Element Six. The Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance
Marcia Laverne Whitaker shook her head violently and found herself abed panting, sheets tangled around her, a web with 200 thread count and fraying rapidly. She furrowed her brows and ploughed her way to her computer (affectionately dubbed "Minmei"), uncertain in some respects but uncowed in others.
There suddenly appeared atop the monitor, amongst a plume of tissues and silver foil packets, a small man. His auburn hair curled prettily about his ears and his cheeks were rosy, as was his nose. His nose outshone his hair, as a matter of fact, redder than Rudolph's and polished to a brilliant gleam. He coughed, and made some rather congested sounds. This tiny foot-tall spirit had a cold.
Marcia knew better than to laugh this time. These seraphs looked strange and all, but they had unpleasant reality-check side effects that had not previously been calculated into her shameless giggle for self-preservation purposes. "Um ..." she stalled, watching with horror as the specter wiped his nose with his scarlet sleeve and resisting the sudden urge to do the same. "Tissue ...?"
"No thanks," said the apparition, with a voice both nasal and lyrical. "I've got more where these came from," he muttered as he pointed to the massive pile on which he sat. "Anyway," he hacked out, "I'm the Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance. You and I have a date with destiny, it seems."
"No we do not," said Marcia, backing up quickly. He appeared to be on some sort of powerful (although ineffective) decongestant, perhaps she could convince him that his goal was either nonexistent or pointless. "I don't write romance things," she declared authoritatively. "They're too gooey and mushy and stuff for me!" Whistling, she rolled back and forth on the balls of her feet a bit, and studied the soul out of the corner of her dull, round eye.
"I beg to differ," he sighed as he stood slowly. "Not a day goes by where I don't find one of your pieces of bantha fodder piled up on my desk, hiding the vitally important stuff like my medicine, covering it with reams upon reams of your astounding ignorance. The Ghost of Punnage Past had to be told to come here. Now I, on the other hand, came quite willingly."
Marcia already wanted to cry. She was being lectured by a Munchkin straight out of the Wizard of Oz. "What are you going to do," she sniffled, too bland to avoid asking the obvious. "Where are we going?"
"We're staying right here," said the Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance. "And I am going to read to you."
Marcia blinked.
"Oh yes indeed," he nodded. "Pull up a chair, strap yourself in if possible. I recommend using some nice strong rope, actually. Good heft, good weight, you know what I mean?" Marcia nodded blankly and sat on the floor, watching the lilliputian lad warily. He made a hacking sound and bent over forwards, then straightened himself with script in hand.
"'My Meeting With Trunks,'" he commenced. "'by: M.L. Writer. Steal and die.'"
