E is for Emma

One of the hard things about being a ghost is that no one notices you’re there, including your own creator. I would have thought she’d remember me, the girl in baggy sweaters and felt-squashed hats who sat around in coffee houses, reading and writing stuff she never had the guts to share with anyone except Esther, until I died. Not that I remember much of what happened. I found myself insubstantial, unseen, haunting a coffee house I’d spent entirely too much time in when I was alive, being hunted by a mysterious group of sharp-toothed wraits called the Soul Collectors. I was originally a World of Darkness character for Wraith: The Oblivion until my creator decided she wanted to experiment with writing in second person. She started a Work in Progress called Your Name is Emma. There I was in my own story, only the story never got finished, and here I am, talking in first person because I’m part of this #BloggingFromAZAprilProject: Character Change. I’ve showed up in Cauldron Tales (freebie stories) which appear here. I’d like my story to continue. I just keep getting pushed to the side for other characters. Maybe I ought to push back, only my hands tend to pass through things. Being insubstantial is the dregs of existence, clinging to an empty coffe mug that you stare at a lot, wondering where the contents went, why you didn’t notice or appreciate them more when you were drinking them. Huh, that’s not too bad. Maybe I should write that down, only my ghostly hands can’t lift a pencil or touch a keyboard. Maybe I ought to possess someone and get them to write it down for me. I could always possess Esther. Only Esther gets really mad when I do it without permission. I don’t always have time to ask. Not if I want to write something down before it fades away. This was true when I was alive as well as now that I’m dead. Dead I sometimes fade away along with the ideas. Here’s hoping Esther understands that. She says one of the things I never did in life was be considerate of other people. I’m trying, I’m trying. You’d think I’d have all the time in the word, seeing as I’m dead now. I don’t. Between Soul Collectors and fading away with greater frequency, I get the feeling my time in the afterlife is running out. If I want to know how I died, do some of things I failed to do while I lived, I’d better hurry before even this afterimage of me flickers out.