A ghost writer who dresses up as a ghost
Roxanne Korda, Oliver Farrow
Sitting crossed legged under a Bermuda sunrise sat Rupert. This was not a normal place for Rupert. The deep sun sorched the sky, the water and the back of Rupert’s eye. Then in that moment passed something that Rupert could have seen – should have seen. If it wasn’t for that sun shaped spot.
It’s not easy writing someone else’s dreams. Thought Rupert. Blindly pitying the sorrowful life of being, what can only be described as, a ghost writer. Always waiting for someone else to step into the lens, spark the action, and leave enough for a lonely soul like Rupert.
He glanced at his feet to find tiny grains of sand, scurrying past, all in a worrisome hurry to catch their bus. Rupert wondered “If I only had a place to be like each one of those tiny specks.” Turning away with haste, he went from the balconyinto a wood-panelled diagonal room, furnished with earnest. Not a second later, he reached the desk, found the letter addresed to Peronita. With the golden pen, he signed it.
With a soft and resonant sigh he lifted the paper. Upon licking the seal he felt the dewy glow of contentment, Soon it would be done. Slow beads of sweat started to trickle down his forehead,. But what then?
He grabbed his jacket, slung it around his neck, and slunk out of the room. When he left he stopped, mildly alarmed and intrigued. In the next pentagonal dorm … surely? He was sure! ….. It must be! He thought he heard a monkey. At first the tropical air drifted through the courtyard and Rupert thought nothing. But then, as he turned and breathed the dry still air he realised. Monkey’s don’t live in Bermuda.
Rupert suddenly came to a realisation. Something wasn’t quite right here. In this moment, something hit him, there lies a juncture. The next choice he makes will change the course of his life. Things wouldn’t be the same. So he sat down. In his front jacket pocket was a vile. He bit the cork lid from its top, let the orange mist slwoly ooze out and leave a fine trail of smoke, so still.
It engulfed the room, time melted. We spoke to the group of toy soldiers, gathere in the corner, by the hot water bottle.
They always say the same thing though. Charge 50 degrees until the lighthouse then rotate by a foot and drive upwards.
Upon hearing this Rupert was sure again. Casually turning on his hardened heels he approached room 47. Driving upwards he wrapped a short and definite blast on the knocker. Immediately the handle ticked open. Ah, so this is where the draft came from. The strong breeze tossed his hair. Stop getting distracted. Rupert pocketed Peronita’s letter, took the binoculars from his pocket and greeted his old friend Geoffrey.
“Look Geoffrey mate, some weird ass shit is happenin to me bro. It’s all monkey business. I released OQUATUS formula into master Camber quats domain. Pull me out. There’s a glitch in the matrix and somethin ain’t right. Plus there’s a weird sound coming from the radio. It’s one of those Ednamol ones. Like an ooh and gushing sound. Faint bells. Tritone. Metal clanging. Sad notes. Patter of fingers on dishes. Squeaking footsteps. Low, intermittent rumbles. Then, a single tone. Continuous. Also I’m pretty sure he got a monkey. Anyway, I’m glad I got the letter.”
Rupert wasn’t sure again. Was he describing the sound of his actual radio or the sound of Geoffrey’s radio, but in his soul? You see, Rupert was Geoffrey’s ghost writer. A sad affliction for it meant his imagination had to work overtime. Geoffrey was dull. Rupert decided to simultaniously look through the binoculars and detune the radio. Through the static he saw it. A small but fertile flea. Watch out Geoffrey. He wanted to scream. He dived towards the monkey binoculars first, took Peronita’s letter from his pocket, and killed the flea upon the monkey’s fur with the blade of the paper. His work now done and staring at the letter in his hands he fled the room with all the fury of a wary racoon, and made for the post office.
Clic, click, click, click ricocheted the metal hoofs from the leather shoe. Marble walls and glass surrounded his path. The journey to Grand Manical Tower’s lobbey felt longer today than it ever did. Tall thin figures slid past, their shadows cast even more angular on these walls that he used to feel so safe in. But enough was enough. This letter was meant to be sent last week.