Challenge: Write anything you want, as much and as many posts as you want (in any form) about a ghost. Be sure to put Ghost Writers in your title, and if you remember, put this challenge in your post so people won't think you're crazy.
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I’ve never been one to keep a diary or journal, so I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because I’m just sitting here, have nothing to read, and just found this book lying open with a bunch of blank pages in the back. Nothing else to do, so I guess I’ll record what’s happened today.
The problem is that I’m not really sure what happened today. I think I might have amnesia. I look around and I’m in what looks like a waiting room, so I guess I’m in a hospital of some kind and, because I can’t remember why I’m here, I’m guessing the amnesia thing is probably right. It must be some kind of selective amnesia, though, because I remember everything before -- before the accident. That’s it! I was on my way to work and had an accident.
But there’s something missing in my memory. I have no idea who I am. I know my address, I can picture my condo, I’m pretty sure I remember my cell phone number, and I know where I work. But there’s no name to go along with all those memories.
A man, dressed as a doctor, walked out of a side room and called out, “Frandsen? Eric Frandsen? Come on, man, speak up, where is Eric Frandsen?”
I don’t know what happened, but it almost seemed as if he was looking for me. But that couldn’t be, could it? He was calling for an Eric Frandsen. Is that my name? I don’t know. I keep writing with my head down so I won’t attract his attention. Oh, he’s walking over toward me. What do I do now?
“Are you Eric Frandsen?” the man asked.
I concentrate on writing this and then he pushed my head back until he’s looking right into my eyes. “Are you Eric Frandsen?”
Somehow that sounds right, but... I’m not quite sure. I know I used to have a name, but I can’t quite remember what it was. I mutter something like, “Uh, yes, I think so... but I’m not sure.”
He stood there a second and then looked around the room. “See, there are some of you who don’t know where you are, why you’re here, or even where you are. This...” He put his large hand back on my head, wiggled it back and forth, and added, “...this is one of them.”
He looked down at me and said, “Where’s your book?”
Wow! I had just finished it and sent it to my publisher and here he was talking about it as if it was already published. I really didn’t know what to say, so settled for, “Um...”
“Well? How do you expect to get along in this world if you don’t have your book?”
I stumbled over a few words and finally managed to spit out, “But it’s not published yet.”
Exasperation? Disgust? I don’t know, but his expression definitely didn’t say that he was happy about what I’d said. “Not your book, your book!”
I looked around and a few people nodded their heads; a few shook their heads; and a few just bowed them, avoiding my eyes.
I looked up at him with what I hoped was a questioning look and said, “Huh?”
He stared at me for a moment and then said, “Where did you come from?”
I looked around and, once again, many heads were bowed, avoiding my eyes. I looked back up at him and brazenly said, “I have no idea.”
I thought. I thought about getting up this morning, showering, having a slice of toast with my coffee, getting into my car, pulling out into the street, and...
Suddenly I couldn’t see anything past that. See... or feel... or understand. In addition, I had just forgotten all the things I had remembered earlier.
“Well?” It was the first time that I noticed that what I thought was a doctor’s smock was actually more like a toga with sleeves. He had a big, red badge on one shoulder and three red stripes on one of his sleeves.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly.
He leaned down until his face was just inches from mine and said, “If you’d read your book, you’d know.”
For some reason, I was scared, but I looked at him and said, “But my book hasn’t been publish...”
“YOU IDIOT!’ he yelled. He looked around at everyone else and said, “Show me your books.” Everyone in the waiting room held up a book. They were all the same and they certainly weren’t mine.
It slowly dawned on me that they were holding up a book that was strangely similar to the one I was using as a journal. I looked down at it, looked at the other people in the room who were still holding their books in the air, and then looked at the uniformed man.
I studied it a second and realized that I had found it lying open to the blank pages and I hadn’t bothered to see what it was. I closed it and read the title: What Ghosts Need to Know.
“I’m your S.G.T. You will do exactly what I tell you to do. Do you understand me?”
Several of the people in the waiting room shouted, muttered, or whispered, “Yes, sir.”
I kinda shook my head and said, “S.G.T.? You made it sound like three letters. Sgt. is an abbreviation for sergeant, is that what you’re saying?”
The S.G.T. looked at me disdainfully, and said, “No. I am not a sergeant. I am your Senior Ghost Trainer, S.G.T., got it?”
He turned to the room and shouted, “You will all address me as S.G.T. Do you understand?”
The entire room suddenly came to life and shouted, “Yes, S.G.T.”
He turned to another uniformed man and said, “Get them moving to the induction area.”
“Yes, Senior,” the young man said. Turning to the room he said, “Okay, you heard the S.G.T., get moving, down there,” pointing toward a ramp.
As we all started moving down the ramp the S.G.T. shouted, “Junior!”
The young ghost trainer turned and said, “Senior!”
The S.G.T. pointed and said, “For heck’s sake, get your tail out of sight.”
The trainee looked back, saw that his two-foot, pointed, red tail was waving around behind him and looked back at his boss, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Senior, that won’t happen again.” He tucked his tail back into his robes and continued to march the new acquisitions down a very long ramp.