A little note first: You've probably noticed we didn't post any stories in April, nor any stories relating to April's theme. Life problems have been prominent for all four of us, prohibiting some new stories. We're also going to go with a more rolling process - when we have a story to post, it'll be posted. Themes won't always be there.
That being said... Here's a story from Kaitlin:
I sit quietly. Alone. In the dark. A ghost light stands at center stage, but it doesn’t help lead my way.
I tap my heel on the ground, the clap resounding throughout the auditorium. Perfection. My muse is alive, reborn through the stillness of a frozen theater. I pull out my notebook and begin to write.
Not far down the page, the click of a door sounds from behind me. I snap my notebook shut, spinning to see an intruder.
He walks silently, the flat bottoms of his shoes refusing to make a sound. So unlike mine. He walks with his hands deep in his pockets, his head ducked low.
When he looks up, he catches my eye. My hand rolls into a fist against my notebook, crushing my pen. Such audacity he has to scare away my muse.
He continues walking until he is by me seat. He sits next to me. I freeze.
His hair is blonde and his eyes are silver and his foot is touching mine, brushing it ever so slightly. What’s he doing?
He glances to the ghost light and then back to me. “Do you know what ghost lights are for?”
He smiles slightly. “Do you perform?”
I stare at the stage, slowly inching my notebook away from him. I whisper, “I write.”
“That’s a great thing,” he says back. His voice is like a promise. It’s smooth, quiet, and doesn’t seem to end. It’s always there, seeping into your mind and soul.
“And you?” I say as a shiver runs down my spine. His foot, than his leg, had brushed mine again.
Performed? Past tense?
I flash a curious glance at him. He doesn’t notice, only stares back at the ghost light. He sighs, “I’ve seen you here often.”
He knows. He knows I come in the theater to write. My stomach churns. I’m not used to people talking to me, telling me I’m not invisible. Especially not boys with little smiles and wide, blue eyes. I stay silent.
His voice softens a little. “I think you’re beautiful.”
My spine shoots straight. No, boys never said that. I avoid looking at him. “I’ve never seen you before…”
He hesitates, “I… I don’t always come out.”
I turn to look at him, opening my mouth to respond. But, instead he’s leaned in close. He presses his lips, soft and thin, against mine. I close my eyes.
And then his whisper of a kiss disappears and we’re looking into each other’s eyes. He pulls my hand into his. “I want to give you this.”
I stare down at my hand, a perfect little penny pressed into my palm. The year 2007. Four years ago.
He whispers, cold breath tickling my spine, “That’s the year I died.”
My head shoots up, ready to give him another curious look.
But he’s gone.