Below is the beginning of a short story I started on. I have yet to finish it but hopefully I’ll be able to add to it a little every now and then.
Frozen with fear,vulnerable to all incoming attacks. Clouds of my breath form in the coldness of nigh,like a mysterious mist hovering over a graveyard. The rapid beat of my heart,an aboriginal drum beating in the jungle that is my body. The source of terror,a spiritual mist in humanoid form gliding back and forth,restless and aggravated. I’ve made similar discoveries in my journeys over the years , but this one is smarter and displaying new talents. Peeking over the tombstone, that I’ve taken shelter behind,I see the spirit of Ralph Donnors.
In life Donnors was a well respected district attorney and loved husband. He was an upstanding member of his community and believed in standing up for the little man. His lovely wife, Marion,died five years after marriage and poor Ralph couldn’t move on. Afterwards he frequented strip clubs and street corners looking for company. He wasn’t a bad man,just lonely. In death his loneliness intensified and transformed into rage that is now transfixed on myself.
I'm a writer at heart with artistic tendencies.In my writing,my nerves are calm and calculating, but when speaking the words fail to exit my mouth in an orderly fashion,often ending in embarrassing moments.