ghost writer

Entry Number 3: The Reader and Writer Meet

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Today’s entry takes us deeper into the plot of the story and we see the characters really start to take form. I will be very honest with you, I am having to really push myself and challenge my imagination.


Akins-Anderson Sydney: “I’ve seen these before.” Sydney said in an awe struck whisper. The ideograms, illuminated and project by azure light scrawled across the walls with vivid detail. Realizing his mouth had dropped open, he snapped his jaws shut and push back his glasses. As his eyes roved the arcane symbols he suddenly, and with less shock than he would have expected, noticed another thing. Everyone in the café had gone still. In a single sweep he saw that no one was moving. Like mannequins they had frozen in place. A Barista had been in the middle of pouring a mug of coffee, but now the liquid hung patiently in midair.

Sydney turned to the Writer.

Until now she had said nothing. Only observed. That would change.

“What is this?” Sydney asked with forced evenness.

The Writer cocked her head to the side and stared at him piercingly. He could feel her examining him; mind, body, and soul. It made him feel naked, yet strangely enough he wanted her to deem him worthy. And on the tail of that inclination he thought. Worthy of what? He returned her stared with great effort. The Writer sat less than three feet away from him and yet he could not see her. It was as if the nerves connecting his eyes to his brain had been laced with LSD. Her features changed, her clothes changed, and the more he concentrated the less he could make out.

“It’s easier if you don’t try to see me.” The Writer at last spoke. Like her features, her voice shifted with spagyric ease. One second he heard a child, the next an old woman, and everything in between. Yet beneath it all there was a unifying aura, a singular presence. .if only he could reach it.

“Forgive me for the shock of this occasion, but it was . . . necessary.” The Writer added.

“What is all of this?” Sydney asked bluntly. He was surprised at how well he was handling the unreality of the situation. Perhaps later he would go psychotic, but for now he wanted answers. The Writer turned and gazed at the spirituous transcript. Sydney sensed rather than saw a burning conviction in her. After a moment she turned back and engulfed him in the full maelstrom of her gaze.

“What does it say?” She demanded rather than asked.

“I don’t know.” Sydney said

“Who wrote it?” She continued

“I don’t know.” He replied

“Where have you seen it before?” She insisted.

“My dreams.” He answered.

She leaned back and considered his answers, yet her eyes remained on him. He sipped at the coffee she had ordered for him, but found it unappealingly cold. Her bombardment of questions had rattled him more than anything else thus far. In it he sensed, almost desperation. Why that should bother him so much he did not know, at the most it lent this seemingly inhuman figure a semblance of humanity.

“Can you read it?” she asked tentatively.

In her tone Sydney sensed a change in tactics.

“I don’t think so.” He said guardedly.

In a now pleasant tone she said: “Try.”

Sydney turned to the light blue script and tried. He did not know what language it was but it looked almost oriental, or perhaps Sanskrit; wavy and connecting in some places, geometrical and pictorial in others. Yet it all came together quite beautifully. He frowned, how was he supposed to read a language he did not know. He had no idea, but as he considered the unreality of all that was happening, who knew what was possible in this rabbit hole of a coffee shop.

“Something bad is coming from the void.” Sydney said. The words slipped out before he knew what they meant or where they came from. Immediately he turned back to the Writer and asked: “Why did I say that.”
She smiled; the expression both caliginous and bright.

“You read it.” She breathed with an air of relief, than almost to herself: “You are the Reader.”
Sydney didn’t speak, but simply waited for explanation. The Writer muttered something to herself the focused back on him.

“I have a story for you Reader; a very important one. So listen well and believe. It is an old tale that has been retold, reworked, and resold for as long as humans have looked towards the night sky and asked why. But for our purpose I think there is only one beginning that is truly fitting.” She drained her coffee mug and began. “In the beginning was the Word. . .”

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