Username + ID#: Northstar. #65952
Kalon Link: Hopscotch
Chosen Prompt: "How do they handle a bad day?"
Prompt Response:
He did his best to ignore them - the dead, that is. Spirits. Ghosts. Whatever floats your boat.
A migraine pounded at his temples. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Sunlight hurts. Sounds hurt. Thinking hurts.
And those lingering spirits? They make it infinitely worse.
You'd think they could go bother some other exiled deity of death for their unfinished business - but nooooo, of course not. It had to be him.
Today of all days, it had to be him.
The city is loud - too many voices, alive and dead, too many noises. Exhaust, and garbage fill his nostrils.
His stomach turns.
"You! You're him! They said - they said you could help! That you would hear me. It's been so long since I have been heard," a spirit rants near his ear. A man - late 70s perhaps, with a scraggly beard and a ghostly plastic cane.
Hopscotch ignores him. He jingles his key ring round and round.
Maybe the spirit will leave.
"I know it's you! They said you're like this, you don't like to help! But who else will help us! Who else can hear?"
Ah. A smart spirit.
He throws a leg over his motorcycle, revs the engine until it drowns everything out.
"I'm taking a me day," he laughs at the sputtering ghost and gasses it.
He flies past city streets, beneath bridges and tunnels, past highways and interstates until civilization is far, far behind him. A sunset paints the sky. The colors make his headache pound behind his eyebrows. And then in his eyes and cheeks.
He needs to stop.
The motorcycle slows and he kills the engine.
A ghost sits quietly on a stump beside a dingy mailbox. Dark hair, bright eyes, neither very old or young - a dark ball cap pulled over his hair with a blue logo on it. Barely middle aged. Too young to die by today's standards. He watches a house up the tree lined driveway - well-kept besides the overgrown grass and a few branches in the yard.
Hopscotch presses his knuckles to his temples, a huff of frustration on his lips. Even here, far from city limits, they follow. Can he catch a break? For once?
He grumbles and collapses beside the ghost.
"Do you drink enough water?" the spirit asks softly. Hopscotch's narrow eyes cut balefully to the man - who is still looking up the drive. "My daughter gets headaches. She doesn't like the taste. I have to... had to fuss at her even as an adult. She'll forget."
Hopscotch's sigh could topple mountains.
"What do you want?" he asks the spirit flatly.
"Well you sure could take better care of yourself, for one. There's a cooler behind you for delivery drivers. Take what you need. Looks like you haven't slept in days."
Hopscotch does, and the pain in his head eases a bit. The empty bottle is tossed in the garbage can... And Hopscotch feels obligated at this point to help the spirit move on.
"What do you need?" he asks, far less abrasive than his previous question. Not quite kind, either, but getting there.
The spirit sighs - a sound that echoes the first breath of winter. Defeated. He's looking up the drive again, to the house in the overgrown grass and shielded by tall oak trees.
"I left my daughter my home," the spirit says conversationally. "She lives there now, alone. She's a good kid..." He scrubs his face with calloused hands and blinks back tears. "She's not doing too well. Ever since -well, you know. She's been looking for the keys to my bike. Tore up the whole house, put it back together. But they're under my shirt on the couch that's been there since... Since I died. Can you tell her?"
Hopscotch stares.
He's been asked for many, many things as last requests, unfinished business. Crazy, outlandish, foolish things. And this spirit - this man - only wanted him to tell his daughter where the keys were.
He blinks.
"Yeah, yeah I can do that." The motorcycle revs to life. "Get on."
The bike leaves dust in it's wake as he pulls up to a porch loaded with well-kept plants. Peace lilies, ferns, ivy with a yellow ribbon and a 'sorry for your loss' card still on it.
He knocks. Waits. Knocks again.
A woman opens the door, dark circles beneath her eyes, lips pressed together tightly. A cap is pulled low on her head - the same one the spirit wears.
"I don't want to buy anythi"-
"His Harley keys are under the Star Wars shirt on the couch."
Her face pales, door left open as she spins around and disappears into the living room. The telltale jingle as she finds them. And then her sad, tear streaked face as she returns, clutching the keys in one hand, and that old, ratty Star Wars t-shirt in the other.
"Can you tell her to lay off the clutch when she cuts the curb?" the spirit asks softly, roughly wiping tears from his face. "And that I'm proud of her, and I love her and"-
"How did you?? How did you know?" the woman sobs. "I couldn't find them - I miss him so much - I don't know how to thank you"-
"Hey," Hopscotch says firmly, and they both quiet. His chest hurts. "Five minutes. I can give you five minutes. No more, no less," he says as he turns to leave. Down the steps, motorcycle revved to go as both ghost and woman question him.
The pressure in his head releases as his energy is siphoned in one fell swoop. Great, now he was seeing double.
"Dad?" he hears the woman ask, bordering on a hysterical sob.
"Hey kiddo." A choked laugh, murmured words of love, and 'I miss you's. A final goodbye.
Hopscotch hits the gas and flies out of there. He pretends the water in his eyes is from dust, allergies, even as his hands tremble.
Half a mile down the road he pulls over and collapses in the grass, staring up at the darkening sky.
His headache was gone.
Token Worth: 10 tokens (1013 words)
Previous Responses: 1