Drabbles

Phantasms Made Real

     The wind whips your curtains about and you growl, watching your papers fly towards the ground and dangerously close to the sill of the window. You've been meaning to get a screen but you like the weather this season and you'll take the insects wandering into your apartment to get the full experience

     Smiling, you pick up your misplaced papers and resettle in your seat. It's annoying to have to put everything the way it was before but that gust of wind brought in the scent of flowers and moss from the well kempt graveyard nearby. You wouldn't be surprised if a ladybug got caught in the strong current and ended up lost and afraid somewhere in your room. Either a ladybug or a spirit.

     When your papers are right again you use a half full water bottle and pencil cup as weights and watch the wind try to swipe your work again. It fails and you smile smugly through the window, your mind personifying the air.

     Shaking your head, you pick a fresh pencil and twirl it between your fingers. Before the wind decided to flex its muscles you were finishing up your assignment for your flash fiction class. It was a last minute decision to take the class and you figured it could help with your poetry. It has, if you're being honest, but now you've forgotten the last bit of what you were going to write. You sigh and push your assignment to the side to reveal the latest poem you've been working on. It's bits and pieces of ideas and you only jot things down when you're stuck on something else. Now you're stuck, so you put pencil to paper and try.

     Nothing comes.

     You rub your eyes and flop back in your chair. Wind caresses your face, giving you a nice chill, and you drop your hands heavily onto your work desk. The sky is baby blue with speckles of grey. You think there's a chance it'll rain.

     Your eyes wander to the graveyard in the distance and you're not afraid at all. Some people think it's creepy or plain bad luck to sleep so near to death, but you find it comforting. Headstones don't make unnecessary noise. Besides, that graveyard was where you first had an encounter with the most beautiful phantasm. You don't believe in ghosts, you never have, but that evening when you saw her, your heart stopped for a few seconds, you were sure.

     Tapping your pencil on your desk, you try to shake away those thoughts. There's no time for that. You have an assignment to do and it needs to be finished by tonight.

     But you find yourself working on that puzzle of a poem, describing that spirit you saw that night.

     She was highlighted by the setting sun and you thought for a second that she was the imprint of a lady alight. You thought her a sad memory of an even sadder moment in history. But this creature wasn't screaming or running or crying out for help. She was moving gracefully through the graveyard grass, like she was born to dance on the fires of the sun.

     Cursing, you drop your pencil and move your assignment over your poem. You need to get it done, damn it, and you're going to do it. You have to stop thinking about her. The whole point of locking yourself in your apartment today was to finish this paper. You promised yourself you wouldn't get distracted.

     But, oh God, you remember how when your heart started beating again it slammed against your chest so hard you were forced to rifle through your room to find that cursed anxiety medication you hadn't needed for months. By the time you took your dose and was at the window again, eager for another eyeful of that gorgeous star blazer, she was gone and your hands were still shaking.

     Hand to your chest, you breathe in deep through your nose, then out through your mouth. These memories always hit you hard and you feel stupid for reacting in such an embarrassing manner. Someone once told you that it's telling that the only woman you'd ever love could make you so excited that you could have an anxiety attack. They told you it's as thrilling as the poems you write. You think it's pathetic.