Pen Beneath The Bush

Lavender Wednesday

I'm Lavender Wednesday: famous opera singer in Cambridge. I live in the gentle fountains, but I get no visitors. In fact, nobody has listened to me in years. They cannot see my pale robes. No one feels my presence anymore. They won't know who I am: because I'm dead! I look forward to Halloween, much more than Christmas. It's the only time of the year when people seem to know I'm around.

It's the only time they hear my voice. I don't know why, but everybody's sensitivity seems to increase in the autumn. When I was alive, I filled the seats all year round. Centuries later, they only talk about me in October. By the time November comes, I am forgotten, once again.

I sang a cold song that lured people towards the fountain. Kids dressed as sorcerers gathered around, to see where the voice was coming from. They could not see me, but I floated towards the boy with ginger girls and patted his head. He opened his hands and smiled. I summoned his favourite chocolate bar in his hand. I see him every Sunday with his granddad feeding the ducks. So kind, a rarity amongst the rotten brats that fill the city centre.

After the kids left, a young couple sat by the fountain holding hands. I sang something smoother and lowered the pitch, to make things more romantic for them.

The woman gasped, squeezing the man's hand. "Can you hear that? It's beautiful."

"Sounds like a shrieking banshee," he said, chuckling.

I had never been so insulted. I sucked his face, hurling him into the water.

A skater youth smirked. "One must never insult the ghost of Lavender Wednesday."

"She doesn't exist," the man roared.

I sang at my voice's peak. "YES I DO!"

The couple fled.