Is There a Ghost?

September 22nd

"I'm still in denial about the whole thing. No, I don't want wedges." I sat on the couch and stared at the table. She heaped sour cream onto hers and got me a Fruju from the freezer. The room smelled unusual, like buns from an Asian bakery, and the colour of the carpet combined with the afternoonish light made the room a bright sepia photograph of itself. Her cupboards were always full, but I wasn't really hungry.
It was easy enough to talk about things but I'd run out of things to say. "I don't want to talk about you anymore," she said. She said it nicely, I could tell she wasn't mean about the conversation. "I don't think that you should go away next year." I paused before telling her. She looked downwards. "That's what everyone's saying. They're all saying that I'm going to do well wherever I go. It's really annoying because I thought you were going to give me some actual advice."
There was a knock on the door. It was pretty fast, like a typewriter when you backspace. The door was open so there wasn't really a reason for him to knock. "Go to your Fancyman," I snapped half-bitterly, recoiling into the fluff-littered beanbag like a grouchy turtle. She didn't get up from her spot on the couch, but I could see her Facebook open from a gap in my coccoon. My Fruju lay unopened on the table.
The Fancyman closed the door with an almost-careful click. The orange-bouffanted fellow's upturned expression curled into sombriety and mild confusion as his inquistive face and slender frame appeared in the doorless arch. We looked at him. I don't know what we expected him to do. She always leaves her keyboard out in the living room besides the CDs and things, and we watched him as he silently walked over to it and sat, cross-legged, in front of it on the floor.
He played "Mary Had a Little Lamb," and it seemed very loud. I uncoiled from my beany fort. "I'll show you my movie," she enthused brightly in my direction. I'd played ukulele in her media project.
"Did you see the afterball photos?" laughed Fancyman.
"They're awful!" She opened Facebook, and I was amused by that fancy dude's lazy-eyelidded expressions.
I sat beside her, being cool and biting into my slightly melted Fruju. She sauntered into the other room to make us wedges after I'd finished it. "Let's play Trivial Pursuit!" decreed the Fancyman, prancing about in an elfin manner.
"Rebecca, you don't have to make them, I'll come and help you."
"No, it's ok. I want to make them."

Joe Bowman: 20/20. No errors. Structure is sophisticated and subtle, following the shift in the way characters treat each other as new characters enter the scene. Tension is built up between characters and ending is ambiguous, encouraging the reader to "close" the even themselves. Expression is flawless, a real talent for striking original imagery is obvious. Every sentence is deliberately crafted and economical but expressive. Ideas are mature, exploring concepts of friendships and jealousy. Well done!

And here is my blog from that day.
Just so you can get multiple perspectives, I suppose.