EB

• G.H.O.S.T

Ezra is a young detective who as a child discovered that he can do something no one else can-- see ghosts. Ezra tries to live a normal life alongside his ghostly friends and manage a detective agency, but the thing is, he is a squeamish coward who cannot handle most of the cases-- that's where Charles, the ghost of a serial killer steps in and (sometimes) saves the day. This episodic comic follows the daily shenanigans of Ezra, Charles, and many others as they go about their everyday lives.

WRITINGThe LetterI still remember the first letter I wrote to you. I remember it so vividly, the feeling of the tip of the pen scraping against the paper sounded so soothing, and the scent of ink and fresh tea lingered in the air the whole time. I remember the paper, it was in a neat pile next to me, all the sheets a different shade and shape. Some had ink marks around the edges, others were misshapen with bumps and cut-outs. The paper was from a batch that had been recalled for errors, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. I found the paper beautiful, it felt more real than the other ones. The imperfections on its surface are what made it stand out to me, and I hoped never to run out.
The pen I used was a fountain pen I was gifted by an old friend, a heavy pen with a wooden barrel and a copper tip. It had bands around it that were coming loose, I would often scrape my finger on them when I was trying to write. The ink was older, it had lost some of its color but it still functioned fine. The jar had spill marks on both sides and I could barely read the label anymore, as it was ripped and worn out, exposing the white layer underneath in many places.
I remember getting my chair from the other side of the room where I had used it to reach a book on the top shelf of my bookcase, the book was about preparing for the unexpected and I still had it on my desk from the night before. The chair was rather unremarkable, a regular wooden chair with a cushion, but I still held it dear to my heart as it was the first piece of furniture I had ever owned. It didn’t match my desk and was slightly too big to slide under it, so I often kept it next to it against a wall. On my desk, I had a cup of tea I had just made, and a plate with three biscuits- one for each sip. The tea was the earl gray blend you had sent me all that time ago, but I fear that my lackluster brewing skills had spoiled it. I had made it a bit too hot and burnt the roof of my mouth on the first sip, so I let it cool down for a bit before trying again. For that I apologize, I’m sure you gifted it intending it to be drunk in a proper manner and not in the rushed way I did. I’m not as young as I used to be, so my hand trembled each time I lifted the cup, I was worried I might spill its contents on the letter so each time I took a sip I had to lower the pen and use both my hands.
I must admit, I feel insensible loneliness without you. Each morning I watch the sunrise, wondering if you’re doing the same wherever you are. With each passing day, it feels like you’re drifting further and further away from me; from our past, the things we shared. I miss our little talks on the porch, by the windchime with a blue jay-shaped ornament at the top. Or was it a yellow-rumped warbler? Do you remember? The one with the broken beak next to the column you wrote your initials on the day we met. Do you recall that one summer night, when the sun didn’t go down? We sat down on the porch, you were smoking a cigarette that you lit with the last match you had in the box. I think it was a Chesterfield cigarette, but I could be wrong. We sat there for hours, talking about everything and nothing at the same time, just taking in the smell of the rain and the cool winds that came by every now and then. You had just enrolled the day before, you said that you were excited but you had that worrisome look in your eyes. I knew that you only saw it as a duty to please your parents and that you weren’t feeling up to it yourself. I recall saying “If they want it so badly, why don’t they do it themselves?” and you let out a small chuckle. I always quite liked your laugh, you were a very stoic man usually so seeing you laugh often reminded me of humanity. Ever since you left, I keep thinking that I heard you. When I’m outside, I’ll hear someone with a similar voice- a similar laugh, and turn around to see a face I do not recognize. I wonder if that’s how you feel out there, searching for anything familiar to cling to. Goodness, I miss you more than I thought, I think I’m starting to tear up remembering the good times. Oh, I’m reading that book you gave me before you left. I know it’s been some time since then, but I just haven’t gotten around to it before now. I quite like it, the main character seems realistic. The way he thinks and acts is something you could see in real life, maybe not here, but somewhere else. I relate to his struggles with aging and sadness, not being able to turn back the clock and go back to when we were young and stupid.My life is so very quiet now. No wife to keep me company, and no family that visits me. I spend most of my time alone now, sitting in the living room, illuminated by what used to be. My furniture has started to show its age, and in that regard, I’m no different from a wooden table or a leather seat. My favorite place in my home is this very corner of the study. It's quiet and far away enough from the window so that the sun never shines directly into my eyes. I’ve kept so many things around to just gather dust, but they’re all reminders to me. Reminders that nothing lasts forever, and everything will go out of use. The world around me is changing, but I can never experience it the same way I experienced my world when I was younger. I’ve lost count of how many letters I’ve sent to you over the years, and I’m not even sure if they have reached you. You haven’t replied to a letter of mine in a few months, and I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t worry me. The last time I saw you, you were getting ready to go fight for our freedom, you seemed so calm. I can just imagine the pride you felt after that first victory, a chance to breathe. I hope that your letters are just stuck in time and that nothing worse has happened to you, old friend. I don’t know how I’d be if you left this world, you’re the only one that I have left. You are a part of my life and have been for decades now, and if one flower in a bush dies, the rest are sure to follow. If you’re gone, I know that my time will come soon as well, but I am afraid. Afraid of what comes after, afraid that I’ll never be able to watch the sunrise ever again. I don’t want to depart yet, in my head we’re still those 20 years old sitting on that porch, by the wind chime with a bird on it. So please, if you receive this letter, write back to me. Write back to me, so that I know you’re still alive. All I ask for before it’s my time to go is to hug you once more. I haven’t smoked in years, but I would like to share one more cigarette with you. All that I ask for is time, and I know that seems like a lot, but can you blame me? I am afraid old friend. My body aches more than it ever has before, even more than it did after all those benders we went on. But what help is it to pour my heart out on a piece of paper, all it does is bring temporary comfort but no solution. I think this will have to be the end of my letter, even though I hoped to end it on a more positive note.With Love
An Old Friend------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------My BodyMy body is poison. My flesh is lead and my blood is cyanide, corroding my veins and everything it touches. Everyday living in this poisonous body is agony- pure, deafening pain. I wake up and dream of cutting it into pieces, turning it into paint. Beautiful and bright paints of a green hue, paints that last forever and will not crack. I want to paint everything with it, my plates and my tables, so that when people sit down to dine, they can taste my paint. I’ll paint my windows with it so that anyone trying to peek in won’t see me, all my mirrors so that when I look in them all I will see is my paint.
My body must be poisonous, as it makes me sick to my stomach. I try to cover it but people pull away those covers, and with them- my skin. It comes off in pieces, their touch feels like small blades scraping away at it, peeling it off to get to what’s under it. Every touch leaves a small mark that I can’t scrub off, no matter how hard I try. I want to scrub off all the pieces they’ve ruined and watch them fall down the drain; where it will flow into the ocean and be forgotten about. I don’t recognise the person, the body that I’m in, as it’s not me. It’s a stranger covered in my paint, my beautiful and vibrant paint. My paint is unlike any other, it’s unique and has a smell no one can resist. It calls for an artist to paint a beautiful picture with it, mix it with all the other paints until just a hint of it is left. An artist can somehow create the most breath-taking things even with the most unsightly mediums; in a way I wish to be one. They’ll paint a picture, like a god they’ll create something from nothing- just to never think of it again. They’ll wash my paint off their brush, leaving no trace of it, forget it.
Today the whole world went silent. Time stopped; or at least that’s what it felt like. I feel guilt, regret, but I do not know what for. Did I do something? Why is my chest tight and my steps heavy, why can’t I feel awake? It feels like I am unconscious; drifting away like a stray balloon, seeing the others tied together in a neat bunch as I slowly float away, all alone. I fear that if I close my eyes I might not be able to open them again, and if I do, my paint will have lost all of its beautiful color. The green will turn into an orange and it will chip, chip away from all my mirrors, forcing me to see my disgusting body, my skin falling off and my bones corroding.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------BallerinaCold…
Touch…
Her touch was so cold.My ballerina.We were laying on the snow
Her hair red like fresh blood,
contrasting with the white.
Me and my ballerina.The snowflakes,
dancing under the lights of the streetlamps,
like she did.
She held my hand, my chest warm,
but oh,
how cold her touch was.My ballerina.We laid there,
not moving,
afraid that they’ll see.
She didn’t dance then,
her eyes wide open,
as the snow turned red around us.My ballerina.Her hair was light,
like the snow under her used to be.
Not red,
Oh her hair was not red.
It was silent,
when she drew her last breath.My ballerina.It was dark,
there were no lights around.
The snow melted,
and with it,
so did the memory of her.Ballerina.Did I know her?
What was her name?
I feel I remember,
but I cannot recall.I wish to,
one day,
feel her cold hand in mine,
once more.
Just once, that is all I ask for.
I want to remember,
her.Who is she?
Why do I know her?
Why does it hurt so much,
when I think of her?A ballerina,
Oh,
was she a ballerina?