They don’t know I’m a ghost. Even I forget sometimes. After years of hiding it, I’ve become quite good at obfuscating the signs. So good that I fool myself. Occasionally I let my guard down, and a hint drops free, but no one has managed to piece them together. Yet.
My girlfriend sits not six feet from me, and she has forgotten I am here. Shortly I will get up, startling her. Momentarily the colour will fade from her face, before a smile creeps across, the flicker of shock gone as quickly as it came. It happens so often I don’t think she registers it anymore.
This all started back at primary school (that is another story). In secondary school, I boasted about it for a while: however nobody believed me, so I stopped. I haven’t talked about it since. At university I tried to reinvent myself, but ultimately I was, and still am, just a ghost.
Watching all the people passing by, I don’t notice the car until it has already mounted the curb. It bounces like a toy thrown aside by a toddler, skidding along on its roof. A lamppost finally arrests the shrieking beast. Utter silence fills the air for a brief moment. Then the screams and panic flood the void. I remain where I am, useless in the chaos. From behind the hissing wreckage of the car I see a ghost stand up. She looks directly at me.
Dominic Hemy is rather new to this storytelling game, having been giving numerous nudges by a dear friend to start thinking about it. Beer guru by day, musician by night, there are hopes to add “author” to that list without embarrassment sometime soon.
He is proud to have had pieces previously appear at Nymphs Publications, Stone Of Madness Press, and Pareidolia Literary.