The writer clutched her head in despair, looking at the crumpled pieces of paper sprawled across the desk. Her fingers were tired and smudged with ink, but words seemed to elude her.She bit the pen in frustration, literally at a loss for words. Her weary eyes came to rest on the party invitation, shoved under the coffee mug and tainted with careless brown stains. She grimaced. She loathed going to parties with a passion, especially the kind of extravagant parties he threw.
‘Hmmph. Bloody fancy shindig,’ she snorted. But she had to report back to him, sooner or later, and it was best to get this over with as quickly as possible. Just like ripping off a Band-Aid.
She sighed. Time to doll up. And better practise that fake smile too.
She sipped quietly on her champagne, marvelling at the grandeur of the hall. What was the word for it? Ostentatious.Yes. The room screamed power, success and fame. And she didn’t belong here. She didn’t fit among these over-dressed, vain people with pretentious smiles and words. It was suffocating and all she wanted to do was flee and never look back. Lose herself in a world where only words reigned supreme.
‘Breathe. You don’t have to stay here for long.’ she muttered to herself. She tightened the shimmery wrap around her shoulders resolutely, her eyes roving over the crowd in search of him.
And there he was. Amidst a group of simpering girls, he stood looking nonchalant. As soon as their eyes met, his lips curved into his trademark smirk. He looked like the proverbial cat who got the cream.
“Mighty fine fella, that author is! Almost as if he can read a woman’s mind, the way he writes!” exclaimed an old lady brandishing a wine glass. “That boy there, is going places with those fine brains of his, mark my words.”
Her lips lifted in a sardonic smile, hearing the old lady gush. If only she knew!
“He had brains,” she conceded, “Although many now question whether he could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements.”
The old lady shot her a quizzical look. Upon receiving a shrug in response, she walked away muttering.
“Well, well, well! If it isn’t my little ghost” He whispered in her ear, startling her. “I didn’t think you would come. Delightful party, isn’t it? I was just being congratulated for my fascinating insight into the female psyche.”
She sneered at him. Smug bastard! She wanted to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. “What if I spilled the beans? That I am your ghost-writer? This success, this fame belongs to me.You are nothing more than a façade.”
He smiled coldly. “Look around yourself. Do you think you could handle dealing with these people? I see you cringe at the mere thought of it. You would rather hide behind words. This world is not meant for you. Do what you do the best and leave the rest to me.” She nodded stiffly and gazed off into the distance.
“You never visit me unless you have to slap the manuscript on my table. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
She glared at him and then sighed miserably. Understanding dawned upon him. “You’ve got writer’s block!”
“There is no need to be so happy about it,” she snapped back. Tapping her temple, she growled, “If this well dries up, then you got yourself a water crisis.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement. “The words maybe yours, little ghost, but the ideas are mine. Care to dance with me?” He led them onto to the dance floor smoothly, mingling with the other couples.
They twirled around in silence for some time. The music had slowed down to a soothing, sensual rhythm. They had danced their way into a deserted corner of the ballroom.
His fingers caressed her lips. “What the-,” she muttered trying to pull away. He winked at her. “You’ve got ink stains on your lips.” He leaned in closer trailing his lips briefly over hers and murmured, “Write about how lethal routine is. About man’s search for adventure and unknown. About fiery passion and lazy kisses. About witty banter. Write about your deepest, darkest fears. Write till you just can’t write anymore. Writing is liberating. Writing is your safe harbour.”
She gazed at him, entranced. “Why did you stop writing then?”
“I didn’t. I write through you. And now I should return to the party. It’s time for you to disappear, my little ghost. I daresay that the writer’s block should no longer be a problem. Shatter it into a million pieces and write. I will be waiting.”
The confused thoughts that had been swirling in her head, were finally down on paper. Halfway through a sentence, she paused and smiled.
They were the two sides of the same coin, after all.
This story was written by my friend Sanchita, or Sancho, as I call her.
If you liked it, please leave comments here, complimenting her about it.
I’m sure she’ll like that!
This story is a part of a series I’m going to post written by my friends based on Harry Potter prompts. You can check out the post where I explain it all here.
This is the first story in the series.
The prompt “He had brains,” she conceded, “Although many now question whether he could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements.” is from ‘Harry potter and the Deathly Hallows.’
I’ll put up the next story on the 13th of December and the prompt is “For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby.”