This is going to be a series of linked short chapters about the Ghost Writer, and some of the problems he faced while trying to write his first-ever christmas poem 'The Fright Before Christmas'. I don't know how often I'll be able to update, though; school is about to begin again. But I hope it'll be regular. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did actually writing it! (p.s. I hope you find it at least a little funny).
It's rated T because there's mentions of alcohol in this chapter and I want to be safe.
Disclaimer: Danny Phantom and it's characters don't belong to me.
It was quiet in this part of the Ghost Zone.
Well, quiet if you counted someone yelling angrily as quiet.
The source of the noise was a grey-skinned man who, on first glance, seemed intent on wearing through the floor. On closer inspection he was revealed to be pacing (occasionally shouting his annoyance to no-one in particular).
Suddenly he stopped and stalked over to a sofa where he sat down sharply before grabbing a cushion. It wasn't anything special; the colour of mustard and disgustingly fluffy. Ghost Writer stared at it. And stared. And stared some more. After a few minutes (or seconds, he wasn't paying attention to the time) he bellowed in frustration and hurled the fluffy thing away from him – knocking several objects off a nearby tabletop in the process – before looking up at the ceiling and hissing "Give me inspiration!".
The ceiling didn't reply.
Ghost Writer stifled a shout and slumped down to the floor, gently tapping his head on a nearby table leg.
"Why" he said through gritted teeth "is it so difficult to find inspiration for a story, poem or and piece of literature?!"
He slumped further down towards the floor.
"Five months … five months and eight days exactly with no idea what to write about …" he despaired.
After a few minutes of concentrated sulking, he raised his eyes and gazed miserably around the room before glancing at the objects knocked off the table earlier by the fluffy mustard monstrosity.
Sighing unhappily, he shuffled across to them and set about putting them back into place.
Plant pot … last year's Christmas party photo … tacky ornament won from the Halloween raffle …
Wait a moment … Christmas?
With an unusual feeling of urgency, he quickly found the photo and searched it for something, anything unusual or out of place.
Disappointingly, it was the same as ever.
Skulker was still drunkenly singing karaoke in the background with Ember glaring at him.
Technus was pictured by the buffet table, sneaking up on Dora with a branch of mistletoe (if Ghost Writers memory remembered right, she had moved at the last minute sending Technus face first into a bowl of trifle much to Lunch Lady's disgust).
Desiree and Spectra were both shown to be over by the plug socket, no doubt intending to stop Skulker singing.
The Box Ghost was immortalised shouting about (what else?) boxes and how they should all fear his 'deadly' cardboard cubes (no-one had listened to him until he stole their presents and told them to listen or he'd squash the boxes and their contents. He was the most popular ghost that night).
Walker was frozen lecturing Johnny about bringing his motorbike into the hall.
Ghost Writer himself was still sitting on an abandoned sofa with Bertrand and Poindexter.
Kitty had been frightened by the Fright Knight crashing the door open, arms laden with various drinks (every kind – Ghost Writer suspected that the small alcohol shop floating nearby had made a rather nice profit that night).
Christmas … Fright ... Fright … Christmas …
A few images flickered into his head, ideas for a Christmas story – a poem! – or maybe just after, or maybe just before-
The Fright Before Christmas!
That was it! That would be his poems name! Finally, inspiration!
Grabbing the photo, he made a mad dash for his library and keyboard, stopping only to snatch a pen and a pad of paper. As he rocketed through the halls, he feverishly scribbled notes and story ideas down.
He reached the keyboard and threw everything down onto the smooth surface, grinning crazily. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going to stand in the way of him writing his first-ever Christmas poem.
(Oh, how wrong that statement would turn out to be …)
But first, he needed a cup of coffee.
Some fanfic writers will probably be able to relate to a few of the Ghost Writers upcoming problems, I expect.
As a side note, I think that Ghost Writer would be the kind of author that would get a little stressed if he couldn't find any inspiration for a long time. Hope that explains his behaviour a bit! Again, hope you liked!