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Young Writers Society


The Ghost Writers



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Sun Sep 16, 2018 9:58 pm
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Mageheart says...



The Ghost Writers

A Saeverse Storybook


You were a normal child, once.

At least, that's what all of the adults would say. This is a completely untrue fact. You figured that out long ago. You have never been normal. Your entire childhood was dotted with incidents that couldn't easily be explained by the modern understanding of science, and you were quickly labeled a freak by your peers. You would naturally try to shake off this label over the years, but it wasn't something that could simply be forgotten. Even switching schools or explaining it as a “weird childhood quirk” couldn't stop making you see them. And it's hard when they're so perfect at pretending to be normal.

There might be a few indicators – the too old clothing, the seemingly fatal injuries, or the general disconnect from modern things – but it's rarely enough for you to avoid speaking with them. And once you start speaking to people who simply aren't there, and start referring to conversations that only you were a part of, you end up regaining the title that you so frequently ran away from.

So you pretend.

You pretend you are just a writer, studying reactions to bizarre events in an effort to become more realistic in your stories. At some point, you end up falling in love with the idea of creating a world you can escape to. You write and you write and you write. And if you share your life in little typed words and words messily scrawled on the lines of old spiral notebooks, you're suddenly not abhorred. You're an expert storyteller and an amazing poet, and you're revered for it. Not by many, because it will always be the jocks that gain the majority of the high school fame.

But it's enough for you to be somewhat happy.

Now thoroughly in love with the craft of writing, you make a choice to join the school's new writing club. You mainly operate out of the creative writing class – a class few people enjoy, due to the dullness of its teacher. But someone else is in charge of the club. Another student, one you haven't ever seen in any of your classes, but one who assures you that she is, in fact, one of your peers. She just can't attend classes because of a very specific and rare ailment. Instead, she leads the club digitally, speaking through the computer monitor and appearing on the screen. Your history teacher, bizarrely enough, is the adviser of the club, but you don't question it. You need the escape, and you need to be in a place where you won't be judged.

Though you are completely ignorant of this fact when you arrive for the club's first meeting, you're not the only writer who can see. Your peers are just like you, and they have come to this club seeking an escape, just like you are.

But people see ghosts for a reason.

And you can't run from your fate any longer.

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mage

[ she/her, but in a boy kinda way ]

roleplaying is my platonic love language.

queer and here.





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Tue Nov 06, 2018 8:46 pm
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Mageheart says...



Emilia Woods

Club President


She had been sitting on the bench outside of the school building for the past hour, watching and listening to the beauty of an early morning as she waited for Ms. Winquist to arrive. Other teachers had already entered the building by this point, but none paid any attention to the girl on the bench that was mostly hidden behind shrubbery. This was nothing new. She sat as still as she possibly could and continued to wait for the history teacher.

She stared up at the overhang covering the sidewalk that ran in front of the school. It continued on past the point that the overhang ended, but the school had only covered what was closest to its front door. The overhang was in desperate need of a new paint job, but the school – as per usual – lacked the funding and time to cover where the paint had peeled off.

“Hey, Emi,” a girl said from nearby.

She brought herself out of her trance.

Seeing ghosts for her entire life had made her grow used to the sight of gruesome injuries, but she always did a double take when she saw the seemingly young girl's injuries – bones jutting out of skin, blood coating her little white sundress and light-up Sketchers, and her neck tilted at a slightly odd angle.

“Hi, Anne,” she said.

The ghost joined her and sat on the empty part of the bench. “I guess you're waiting for Ms. Winquist again,” Anne assumed, flashing a childish grin in her direction. She kicked her legs against the side of the stone bench. She should have been in her twenties by now, Emi reminded herself, but the way Anne was positioned right now made her see Anne as the small child she had been when she had died more than a decade ago.

“When am I not?” Emi jokingly replied, pushing a strand of blue hair behind one ear. She leaned over and gave a smile of her own. “We're supposed to go over our plans for the creative writing club before school starts today, but I'm starting to suspect that I'll have to wing it.”

Anne folded her arms and rested a hand underneath her chin. “I say that's on par with how things usually go between the two,” the older of the two wisely concluded.

Emi sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes I feel like I'm the adult out of the two of us.” Returning to the way she was originally sitting, Emi's gaze traveled up to the overhang. “Do you think they'll finally paint that by the time that I leave?”

Anne followed her gaze.

“Depends on how long you decide to stick around, I think,” the ghost answered. “It's been like that for years, and I can't see them changing it before the end of this current one.”

She let out sigh and leaned farther back. “The world never really does change, does it?” she asked, her gaze drifting from the overhang to the blue sky that was above it. “It's just a cycle. A few different variables might be thrown in, but we still find ourselves sitting out here on this bench everyday before school starts no matter what the weather is like.”

“You're awfully philosophical today,” Anne noted.

Emi shrugged. “I spent all of last night looking up meta posts on Tumblr. My brain's in a mood for thinking about the meaning of life.”

Anne just shook her head and uttered a laugh. “Kids these days,” she lightheartedly said, nudging Emi with her elbow.

Emi cracked another grin and returned to looking out at the parking lot. A familiar car pulled into a parking space close to the entrance of the school, and Emi took it as a cue that it was her time to bid her ghostly friend adieu.

“See you tomorrow?” Emi asked, getting to her feet.

Anne mirrored the action. “When has the answer to that been anything other than 'yes'?” She started to continue walking down the sidewalk, only to pause and shout, “Say hi to Zoe for me!”

“Will do!” Emi shouted back. She jumped off of the sidewalk onto the asphalt, blue hair flying up as she went running in the direction of the history teacher's car. Ms. Winquist was in the middle of taking her bags out of the SUV when Emi finally reached her; she wasted no time in offering her assistance.

Ms. Winquist stifled a laugh at the kind gesture. “You know that I can't do that, Emi,” she said, hoisting the bags up out of the passenger seat. Emi decided to be just a little risky and shut the door for her. Ms. Winquist gave her a look, but Emi was having none of it as she fell into step beside the teacher.

“Anne says hi, by the way,” Emi cheerfully noted, shoving her hands into the pockets of her ripped jeans.

Ms. Winquist didn't say anything as she opened the door, but the smile on her face was enough to say that she appreciated the comment. Emi walked with her to the classroom, prattling off ideas for different activities the club could do as other teachers greeted Ms. Winquist. By the time that they finally reached the classroom, Emi was all out of breath – something that wasn't exactly a new phenomena.

She took a large gulp of air and promptly plopped herself down on top of one of the desks. “So, Ms. Winquist, do you have any plans for the meeting today?” She paused, then added with a smirk on her face, “Or are we just going to follow what I just concocted on our walk over to your room?”

Ms. Winquist laughed.

“My plan is to follow your plan,” she confirmed.

Emi grinned.

Some things really didn't ever change.
mage

[ she/her, but in a boy kinda way ]

roleplaying is my platonic love language.

queer and here.





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Thu Nov 08, 2018 2:03 pm
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kat13254 says...



Aurelia Airicia



I brush off any dust and or dirt that has found it's way onto my dress. I take a deep breath and peak my head outside of my room door, looking up and down the full length hallway, being careful to observe any open doors. I open my ears, allowing myself to hear any potential footsteps. When I am sure the house is empty, as sister is most likely away to her current catch of the week, and Mother and Father are both very busy with work, as per usual, I gently close my door, afraid to cause potential upset, as I always treat this house as the same house it was when I was 7. I may have missed a shuffle of feet, or the soft fabrics not making a sound on the rusty red worn hardwood floor.
I live in constant fear being in this house, afraid to be sent back to the home of demons I became so well acquainted with back then. I clutch the reflective silver cross dangling around my neck, my most prized possession and I treat it with utmost care. I grab my pot of old fashioned black ink, and my glass calligraphy pen, and sit at my desk.
I hear the soft knock on the door, the same one I hear daily. I stay in my seat, as she knows that is the sign for her to come in. The door slides open, making a cautious creek. We both know how dangerous us talking is. The fact she is a ghost is the one thing that makes her most clearly dangerous. No one, save me, in this house can see or hear her. She was the one that raised me back when my parents would spend all day at work, while my sister, as irresponsible as always, paid me little to no notice. She taught me the art of calligraphy, and by example I quickly picked up her writing style. A lot of people question where I learned such an old style of writing, and why despite the fact I was born long after pencils and pens had become the normal medium to write, I still use ink and a pen.
I never answer questions about that, or anything really. I am in constant terror that something I say or do will cause them to send me back to that place, the hell that holds those demons who claim themselves to be holy. I use my necklace as a sign of protection, sure they will burn if they ever touch such a pure holy symbol.
Catherine can sense the upset that is causing surges of painful memories to flood through me, and she gently places a glass of water from my bedside table to my desk.
She lives back long before I was around. Her husband had moved here to work, and one night, her husband, newborn child, and herself all perished in a fire that damaged much of this house. She still clings to this life as she cannot accept her or her sons passing, and as such, she still lives in this realm in a half way point. She is dead, but she looks human, and most importantly, she can still interact with this realm.
As a child, she took me in swiftly, when she became privy to the neglect my sister payed to me. She presented herself as my babysitter when she realized I could see her. I was probably around 4 when I first spoke to her. She was standing in the corner of my room, in the hair my parents used to observe me as a baby when I was fussy, and would not sleep well in the night.
I still remember that day clear as day, I reached my hand out to her and the look of shock that was on her face that day is the most vivid one I have ever seen. I called out to her, and my sister, 12 at the time, just told me to be quiet, Mother isn't home. Catherine came over to me, and when she realized I could actually see her, she said she is my new babysitter, and that I must keep quiet as my sister doesn't know she's here.
Whenever I spoke to my parents about "my babysitter" they naturally assumed I had meant my sister, giving her more praise, and thus making her pay even less attention to me. By the time I was 6 she was already leaving me home alone, as she figured I could get myself whatever I could need. She left snacks and bottles of drink out on the counter, and a stool so I could reach them.
I became more and more comfortable talking to Catherine, and she taught me many things she knew, such as her calligraphy and her knowledge of this house, and this town. I quickly became interested in history, and was often caught not paying attention in school as I would be reading history books meant for much higher grade levels.
The year my sister took world history was amazing for me, she would never study, so I read her book whenever she would leave it around. I would talk to Catherine about it, and began to stop noticing my sister coming home. She heard me, much to my ignorance, and began recording these, to her, one sided conversations, and showing them to my parents. They took very badly to these, and quickly backed my belongings and sent me to "St Mary's school for troubled children" at the school I quickly became an outlier. I wasn't a screaming monster of a child. I was a well behaved, articulate, and well respected child. My teachers all loved me, until they began reading my writing. They knew about my "possession" and my writing just confirmed it to them. I did not write, speak, or even act like a 7 year old should ever. They began taking me to "special" classes where they would torture me, claiming is was the act of God, and the pain they caused was not to harm me, but to expel the demon who was using me as their host.
I began to wear a pair of black silk gloves, as they did not impede my writing, but it did stop the ink smudges from showing on my hands, as each day they would check my hands before I could go to the bathroom every morning, to make sure I I didn't write throughout the night. Whenever they saw the smudges they would tear apart my room like I am a criminal, and dig to find my work. They would tear it apart, literally and physically, until they found the evidence of my possession, and back to the special classes I went.
My parents just saw my grades. They didn't see the bruises the ropes would cause, or the mental scars their violent words would go on to leave.
I was once a very active part of every class, I would do work meant for older students, but my participation dwindled. I still did all the level of work I always did, but I became afraid to use my voice. Anything I said that could be interpreted as possession would be used against me. My parents became upset when they say all the class participation marks I would get extra credit on, fall to 0's. Eventually I mentally shut myself in, and allowed all the torture to occur. After 3 years of being in hell on Earth they released me. They said I was cured, and that the demons were gone from my body.
As a welcome home gift my parents gave me the silver cross necklace. I never believed that place was what God wanted. They were Satan's minions, and thus, I used this necklace as the representation of God, and as a ward against the demon's they left with me.
I returned home, a scar across my cheekbone, no one has asked, no one knows.
~~~
I realize that through all my thoughts my hands have written a poem. It is rather long, but alas it is what it is. I dip my pen in the ink, and add a small signature to the bottom corner of my page. My pen name is something I consider special to myself. It was the nickname suggested to me by Adam, Aurie.
When I'm writing I always refer to myself as Aurie, as a way to distance myself from my characters. Another trait I picked up from St Mary's. I am not the characters I write about, but they are in fact, a small part of me. All my characters share parts of myself, one I never share with anyone.
The last time I remember sharing something with someone was Adam. Adam was in St Mary's for being gay. Before him I had never even heard of being gay. He opened me to a very different world. He was older than me, 4 years to be exact, but we shared the common abuse they put us through in the name of God.
He left about a year after I got there, they determined he could not be cured there, and sent him to a place they called conversion therapy. I know now what happened to him. They subjected him to electrical shocks, mental trauma, and such intense bullying, that he had committed suicide at the age of 14. He suffered two years of that place. The first day they released him he was found dead in his childhood bedroom. He left a note, and in it he mentioned me. He said I was the closest friend he had since he was sent away. His estate found a way of contact through my parents to me, and my heart broke when I heard the news.
My first full length novel was all about him, it was about what could have happened if his parents accepted him. I sold it online through private sales, the money going straight to multiple of the best LGBT charities I could find. I had worked on it for 3 years, starting when I was 13. I have never claimed the book outside of accepting forums, and always behind the safety of my alias. Aurie Cia. I only use Cia as a official publishing name, but Aurie, I use that as a wall online. It makes me feel safer, hiding.
__
If someone knew it was me writing, I can't even think what the repercussions would be if it came back to my parents. From what I saw last week, apparently there is a new creative writing club being started up in the school. Hopefully other writers won't treat me the same as all the popular kids at the school do. The Jocks and Preps especially. They tease me for the fact I don't speak, call me a word I can't even repeat. They know my grades, everyone knows I am one of the top students at the school, yet they treat me like I'm stupid.
I gently wrap my fingers into one of my honey blonde curls, and the action always makes me think back to Adam. He used to love braiding my hair because he grew up braiding his little sisters. He never said it, but I always felt that he thought of me like her. The sister who rejected him when he returned from 'therapy'. She just didn't understand he said, but he knew her parents had made her hate him, the same way they did. She was always a daddies girl, and she would have to watch him be attacked, harmed by the one he was supposed to look up to. The one who should have protected him.
I would always close my eyes as he would braid my hair, he would describe things to me, and that night I would turn them into written words. Poems, or sometimes, if the words made me feel strong enough, stories. Me and Adam would always be the stars of the story. The words he used to describe his father summoned a multi-part saga of the adventures of the brave swordsman Adam, and his trusty white mage, Aurie. I would show him the stories whenever we were alone, usually at lunch. We'd sit under the tall redwood tree, the center of the school ground.
Right after lunch would be when Adam would have his private "class". He never told me what goes on in them, but if I had to wager a guess, it would have to be the same abuse I was subjected to while there. What he did tell me though, was how he got through them. He'd think of my stories, and the adventures of Aurdam. It was the silly nickname we would call ourselves. In heinsight, it was really quite immature, but even now, when I think about me and Adam under the redwood tree, I can't think of anything that would make more sense.
I still have the stories tucked into the crevasse between my mattress and the box spring. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly down, I pull them out and read them again.
I see all the errors, and ways my writing used to be way less developed, but I bypass them all. They remind me of the school, only, the good parts. If I wished to remember the pain I just look in the mirror at the scar tainting my otherwise porcelain complexion.
Feeling nostalgic, I pull out the stories, and Catherine just lets out a small laugh. I know she isn't making fun of me. She has my best interests at heart, but she likes to laugh about how I can look back at such painful times so fondly. Turning off my ceiling light, I turn on my small bedside lamp, and lie down. I read, and read, pouring over each and every word. I must have read all of them at least 100 times before, but they're still just as intriguing and inciting as they always have been. Finally, when my eyes feel heavy, and sleep is drawing me in, I place them back in their safe hiding place, and turn off the lamp. I allow sleep to quickly consume me.
~~
The next morning I wake up to the light of my curtains being pulled open by Catherine. My sister is still asleep at this hour, as per usual, so Catherine wakes me up using sunlight. My eyes are heavy from all the reading I did last night, but none the less I get up. Changing out of my pajamas, and into a tight fitting dress. It cinches around my waist, and flares out at the bottom into a galaxy print design. I throw some concealer on over my darkened under eyes, and a shimmery pale beige. Finishing my look with a bold red lipstick, I nod at myself in satisfaction. I grab my black silk gloves, and slide them on over my hands. I brush my hair, thankful my curls decided to get along with me this morning. I tip toe down the stairs, into the kitchen. I open the fridge, and grab the acai bowl I had made for myself the previous night. I sit at the table, and pull out my phone, deciding to check if I have any notifications from the night before. As I eat my breakfast I see a notification come up from the schools announcement page, reminding us about the Creative Writing club beginning today. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, and I promise myself I will push off the anxiety's, and join the club.
After I finish, I rinse my bowl, and throw on a small coat, my ballet flats, and grab my bag, and rush out the door.
~~
Arriving at school i do the same thing I always do. I go straight to my locker, ignoring the stares and hurtful whispers tossed in my direction. I am used to it all. Shoving it off my shoulder is just part of the daily routine. Approaching my locker I see someone blocking it. A tall athletic man, a football player I'm assuming, is standing there, and talking to someone, a thin, yet slightly athletic built woman. Cheerleader, again an assumption.
I walk up to my locker, and stare icy daggers into the back of the man standing in front of me. When he notices my presence, he turns, and in a mocking tone he asks,
"What am I blocking your way mute?" Not the meanest I've been called, but still. I stare into his eyes, my neck craned up to look at his face. The woman slides herself in under his arm, but it almost seems like he's brushing her off.
"What not even gonna answer? I'm so offended sweetheart." I roll my eyes at the nickname, honestly preferring mute over any attempts at flattery from the man standing in the way of my schedule.
"Awe, she's just like a little kid. Can't even use her words."
"Shut up Avery" The man says to the preppy auburn-ed hair cheerleader. She lets out a clearly exaggerated pout, and he just continues to ignore her blatant showing off of her slender figure,while I watch the man's eyes drift down. Checking me out. Disgusted I turn and walk away, hearing him call out to me. I just continue to walk, thankful for the fact I always carry my writing supplies on me. I walk directly into my first period class, still quite early, thankful for the fact it's history.
"Good Morning Aurelia. I was starting the new creative writing club, and it may be short notice, but I would most certainly like if you were to come to our first meeting today. I look at her and smile and nod. She didn't know about the interest I already had in the club, but I feel acknowledged that she sent me that personal invite. I feel like it's because she knows about my writing, but knows I most likely wouldn't show up to such a thing without a personal invitation.
"I feel like you may find some friends there, and hopefully step out of your comfort zone. I think it would do you a world of good. You can't live through your writing forever." My head drops at the last sentence. 'You can't live in your writing forever' the words strike me much harder than I could have ever expected. I am happy by myself aren't I? I don't need anyone else. I have Catherine, and I still have Adam in my writing. I don't need anyone else. Anyone I talk to could send me away. They could send me back to that place. I clutch my necklace, my breath quickly raising in speed, my small figure goes unnoticed as the bell goes off and students begin on a stream into the classroom. I can feel Mrs. Winquist's eyes on my head, as if her stare is heating up my head, which is safely tucked into my desk.
I'm happy
I'm happy
Am I happy?
I'm happy

I reassure myself repeatedly until I hear the last of the students settle into their seats,and I feel my heart rate start to settle.II'll go to this meeting, but I will go there, show my writing, and enjoy the fact I'll be around like minded people. I have to be careful, one wrong step could expose me back to there, but Adam won't be there. I'll be alone there, so I have to be normal. I will only write things that seem unreal enough to be just a story. I'll keep Catherine out of it. I'll keep writing my private writing at home. I'll be normal. No one will know.
I'm happy, I'm normal, and no one will send me back to that place.
Mew ฅ(⌯͒• ɪ •⌯͒)ฅ❣








Mudwesterner
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