One Chapter Project

Ghostwriter By C. A. Winter Somewhere deep in Southern Illinois.  His cell service dropped about fifteen minutes ago and the radio shifted from country to jumbled instruments to a collection of frequency bursts. He made a turn down a winding dirt road and was nearing a spiked rock formation that he’d been warned of.  You’ll see two granite spears. Count three driveways past those on the right, then take the next available left. Someone at a gas station half an hour back was kind enough to sketch the rocks on a wrinkled heat-sensitive receipt. The word ‘ondom’ had a black line in front of it where one of the rocks peaked.  Radio off now, he rolled his window down an inch to let his sitting air breathe in the pines. Cool October flooded the cab as he veered between washboard and mud ruts. Gin and juniper, or Christmas. Too early for Christmas, he thought. He dug through his centre console for a cigarette and lit it with a long barbecue lighter. Some nameless through-town’s ...

  Written by C. A. Winter Introduction to a lecture. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. It is with great privilege that I present to you Dr. Rose Andrews. Dr. Andrews, as you may know, is one of our most highly esteemed alumni. She graduated with the class of 2006 with a PhD in Ectoplasmology and Paranormal Studies. Her thesis was written on the topic of habitual supernatural animas- also known as HSA's- spirits that latch on to patterns rather than places. She is here to give a presentation on the absolute permanence of our existence on and through inanimate objects and locations we reside in. Today, as she presents her findings, we ask that if you are of the feint of heart or superstitious mind, you excuse yourself quietly as the need presents itself. Dr. Andrews has made it clear that she is not offended by your reactions, but she does take offence from those who sit through a lecture without proper personal emotional hygiene. To disgrace your mind without concern is to di...

Written by C. A. Winter   The boys are hanging out in the spotlight under the silos. Robbie is perched on the truck bed with a lap of unopened beers and a tray with some weed. His hands are sticky from picking it apart. Alan, who’s leaning on the back of the truck, forgot to bring the scissors this time. Brendan and Will are standing nearby with a beer in each hand, and they’re all arguing about what might’ve caused their class to be a bunch of fuck ups. Next week, they’re set to graduate high school but none of them have a clue what’s next. As they drink and smoke, things are getting a bit hazy, and the meaning of the madness is becoming clear to Alan. He’s listening to Robbie make fun of Will’s uninteresting opinion on the meaning of life;  there is no meaning.  Alan crunches his feet on the gravel and stops them. “You know what the real problem is?” “What’s that, man-“ Will looks up from his beer.  “The real problem is our dads, man.” Robbie pipes up, “Ole man nev...