Notice how I have not italicized the word “Literati” as I usually do? I want all the letters to stand erect(careful!) rather than leaning a little bit, so that you understand that I write in earnest… I must further your literary education. Pay attention, class.
A Ghost Writer is one whose works remain invisible except for the spiritually attuned. I post them all the time on this site. I posted Mac Eagan’s entry in this contest, and yet he insists that it did not go on line. I see read people. Do you? If some among you saw it not, as Mac did not, it means you do not have a pair ‘a normal eyes with which to see. Pity.
(the featured image is the Sully Castle in France–ohhh the pain of being fallen aristocracy! In the towers and chambers floats the ghost of Maxmillian Sully, my great great.)
So I am re-posting your repast. Here, again! are Mac’s entries into the contest “Like a Ton of Bricks.” First his 250 words with more cliche’s than Carter’s little literary liver pills; the second, a cleverly worded expose of a single cliche. You may not have a ghost of a chance in finding it.
Clyde Tilson rubbed his temples, his head pounding like a jackhammer. Years of driving Bus 47 taught him to drown out those riders but today he was subbing for Michael, who called in sick as a dog and blowing chunks. This group was already on his last nerve.
“Can’t believe how all bent out of shape Mr. Simmons got because I forgot my homework.”
“The sub actually tried to teach! Man, she was all over the map.”
“Homework in every class. Don’t they know – ’all work and no play’?”
Clyde closed the doors. With his hand on the parking brake, another student slid into view. Clyde re-opened the doors. “Better late than never,” he quipped.
The student simply dashed past him and the conversations resumed their assault.
“It’s only Wednesday! I can’t take another day of this!”
“She hates me. I don’t have a prayer in her class.”
“Oh! Who cut the cheese?”
“Such negativity,” Clyde thought. Don’t these students know the best is yet to come?
“No, no bells and whistles. It’s just a dirt cheap, bare bones tablet.”
“Have you heard their new song? It’s bad to the bone.”
“Me go out with you? Dream on.”
“Ah, to be young and foolish,” Clyde thought, as he pulled away from the last stop. He was ready to call it a day and headed towards home and aspirin. Always looking on the bright side, he consoled himself with the idea it was all in a day’s work.
The minivan’s headlights sliced through the darkness, cutting a path into the future. The rear seats were stowed away and several blankets softened the floor. Jennifer’s three children were sound asleep.
At the wheel, she focused on not joining them. Distance mattered most; only when fatigue put their lives in danger would Jennifer give herself a reprieve.
She barely opened a window, the crisp air restoring her to wakefulness. She decided to drive until two o’clock, then take a twenty-minute nap. She would get at least three more hours until Bill woke up and learned they were gone.
“No more,” she whispered. This time, they were not just words.