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Ghostwriter Adventures (read the PS too)



You caught my interest… :smile:


And then I took a wee snooze. NO worries, I solemnly swear I’m still up to mischief.


Sorry my dude, but there’s been a lot of heated discussion on the forums lately and the kind of tongue-in-cheek piece I was hoping to sketch may not go over well, present climate considered. No worries, I’ll likely still work on it, but save it for another time. Meanwhile, inspiration is everywhere, so I’ll keep my wits about me. =^_^=

Meantime, anyone and everyone is welcome to add in something. :heart:


The time has come. AKA “I need a break from writing my thesis.”

Inspiration came at the worst of times and it wouldn’t be contained. Bear with me. This is a fictional character, with some elements drawn from @Vandem, but frankly very few. It’s in my subconscious somewhere. Sorry if I’m stomping over the purpose of the whole thing, dana.

Oi, Vandem, you good-for-nothing wrath-inducing chaos-making dog-obsessed European! Help me by filling this thing out. Hope you like it.

:exclamation: 1 rule only: pick as you read, don’t read the whole thing first. There’s a tiny catch (to be explained) and picking as you go is part of the fun. :exclamation:

Gather around, kids. It’s story time.

Filler options:

  1. Justice, Faith, Wrath
  2. wise, humble, relentless
  3. envious, innocent, ignorant
  4. one day, two days, three days
  5. tooth, finger, ear


Story Time

The river that danced from the hills to his home had the smell of berries; that’s how he knew spring had come. Like his wrinkled grandmother, the river told an ancient story, from a time when the dust hadn’t even had time to settle on the land. Like all things, it had a name: (-- 1 --). And like its name, it was (-- 2 --).

Amma, his grandmother, had taught him that all words uttered by men had a story – and she joked, in the winter nights when she was bitter over too much burning wine and her cotton blanket was smelling sickly of burnt tobacco, that words uttered by women oftentimes didn’t. What she failed to teach him, however, was that not all stories were worth listening to.

In the winter of her passing, Amma decided that she’d tell him a story he had grown out of craving, a story he had learned not to inquire about, a story that had always carried the weight of led heavier than his bones. It was a story that tasted exactly the same as the day his older brother had punched his jaw: it tasted of unbecoming metal and warm blood.

The wind had been howling outside for (-- 4 --), and the dead seal was starting to stink. The eight men and five women confined to a single room had no prospects of seeing the sun grace their cheeks again, and with Amma sick it felt like at least one of them wouldn’t make it out of the hut alive.

Daníel had been the first to speak, when night-time was slow to approach and Alda’s incessant and consistent humming had crafted itself into madness. He thought his brother always had a way with words, despite being far shorter and quite (-- 3 --). He looked into their grandmother’s eyes, as resolute as the day he had killed a shark for the first time.

“Amma,” he pleaded, “how did grandfather pass away?”

A punch flew and with it followed his uncle, a heavy and broad man who believed in enlightenment through pain. Amma could only speak over his ferocious howls when Daníel was short of a (-- 4 --) and the room smelled like metal again. He helped his brother to his feet and offered him some burning wine – it would ease the pain away.

“He asked, and I will answer,” said Amma, from inside a thick layer of blankets. “The story will either die with me or live through you. There is wisdom,” she turned to the room “that can only be carried through words.”

They gathered together. The sleeping men rose, the needles stopped moving through thin white hands and even the wind seemed to silence itself. For once, Winter revolved around a dying woman strapped to a bed, stripped of the freedom she had once loved so much.

“Today, I will tell you of (-- 1 --), and of the death of the love of my life.”

Amma had been holding the end of his scarf as he gathered berries. It was the end of spring, and the round blue berries weren’t as bountiful anymore. With the passing of the days, the couple had to walk further and further away from their hut to find food, and with each step came a clashing of cold teeth. But something had held her together, compelled her to stay by his side: she believed her husband had what no other man had, a sense of (-- 1 --).

He was like the river that quenched their thirst in summer and froze their path in winter. He was (-- 2 --) and, in his (-- 2 --), he was hers.

One year, winter had been particularly harsh. Berries had been scarce even during spring and the overcast clouds had deprived them of what little warmth the sun provided. In their desperation, they had eaten almost anything they came by, as it had been passed down to them to do. In doing so, however, Amma had fallen sick.

He held his brother’s arm as she told the hut-full of people – her family – of the cramps she had felt. Pain which made her believe she had mistakenly eaten a shark alive, and that it was seeking revenge by, in turn, feeding off of her entrails. “Your grandfather,” she said, turning to her tallest grandson “knew I would not be able to stand it anymore. So he went to the nearest river to break its surface in hope of finding fresh water. The river water, you see, was considered magical. I was all he could do not to cower in fear of my death.

“For (-- 4 --) he went at the river’s surface with all his might. Striking at it with all the tools and weapons we owned while I was left resting in our hut. After some time I woke up; I could tell it was late. For hours he did not return. When, finally, someone walked in through the door, it was not him.”

The room felt eerily silent.

“In walked Emil, a man who had lived a safe distance away from your grandfather and I since before we were married, back when my mother and father were looking to marry me off. Emil had always seemed a bit (-- 3 --), and that is what made my mother pick your grandfather over him.

“As I said, Emil came in. He was holding a pouch and it was full of some liquid I could not identify through the leather. He sat by my side on the bed and slowly raised my head. ‘Drink,’ he had said. Not half an hour passed after I accepted the drink and fell back to sleep when your grandfather burst in through the door. He was furious.

“I still remember the way your grandfather ran after Emil. Emil who was so much shorter and should not have won the race. Emil who had successfully dug a whole into the river to save my life. Emil ran towards the river, and your grandfather followed. Emil understood the river, he did not.”

There was a long pause as the wind howled outside and Amma closed her eyes, as if remembering a sweet memory, a small smile plastered on her face.

“Grandma?” He tried. “What happened to him?”

She did not hesitate as she held one bony hand around her own neck. “He fell into the river and died.”

“But what killed him?”

“(-- 1 --).”


Thank you for letting me fill out the story, I liked it a lot :slight_smile:
Not entirely sure how it is related to me though :smiley:

anyway, here are my choices that I picked following your rule

  1. Justice
  2. wise
  3. ignorant
  4. three days
  5. tooth


@coralinecastell That was so beautfiful! Just wow! :heart:

Used my last like on that and it’s ironic: Higher Love. sniffs

Feels warm and fuzzy inside. Happy you revived this. It was on my mind just last night. Thank you for a really deep and sweet story.

@Vandem You got petted. :stuck_out_tongue: