a small crack in the wood. He was chained up like animal, and that’s exactly what they thought he was. They had found him when he was seven, wandering in the woods looking for a place to call home and they took him. He had been here ever since. “It’s your turn to feed him Jack! I fed him last night!” He could hear them bickering just outside the door. “Well I fed him this morning and guess what its night time again so you feed him.” He could hear the woman scoff with disgust. “As if he really needs to be fed night and day.” She spat. The man grumbled. “Well if we want him to do what we need him to do, he has to be alive at least!” He could hear the metal from the lock grinding as they opened the shed. The man stepped inside with a plate of food in his hand. A small piece of meat that looked like it had been sitting out for days along with piece of burnt bread. He could see what looked like peas rolling around the plate and in the man’s left hand was a small cup of water. “Here you go boy.” He didn’t have a name, they never gave him one. They always called him boy, or animal, or filth. He liked to call himself Sparrow. It was the only bird he knew, the same type of bird that would perch atop the shed and sing. The man threw the plate of food down inches away from where Sparrow was chained to the wall. They were always too afraid to get too close. He slid the cup, its contents spilling out until only a little was left. The man turned around, almost on his way out the door when Sparrow laughed. It was deep and it echoed around the shed seeming only to get louder. The man turned back around, his face convulsing with fear. His bushy eyebrows were knitted together, his eyes wide with a look of pure terror. This was the first time in 10 years that Sparrow had ever made a sound. The man opened and closed his mouth, his voice stuck in his throat. “Tomorrow, tomorrow I love you tomorrow; you’re only a day away!” Sparrow sang, his voice rolling like fog over hills. He smiled at the man, showing every inch of his razor sharp teeth. “Tomorrow Jack.” Sparrow said. He looked down at the floor, once again quiet. The man bolted from the shed locking it up as fast as he could. Sparrow could hear them running back to safety. But it wasn’t safe, not for long.

When the police arrived early next morning they found three dead bodies ripped apart. They found broken chains, hanging in an empty shed. They heard a distant whistle of a Sparrow, who was free from his cage and eager to explore a world he had never known.

A free bird leaps on the back

Of the wind and floats downstream

Till the current ends and dips his wing

In the orange suns rays

And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through his bars of rage

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

Of things unknown but longed for still

And his tune is heard on the distant hill for

The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

And the trade winds soft through

The sighing trees

And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright

Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with

A fearful trill of things unknown

But longed for still and his

Tune is heard on the distant hill

For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

Challenge #10

I feel like we need a calendar that shouts out what day it is. I can never seem to remember what day it is, and it seems my colleague has the same problems.

The challenge for this week is Poem! Choose a poem and write a story based off of that poem! Please include the title of the poem, the poem, or the title of the poem and author somewhere in your story. The title counts.

If you would like to submit to Fan Friday, please e-mail us at inkedfeathersfink@gmail.com! We accept short stories, poems, art, and anything else that makes you think of the challenge.

Fan Friday has come and gone and sadly there were no submissions. It was a good challenge too. But oh well. Hopefully someone will submit next week. Stay tuned on Sunday for the New Challenge. We'll be putting it up later that night. Thanks guys.

Taken down for editing

Challenge: Write a story based off of a fairy tale
Ink's story been taken down for editing

The Sleeping Prince

The heart monitor beeped quietly by the side of the bed. Ethan’s chest slowly moved up and down. He was living, but at the same time he wasn’t. He was in a deep sleep and he had been like this for quite some time now. Grace checked on him at the same time she did every day. He was one of the many patients here that she looked after, but there was something about Ethan. He was young, around her age. He was also very handsome, and she really couldn’t help herself when she stared occasionally. Ethan’s story was a sad one. His car was hit by a drunk driver, causing severe damage to his brain. As the main Doctor put it “That kids practically a vegetable now”. Ethan’s father had the same ideas. Grace over heard him say one day, “He’s as good as gone Linda, we should just put him out of his misery.”
“No! He’s my boy. My little boy.” Ethan’s mother would sob. So that’s why he was still here, lying in this bed. Grace wished so much that she could do something about it. He was too young; he had so much potential with his life. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t for her benefit too. Somehow she’d slowly begun to fall for Ethan. In the pictures by his bedside he was always smiling. All locals could tell you about Ethan and how we was the epitome of funny and sweet. He used to be so popular. His room could hardly contain all the gifts by friends and families. But over the years the gifts began to dwindle. No one remembered Ethan Clive Walker.

“Hey Gracie, when do you get off?” Grace sat in the break room. Her microwave meal sat idly, getting colder and colder by the minute. “I get off at 5 Aunt Lacie.” She said into the phone.
“Five? I thought you said yesterday your shift was four?” Grace sighed, she really didn’t feel like talking about this again.
“Well yeah, technically it’s Four, but I have some stuff to do.” Grace heard her Aunt grunt some into the phone.
“Gracie, please don’t tell me you’re going to spend an hour after work just to read to that boy.”
“Yes, I am. What’s so wrong with that?” She asked her Aunt knowing exactly what was wrong with it. She barely knew Ethan. Her Aunt had told her over and over what a lost cause he was. She tried not to be defensive, because why would she be defensive? He wasn’t hers. He was gone and she hated to admit that. It always led to a fight between them and she couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Honey, I know you’re tired of hearing this. But you need someone who can be there for you, someone who isn’t in a coma. You barely know him Gracie! This boy, he’s gone. You can’t help him now and I know you wish you could. But Gracie you have so much to offer, and I’m sure the perfect guy for you is out there somewhere. Please Gracie,please just listen to me this time.” Grace sat there and tried to absorb what her Aunt said. “I know you have the best interests for me Aunt Lacie. I see where you’re coming from. But I still want to try to help him. I just have this feeling that he’s not gone. I think he might be in there somewhere.” Her Aunt sighed. “I can’t tell you how to live your life Grace, I can only make suggestions on how to improve it.” Then her Aunt hung up. Grace wanted to feel mad at her Aunt, but she couldn’t. Because deep down she knew she was right.
When 4:00 rolled around she punched out and went to the bathroom to change out of her scrubs. When she got to his room a new vase of flowers sat by his beside. They were a breed of blue flowers she forgot the name of. His Mom must have dropped them off. She always thought that specific color was manly even if the flowers weren’t. Grace plopped down in the small reclining chair by his bed.
“Hey Ethan, it’s me Grace. So today I thought I’d read you some poetry.” She said, pulling her battered poetry book out of her bag. It was an old book from the library that no one seemed to want. It had old children’s poems compiled in it and over the years, she had found herself becoming very fond of it.
“I’m sure you’re sick of Robert Frost, so how about some William Blake?” She asked. Ethan’s form was still, the heart monitor beeping in the background. She began reading The Tiger.

“Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?”

She paused, looking up at him. His soft blonde hair lay smooth and flat on his forehead. His skin was pale and he looked more and more like a ghost each day. She put the book down and walked over to the bed. “Oh Ethan, I wish you could wake up. There are so many people who need you right now.” She leaned down and pressed her lips onto his. His lips were surprisingly warm and a shock of electricity seemed to jump right through her. She jolted back away from the bed, her lips still tingling. Ethan didn’t move, the steady beep on the heart monitor stayed the same. Grace’s heart sunk. For one small second she really believed she had done it. She believed that he was like sleeping beauty and that maybe just maybe that kiss could have woken him. She looked at the clock. It was 4:15 and suddenly she didn’t feel like reading anymore. She grabbed her book and shoved into her purse. She was almost toward the door when she turned around. “Bye Ethan..I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that she was gone.

12:00 am

His eyes opened to a world he had almost forgotten about.
He had spent so much time away from this world, but the one thing he couldn’t forget was her.
Her voice that was sweet and soft like rain pitter pattering on tree leaves.
“Grace.”

Challenge #9

The new challenge for the week is Fairy Tales! Stories will be posted on Wednesday by Midnight. Hope you submit to Fan Friday!

Fan Friday!

Untitled

It was a quiet, dusty little place. Wedged between an abandoned apartment building and a rundown adult bookstore, it wasn’t exactly located in the nicest places in town. But there it was. It was her home away from home: Truman’s Antique Shop.  She had stumbled upon the quaint little shop a year ago, desperate to find a gift for her ailing grandfather. She was struck by the homeliness of the place when she entered, but she was even more fascinated by the shopkeeper himself, Mr. Truman. He was a man in his late sixties, with kindly eyes, yet such a face that you knew he had once borne the weight of the world on his shoulders, and would rather not talk about it. She started taking to hanging around the shop, even if she wasn’t interested in buying anything. Mr. Truman had become a good friend to her, listening to her, and always sharing some kernel of wisdom, or good-humoured joke. But she wasn’t here to visit today. She walked through the dirty glass doors, and the familiar tired, musty smell of the shop and its contents hit her. Mr. Truman’s face beamed as his voice sounded in its tired, jovial way.

 “Ah, Sarah! It’s good to see you! Come to visit this tired old man again?

Sarah laughed gently, and spoke, “Actually, I’d like to buy something this time.”

Mr. Truman laughed as he said, “Well! The world must be ending and no one told me! What do you need?”

Sarah smiled, and blushed a little. “Well... I just got engaged and I’d like to get a gift for-“

Mr. Truman’s face broke into its wide smile again. “Engaged!? To that Tyler fellow you keep telling me about? You said he liked old music or something, right? Well, I just got something in I think he’d really like.”Mr. Truman disappeared into the back of his little store for a few minutes, and then came back out. In his hands was an old cylinder phonograph.

                Sarah’s eyes widened. After a few moments, she smiled, and stammered out, “That’s- that’s perfect.”

                Mr. Truman smiled. “Somehow, I figured it’d be. And you know what, since it’s a special occasion, it’s on the house.”

                Sarah stopped smiling. “Oh no, please, you don’t need to do that. I’ll pay for it.” She smiled again. “You know I do have money like other people, right?”

Mr. Truman looked Sarah in the eyes with his own tired eyes, with only the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “Sarah... I’ve only known you for about... a year now, is it? But to me, you’re like a granddaughter. Heaven knows I’m old enough to be your grandfather. I want to give this to you, because I love you. I mean, you’re getting married! Am I not allowed to give a gift to my granddaughter to celebrate that?”

Sarah stared at Mr. Truman for a moment. She found her voice at last. “Well, thank you. For the gift. But also for thinking of me as a granddaughter.” Sarah smiled. “I hope you know I’m going to start hiding money around here so you have to keep it.”

Mr. Truman smiled. “I’m just an old man Sarah. I don’t have a lot of time left. Keep your money. I’ll just try and give it back to you anyways.”

Sarah simply stared at Mr. Truman. “I, I can’t thank you enough.”

Mr. Truman, perpetually smiling, whispered, “Then don’t try.”

He grabbed her clasped hands and slipped something into them. It was an ornately decorated metal locket. “It was my wife’s. But, she’s walking on streets of gold right now, so I don’t think she’d mind my giving this to you.”

Sarah’s eyes started tearing up. “I can’t take this. I really can’t...”

“Take it, I insist.”

“But why? Why are you giving me this?”

“The same reasons I gave you the phonograph. I love you, you’re getting married, and I’m an old man.”

She gingerly pocketed the locket. “I’ll keep this safe, I promise.”

“Make sure you pass that on to someone you love when you’re my age, okay?”

Sarah only nodded. “Thank you... Thank you.

With tears in his eyes and a smile on his face, Mr. Truman spoke with all the love a grandfather could give. “You’re welcome.”

Sarah lingered for what seemed like eternity, but finally started moving towards the shop’s dusty door.

Mr. Truman called out. ‘Hey, make sure you invite me to the wedding!”

Sarah turned, and smiling, said, “Did you even need to ask?”

-Josh

Wrong Move

            The basement of the antiques shop was jam packed with 15^th century weaponry, clothes from the 1920’s, and a few super old board games that could be worth a few grand after four or five decades. I was looking for a chess set, or at least something that could be like a chess set. All I needed were some figurines to play as the pieces and something that could be the board. I wanted it to be unique and me. I didn’t want it to be something that someone else would be able to get if they had the right kind of currency. Yes, there are different forms of currency out in the world that can get someone something better than someone else’s currency. Some people prefer drugs to cash.

            Well, I got something unique alright. It was a rosewood Ouija board. All I would have to do once getting home would be to cut and glue it to the right size, proportion, and flip some of the pieces over so that the back would be the front and the front would be the back. I could make it checkered. I had picked out a bunch of figurines that at least shared something in common with the side they were going to be part of. The white side was mostly blue and white. They were Victorian men, women, dogs, and buildings. The black side had a more fairy tale theme. I found a werewolf figurine and I couldn’t part with it, so that was pretty much what nailed it in. I gave him a name as soon as I picked him up. I mean, when would you ever come across a werewolf figurine? That’s pretty freaking awesome!

            Placing everything on the Ouija board, I walked upstairs like a skilled waitress who would probably make a great plate balancer. The woman who rung me up made comments on each thing she typed into the cash register, making me feel confident in my purchases and looking forward to another visit. When she got to the Ouija board she realized that the planchette, that pointer thing, wasn’t there. She asked me why I didn’t want it, and I told her it wasn’t there when I was browsing around. Luckily, I told her I had some spares at home, because she had this sad and disappointed look that said, ‘I can’t sell this if a part is missing.’

            Once I got home, I made sure I had everything I would need to cut the board and glue it back together. I told one of my friends what I was planning to do, because she called right before I was about to go into surgery, and she said it was a bad idea. She was talking about spirits and demons and a whole lot of crazy ripping out of the board if I went through with it. I mean, c’mon. It’s not like I was actually going to use it to summon spirits or anything. It’s not like that stuff is real.

            At least that’s what I thought during the surgery. And afterwards I laughed a bit to myself and placed my little figurines in their proper places. I remember feeling so happy and proud of myself. I even booped the little werewolf figurine on the nose before running upstairs to take a shower. I really should have listened to my friend.

            I didn’t even reach the top step before I heard a growling noise, some screaming, some barking, some tinkling laughter, and the cracking of wood. Looking back on this part of my life, I feel like I was acting like one of those idiots in those horror movies who are told not to do something, but do it anyways because of how blind they are. And man, was I blind. If I were . . . still alive I . . . would . . . pro . . . ba . . . bly . . . be . . . leive . . . m . . .o . . .r . . .e . . .

            “We should probably stop playing now. This is getting creepy.” Lindsay croaked as she kept her fingers on the Ouija board, next to Bianca’s. They had gotten it out of the attic, something left over from the person who had lived there before them.

            “Stop being a baby. I know you’re moving it! Nice story by the way,” Bianca said as she ripped her hands from the board. “And there is no reason to believe in something that’s not real!”

Angleheart

“Hey Clyde! Look at this.” Chloe held up an old porcelain doll. Its dress was elaborate and puffy and its hair fell in spirals.
“Isn’t it cute?” She said. Alex laughed. “I’m not sure if ‘cute’ is the word Bonnie.”  They were at the 7^th street antique store looking for a present for Chloe’s mom. It was the third antique store they’d been to that day. Chloe was one of those people who really couldn’t make up her mind. “Please tell me you’re not buying that for your mom…” He said pointing to the doll. She laughed and put it back in its spot.
“No silly. Hm..what about this?” She says holding up a jewelry box. The box has a poorly painted flower on top of it. He gives her a skeptical look and she puts it back. He decides to wander to another part of the store, leaving  Chloe behind. The store has many different sections with all kinds of cool things. In one section it’s devoted to old maps. He almost stopped there, but decided to keep venturing.  He stops in the center of a section with clocks. Lots of old clocks hang on the walls and some of them are very unique. One of them is of a cow jumping a moon, another made completely out of beer cans. In front was a glass display case filled with Pocket Watches. He bends down to get a better look. All kinds of pocket watches line the shelf.  Some of them look like they’ve seen better days. His eyes scan the assortment of watches until they land on a watch. In the back corner sits a silver pocket watch with a crest on the front. A wave of nostalgia slams into him. It’s like he’s seen it before and yet he knows he’s never have. But the familiar feeling In his gut kept scratching. He stared at the crest on the front. Inside the crest was a single sword with a gold hilt. On top of the crest was a black crescent moon. It hung eerily over the top. Holding onto the sides of the crest were two grey wolves.  He sat there for a long time, staring at the watch trying to think of why it looked so familiar.
“See anything you like?” The shopkeeper asked. Alex jumped, almost falling into the glass display case. He stood up quickly. “Oh hi. Sorry.” He said. “I was actually curious about the one in the back corner, with the crest on it.” The shopkeeper went around the back of the display case and opened it up. He grabbed the silver watch and held it up for Alex to see. He could sense it, almost like the watch was humming with energy that only he could feel.  “This here is an old beauty, the back is engraved with the last name of the family whose this crest belongs too.” He flipped the watch around and sure enough engraved on the back was a name, Angleheart. Alex’s stomach dropped. “You okay boy, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” The shopkeeper said. “Yeah, fine, it’s just…Angleheart is my last name..” he said gulping. The shopkeeper’s eyes went wide and Alex could swear he saw fear in the old man’s eyes. The shopkeeper smiled his old demeanor back. “Well boy, that seems like a very interesting coincidence.” He started putting the watch back in its case. “Wait- I wanted to buy that.” He said reaching over the case. The old man yanked the watch away before he could touch it.
“I’m not sure you can afford this boy.” The old man’s eyes narrowed.  Alex’s eyebrows knitted together in frustration. “Really? Well how much is it?” He asked. The shopkeeper slipped the watch into his pocket. “Too much for you. Now listen boy, I want you to go home. I want you to forget you ever saw this watch. It’s trouble do you understand me? Now go. Get out of here.” He said, his voice rising. Alex almost tripped while he ran, his fear bubbling inside him. What could be so bad about an old pocket watch? Chloe found him near the front, a big bag slung over her arm. “Hey I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where you been?” She could see something was wrong. “What’s wrong?” She asked. He didn’t realize that he was breathing heavy. “Nothing….I was..I was in the clown section.” He lied quickly, Chloe knew he hated clowns. Her face lit up in a smile. “Oh! Hahaha oh Clyde, still afraid of clowns?” He put on a fake smile. “Yeah, there was a really creepy one in the back. I aint going back there again.” He said. She looped her arm through his and they left the shop. Alex’s mind wandered back to the crest on the watch. He knew it wasn’t just a coincidence that his last name was on it.

~~~

That night he tossed and turned, dreaming of the watch. Images of an unknown war danced through his head. He dreamt of wolves biting his skin, ripping his flesh from his bones. He dreamt of the moon in the sky, so black and eerie. He dreamt of himself holding the sword. Its blade cut deep into the stomach of man he had never met. “Goodbye father.” He whispered as the man fell to the ground, lifeless.

He awoke with a start, his cheeks wet from tears. He was having memories of a life he never knew. They weren’t dreams; they were too real to be dreams. He had to forget the watch. He shuddered at the thought of opening it. Would it reveal more memories? He didn’t care to find out. Last night was too much for him. Too many images that will haunt him for the rest of his life. He could only imagine what would happen if he had that watch in his possession. 

Challenge #8

This week's challenge is Antique! Stories must begin in an antique shop and something from that shop is what the story will revolve around! See you on Wednesday!

Taken Down for Editing

Challenge: Story based off of a haunted house
Feather's story has been taken down for editing

Where we Dwell

            Martin died in 1903. He has been a friend of mine for thirty years, ever since I was four. I used to think he was the Boogey Man, but that was before he stopped my neighbor’s elk hound from ripping my leg off. I felt really bad for thinking so badly about him, so I made him a mud pie. My mom and dad thought he was my imaginary friend, but then I turned seven and they thought I had some mental problem. The day before they were going to send me away, Martin caught me in mid air after I had fallen from a tree. My mom screamed and my dad had his face in the mud from his failed catch.

            After that, they thought I had a guardian angel. It wasn’t till I was a teenager and had the use of a computer that I realized that Martin was a ghost. He had apparently killed his wife, son, and himself in the house. When I was seventeen, I asked him why he wasn’t trying to kill us, like in all the horror movies. He said that he was trying to atone for his sins so that he could meet his family. I asked him why he wasn’t in Hell. He asked me to tell him where he was.

            When I turned twenty-five, my parents died in a car accident. It wasn’t really an accident, the driver drove them off the road on purpose because they had cut him off in a rush to get home to catch the new episode of The Cosby Show. My parents loved technology. They had saved up for months so that they could get a cell phone. I remember laughing at them for spending so much money on something that no one had.

            And now I am thirty-four. I still look twenty-five. I mean, I should shouldn’t I? It’s not like we rot like those ghosts in the movie The Frighteners. Yeah, I know about that movie. The humans who live here watched it on tv. I thought it was pretty good, Martin just grumbled. I feel bad for Martin, I don’t think he gets it yet. I mean, I understood as soon as I walked out of my human shell. I understood that we were damned. We were being punished. We had sinned and were never leaving and that this was Hell. I think Martin is in denial, though. Not about not being able to get to Heaven, but not wanting to go. I don’t want to go. I mean, I can’t eat, sleep, drink . . . But I also don’t have to use the restroom, sleep, or get sick. I love it. And I love Martin. As a friend. He is a great guy, he is, but I can’t see myself falling for a guy who still wants to see his wife and son someday.

            But if he would admit to staying here because of me? Well. I think I might be a little bit more enthusiastic about it.