Maude the Unfriendly Ghost by John Villan, chai tea

 Hannah was the only girl in class to have a ghost, and she was quite excited about it. Her popularity had taken a hit in recent years. She didn’t have a car like Kathy, or a secret tattoo like Jasmine. No one from the boys’ school took an interest in her like they did Anastasia. Once, she’d even overheard some of the others making fun of her boring, straight, brown hair—not that she’d ever let on that she’d heard.

            So on that blustery November morning, she walked through the doors of Saint Cecilia’s with confidence, ready to make her grand announcement. She marched up to a group centered around Kathy (who no one liked all that much, really, but she’d drive them for milkshakes after school) and struck a self-important pose while clearing her throat.

            She said, 'You may have heard that we moved into the old Andrews House. Well, you will never guess what I found in my new room.'

            She had their rapt attention. A round of wild guesses ensued. A diamond necklace? A stash of alcohol? A dirty magazine? Kathy, eyes wide, finally said, 'Come on, Hannah, tell us. What is it?'

            'A ghost.' Her voice was nonchalant, like she hadn’t just made it out to be a huge deal.

            Mouths literally fell open. There were reverent murmurs of 'Woh,' mutterings of 'No way.'

            Jasmine, the one with the secret tattoo (which was just a dumb butterfly on her shoulder), hurried over from another group as the commotion broke out. She squeezed in beside Kathy. 'Did you just say you have a ghost?'

            Hannah was still playing it cool. 'That’s right.'

            'Oh my gosh,' Jasmine said, with an exaggerated expression of shock. She loved being the center of attention. 'Is it terrifying? Do you need a place to stay? You can always stay with me, we have a guest room.'

            'No, she is not terrifying.'

            'Oh wow, so it’s a friendly ghost?' Kathy asked. 'That sounds so, so amazing.'

            'Well,' said Hannah, pausing. She had to tread carefully here. 'We’ve only just met.'

            Anastasia, who wasn’t all that pretty (boys only noticed because she stuffed her bra) had joined the group. She couldn’t stand to be left out. 'When can we meet your ghost, Hannah?'

            First thing after school, they went to meet the ghost. Kathy drove.

            'I’m scared,' said Jasmine, as the four bounded up the stairway.

            'Hannah said she’s friendly,' said Kathy.

            'No she didn’t,' said Anastasia.

            They reached the bedroom door. Hannah knocked. They waited.

            Finally, a thin voice came from the room: 'Fine, fine. Come in, if you must.'

            They entered. 'Everyone,' said Hannah, 'this is my ghost. Her name is Maude.'

            Maude was sitting in a rocking chair near the room’s corner. Her skin was pale, and she was just a little translucent. Her dark hair was done up in a beehive. She looked maybe a decade older than their mothers, and her face was joyless. 'That’s Miss Purcell to you,' she said.

            'My friends wanted to meet you,' said Hannah.

            The chair rocked back and forth. 'And now they have,' Maude said.

            Anastasia blurted out, 'How are you moving that chair?'

            Maude frowned. 'Not the brightest, are they?' She turned to Anastasia. 'With my legs, you silly girl.'

            'Can you fly?' asked Kathy.

            'Now why would I want to do a thing like that?'

            Jasmine snorted, turning to the others. 'Not very impressive, is she? Hannah, is there anything your ghost can do?'

            The rocking stopped. 'I can see into your soul. Is that impressive enough?'

            The girls froze. Except for Jasmine. She planted her hands on her hips. 'Sounds like a load of bull. Tell me, then, what’s in my soul?'

            Maude’s face fell into shadow. 'Fear. You will do anything to keep others from knowing your secret.'

            Jasmine laughed in defiance, but her lip trembled. 'My secret? What secret is that?'

            Maude’s voice grew colder. 'That however much you try to convince them otherwise, you are the most ordinary, boring girl at that school of yours. But deep down, you know they see it.'

            A tear streamed down Jasmine’s face.

            Anastasia reached over and took Jasmine’s hand. 'That’s an awful thing to say. Why would you say that?'

            'No, not very bright at all,' said Maude. 'Tell me, girl, why do you strut around trying to catch the attention of all those rotten boys? You think it will fool your girlfriends? That they won’t notice the way you look at them?'

            Anastasia dropped Jasmine’s hand. Her face was red. Kathy stepped forward and opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

            'You are the easiest of all,' Maude said. 'You drive everyone around in that heap of junk car so you can pretend you’re friends. But every night, you cry yourself to sleep knowing they wouldn’t like you without it.'

            The faces of all three girls were now streaked with tears. Without a word, Kathy headed for the door. Anastasia and Jasmine followed as she went for the stairs.

            Hannah asked, 'Why did you say those awful things to my friends?'

            Maude’s lips curled into a grin. 'That’s why you brought them here, isn’t it?'

            Hannah caught up with the others as they were getting into Kathy’s car. 'Wait.'

            Kathy was already in the driver’s seat. 'I just want to go home.' The others nodded.

            'She’s awful,' Hannah said. 'Plus, what she said wasn’t true. This is a great car.' She forced a smile. 'And even if some of it was true, it doesn’t matter to me. Why don’t we all go out for milkshakes? My treat.'

            Anastasia stood blocking the back door. 'Tell us, Hannah, what would she have said about you?'

            Hannah’s smile fell. Her voice was a whisper. 'That I’m jealous.'

            Fall was in the air. A lone, speckled yellow leaf floated to the ground.

            Anastasia took a deep breath. 'I guess milkshakes sound okay.'

            Jasmine said, 'Fine, let’s just get going.'

            'Milkshakes, then,' said Kathy.

 

About the author

John Villan is a writer of fiction and poetry. He has lived and traveled throughout much of the continental United States and has an avid interest in American history, with a special focus on colonial era history. He lives in northern Arkansas along with his wife and their three dogs. 

 

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Black Socks on the Clothes Lline

by Roxy Thomas 

chai tea 

He walked very slowly down the back alley delaying the journey home and the inevitable questions he could not answer. Paul never took this way, he always used the front street, and always in a hurry, never at such a leisurely pace. Maybe he would finally learn something about the neighborhood he had called home for so long but never got to enjoy, as he rushed madly from the downtown skyscraper, to the crowded bus, to the quick walk past all the manicured lawns to his brick bungalow, like all the other suburban bungalows. Now he finally had a chance to see the hidden lives of his neighbors, most he had never met, nor admittedly wanted to meet. He left the socializing to his wife Doreen, and she kept him updated on all the comings and goings, whether he cared or not.

He sighed as he passed the Smith’s garage and remembered the story Doreen had told him of the couple’s recent vacation to Bermuda. He noticed with interest the colorful beach towels hanging on their clothesline. It was odd to see blue and white nautical towels flapping against the red and yellow autumn leaves left on the tress and crunching beneath his feet as he trudged even slower. Doreen was always pleading with him to take time off for a vacation, but he always felt that the timing was never right. He repeatedly told her he was the only person at work with the full knowledge of the latest project and never felt comfortable being away for more than a few days at a time. How silly he was to have sacrificed so much and shown such loyalty, what did it get him in return, and how was he going to tell Doreen?

He cringed when he thought of the condescending way he had spoken to her when she asked him for the first time why he couldn’t get away for longer so they could spend a few extra days in the mountains, the only place they ever went. Her face had crumpled when he told her that she did not understand how business worked, and if he was ever going to get the sought-after promotion, they had to sacrifice for the sake of his career. Over time she stopped asking about taking more exotic vacations and hadn’t even complained when a strategy planning day forced him to cancel last year’s annual Thanksgiving trip to Jasper.

Paul walked passed the unpainted fence of the Henderson’s and slowed even more as he recalled what Doreen had told him about their situation when he had complained about the state of disrepair and how it was bringing down property values. She told him how Mr. Henderson had left his wife for another woman and how hard it was for Mrs. Henderson her to keep up the yard now that their kids had moved out. He remembered Doreen’s not so subtle comment about losing a man to a mistress evoked sympathy, but losing a man to a job did not. At the time he felt anger, but now he felt shame at not recognizing what she meant.

He stopped to switch his shoulder strap to the other side, as the heavy papers and books were cutting into his neck. Packing up one’s desk on short notice took less time than he thought and he had accumulated very few personal possessions to bring home. Most of the knowledge he was leaving was electronic and he was only bringing home a few files, some reference books and a honeymoon picture of Doreen and himself in front of Niagara Falls, their only real trip. Her colorful pink dress shone in the sun and was almost as bright as her eyes.

Paul walked past the immaculate backyard of the Van De Kamp’s, and noticed the assortment of bright patterned socks hanging on the clothes line, next to the colorful button down golf shirts, flapping in the still warm breeze. Somehow the cheerfulness of the socks darkened rather than brightened his mood and he was not sure why. But a memory of Doreen sobbing when she found the bright blue striped pair she bought him for his birthday in the donate bag twisted his insides. She had been so happy when he opened the package and excited for him to try them on, but he had only scoffed and said they were too flashy. She tried once more to get him to wear them one weekend when she finally convinced him to take her to a movie after their usual Saturday lunch at their favorite Chinese restaurant. He refused and told her his black socks were perfectly fine for work and for weekends and to quit wasting money. She was sulky as they ate their usual combination plate of rice, pineapple chicken balls and sweet and sour ribs, so predictable that the waiter just brought them the same order each time. He recalled her sadness was drowned out somehow by the cheerful yellow sweater she wore. Doreen used to pride herself on her bright wardrobe, almost as an antithesis to his corporate attire, but lately she too had taken to sensible grey sweaters.

His pace slowed even more as he drew close to their back gate, dreading having to tell her that all the years of sacrifice had not paid off, all the years of loyalty to the company had not been returned when he received his lay-off notice. He could not help but regret all those missed vacations. As their back yard came in to sight, Paul noticed the well painted fence and mowed lawn, but was struck by what was on their clothesline, dozens of back socks, button down white dress shirts, and grey trousers. What he would not give to see one of Doreen’s bright floral dresses flapping in the breeze.

About the author 

Roxy is an aspiring writer by evening and a psychiatric nurse and safety specialist by day. She lives with her husband, two cats and a dog on 20 acres in Alberta near a national park where the bison roam. She has published a personal essay in her city newspaper and non-fiction pieces on the topic of mental health in a small town weekly. I am building my presence on her Website/Blog and on Twitter , Facebook and Goodreads .