Torn Souls

24. Poet boy

"George, I am so serious. You're writing is so incredible." Dream said from the bar stool watching George making some type of desert.

"You're just being dramatic."

A funny thing about artist is they rarely ever see the beauty in their own creations. It could be the loveliest painting with the most vivid colors and the most intricate details. Or it could be the purest poems with the deepest of meanings with a satisfying rhyming pattern.

"George. Come on!" His voice fell flat with seriousness, he looked up from George's writing journal to give him a glare. "You are literally the best writer I've ever like.. read from. And I've read quite a few books."

"No one reads poems anymore. And who would I go to to get them published? I don't know of a single publishing company in London." While that was true, he hadn't actually ever looked for one. George could've passed one, but his eyes we're always glued to the ground. Besides that, he was missing both time and motivation to actually ever do something about it. While he was sure there had to be some big company, his depression got in the way of his dreams.

Dream huffed, dropping his head into his arms that rested on the counter top. They both knew in the entirety of just London, there had to be thousands of people who loved poems. And there was for sure a publishing company, they just had to find one. Dream knew George was missing the ambition that would allow him the life he wanted. The ghost wasn't going to take the progress George had made for granted though. When he first saw him, his eye bags were deep and his skin pale. He looked more dead than his own ghostly complexion was. The corners of his mouth were pulled downward from the heavy sadness and his shoulders hunched from his bag stuffed with books and binders. Now, his eyes glimmered with love and hope- the eye bags still there just not as deep. His mouth curved upward in a slight smile and posture taller than before. George, who was once only the shadow of a boy was now a work of art in front of Dream.

George turned the oven off before washing his hands and leaving the kitchen. Walking into his bedroom, he called behind him, "You coming?"

Dream scrambled from the stool and into his room, tackling the other onto the bed. "No, but you will be." He smirked from on top of the brit. They both held their breaths before laughing. Dream collapsed beside him. "Hey, I mean it. You're an amazing writer and you could really be something if you tried."

George stared up at the ceiling, absorbing what Dream had said. He imagined the little woodland cottage, bookshelves stacked with books and trinkets, the rooms filled with colorful and cozy furniture. A grey cat with green eyes would sleep lazily in the sunlight streaming through a rounded window. But that was just a dream. "I would love to try. But I'm tired." Under the covers, he shifted closer to the ghost. Sleep came to him easy, his body used to the irregular nap schedules.

Dream laid awake, his mind racing with the different possibilities and ways to get George started. He was sure it was possible, he would manage. He just needed that initial push. While Dream couldn't interact with people he could interact with technology. And if remembered correctly, George had left his computer on the coffee table. He managed to slip from his grasp and out from under the covers.

The living room still smelled like warm cinnamon from the pastry George made. It was only about four, which gave him more hope. Opening to google, his fingers clicked keys and his eyes darted across the screen. Frantically searching for a nearby publishing company, he imagined how this would go, he prayed there would be a place to submit entrys and George would be recognized. Alas, he had found something, it was in London. Just across the entire city. It would work though. He found a place to submit entrys and sighed in relief.

Dream grabbed the journal from the counter and admired the outside for a moment. It's leather cover was beginning to crack and the rope that ran parallel to the spine held a stem of dried and pressed lavender by a tightly tied knot. The inside had stamps from all around the world. A hand written letter wishing him a 'happy birthday, I know how much you love writing I love you', signed from his mother began to fade. They had traveled the world and George took the journal with him everywhere. He turned the pages, scavenging for his favorite poems and short stories to type in and submit. He noticed the lines underneath words were fading. He noted to get him a new one soon.

About an hour after submitting the pieces, a ding came through the computer. Then two, then three. Hope flowed through him as he reached for the computer, tilting the screen into view. A smile stretched across his face as he watched emails flood into George's inbox. He clicked the first one. Words were muttered as eyes scanned adept offerings to put poems in the literature section of the paper. Dream pumped his fist into the air, body leaving the couch before sinking down again. A triumphant laugh escaped his lips, then a debate of whether he should wake George. Deciding against it, he shut the computer and looked over the city, giving one last celebratory fist pump. Turning the lights off, Dream felt his way until he found George's bed. He woke him, but just enough to readjust. The ghost took in the clean scent that surrounded him, his arms finding the other's waist.

"Good night poet boy." Dream chuckled at the confused hum.

"Good night." Was all George could mutter before falling back asleep.