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Description
Ghost Writer let out a contented sigh as he sipped the Cappuccino, lazily watching his surroundings. The coffee shop wasn’t very busy; there were still plenty of seats around. Ghost Writer smiled slightly. It was amazing what spooks the presence of a coffee shop brought out from their lairs.

A few of the female ghosts had obviously decided to meet up for coffee; Ember, Desiree, Spectra and Kitty were chatting away in a corner about anything and everything they could think of (Ghost Writer caught a few snatches of conversation; mainly the names ‘Bertrand’ ‘Skulker’ ‘Johnny’ and the words ‘idiot’ ‘useless’ and ‘jerk’.)

Skulker was sulking in the corner, glaring at his drink as though it was the bane of his existence. Ghost Writer wasn’t about to enquire about what was wrong (though the ladies’ conversation gave him a good idea); those weapons concealed in Skulker’s armour hurt.

Box Ghost was by the counter, eyeing the various boxes stored along the shelves (Ghost Writer failed to notice his tea box – minus tea - resting by the Box Ghost’s feet), but surprisingly behaving himself. Moments later, he was presented with two hot drinks and a bag of coffee and he flew out of the store at breakneck speed, almost smashing into a cloaked figure.

Ghost Writer blinked as the master of time himself, Clockwork, floated silently into the shop. Conversation slowly ground to a halt as people took notice of the adult ghost approaching the counter, amid whispers of “why isn’t he changing age?” (Not many people knew that Clockwork could stop his age-shifting, if only temporarily. Ghost Writer did – he’d read it in a book when on a trip with a few other ghosts; a library in Germany if he remembered correctly…)

He hovered before the counter, and spoke in his calm voice. “A regular Cappuccino please.”

A few cheers went up, and conversation resumed. Clockwork waited patiently before collecting the drink (and storing the coffee beans on a hook on his belt) and floating quietly over to Ghost Writer’s table, much to the writer’s surprise.

“Ghost Writer. I feel I should warn you about certain undesirable futures that have been presented to me concerning your new poem, The Fright Before Christmas.”

Ghost Writer looked taken aback. Clockwork continued. “One is that your poem is destroyed, and you spend a long time in Walker’s prison.” Ghost Writer opened his mouth to object. “The second” Clockwork was not going to be interrupted “is that your poem will become an instant success and you will receive hundreds of thousands of oranges from fans-”

There was a thud as Ghost Writer fell off of his chair in fear. “Of course, there are more preferable futures which I won’t tell you. But heed my warning, Ghost Writer.” Clockwork seemed to grow taller “only misery and pain will be your companions if you continue writing this poem. Good day.” And with that, the cloaked spook swept out of the door, sipping his drink while he did so.

Ghost Writer blinked slightly before frowning in steely determination. As much as he hated going against someone with far superior knowledge, he was not about to give up writing The Fright Before Christmas. No, he had suffered too much and come too far to turn back (you haven’t started writing yet, you fool! A voice snapped in his head).

Ghost Writer ignored it and finished his coffee. “Nothing is going to stop me” he whispered in promise to no-one in particular.

***

Clockwork sighed as he watched the Ghost Writer float home happily. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He muttered, taking a gulp of the coffee.

A cough came from behind the now-elderly ghost. Clockwork grimaced. Just relax. He’s just doing this to irritate you.

“And where is my Mocha?” Clockwork turned around to glare at a battered Fenton Thermos resting on a shelf, where the voice had come from.

“I didn’t get you one. I never will. So shut up and let me get on with my afterlife.” Clockwork replied angrily (obviously, he was sick and tired of listening to the psychotic ghost talk or hurl abuse at anything he could think of). Clockwork obviously needs to wait until the caffeine kicks in before he talks to someone, otherwise he gets stressy.

There was a tense silence, and Clockwork thanked everything he could think of that the evil ghost had shut up.

“Not even a normal coffee?”

“Shut up!”

Description
Ghost Writer let out a contented sigh as he sipped the Cappuccino, lazily watching his surroundings. The coffee shop wasn’t very busy; there were still plenty of seats around. Ghost Writer smiled slightly. It was amazing what spooks the presence of a coffee shop brought out from their lairs.

A few of the female ghosts had obviously decided to meet up for coffee; Ember, Desiree, Spectra and Kitty were chatting away in a corner about anything and everything they could think of (Ghost Writer caught a few snatches of conversation; mainly the names ‘Bertrand’ ‘Skulker’ ‘Johnny’ and the words ‘idiot’ ‘useless’ and ‘jerk’.)

Skulker was sulking in the corner, glaring at his drink as though it was the bane of his existence. Ghost Writer wasn’t about to enquire about what was wrong (though the ladies’ conversation gave him a good idea); those weapons concealed in Skulker’s armour hurt.

Box Ghost was by the counter, eyeing the various boxes stored along the shelves (Ghost Writer failed to notice his tea box – minus tea - resting by the Box Ghost’s feet), but surprisingly behaving himself. Moments later, he was presented with two hot drinks and a bag of coffee and he flew out of the store at breakneck speed, almost smashing into a cloaked figure.

Ghost Writer blinked as the master of time himself, Clockwork, floated silently into the shop. Conversation slowly ground to a halt as people took notice of the adult ghost approaching the counter, amid whispers of “why isn’t he changing age?” (Not many people knew that Clockwork could stop his age-shifting, if only temporarily. Ghost Writer did – he’d read it in a book when on a trip with a few other ghosts; a library in Germany if he remembered correctly…)

He hovered before the counter, and spoke in his calm voice. “A regular Cappuccino please.”

A few cheers went up, and conversation resumed. Clockwork waited patiently before collecting the drink (and storing the coffee beans on a hook on his belt) and floating quietly over to Ghost Writer’s table, much to the writer’s surprise.

“Ghost Writer. I feel I should warn you about certain undesirable futures that have been presented to me concerning your new poem, The Fright Before Christmas.”

Ghost Writer looked taken aback. Clockwork continued. “One is that your poem is destroyed, and you spend a long time in Walker’s prison.” Ghost Writer opened his mouth to object. “The second” Clockwork was not going to be interrupted “is that your poem will become an instant success and you will receive hundreds of thousands of oranges from fans-”

There was a thud as Ghost Writer fell off of his chair in fear. “Of course, there are more preferable futures which I won’t tell you. But heed my warning, Ghost Writer.” Clockwork seemed to grow taller “only misery and pain will be your companions if you continue writing this poem. Good day.” And with that, the cloaked spook swept out of the door, sipping his drink while he did so.

Ghost Writer blinked slightly before frowning in steely determination. As much as he hated going against someone with far superior knowledge, he was not about to give up writing The Fright Before Christmas. No, he had suffered too much and come too far to turn back (you haven’t started writing yet, you fool! A voice snapped in his head).

Ghost Writer ignored it and finished his coffee. “Nothing is going to stop me” he whispered in promise to no-one in particular.

***

Clockwork sighed as he watched the Ghost Writer float home happily. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He muttered, taking a gulp of the coffee.

A cough came from behind the now-elderly ghost. Clockwork grimaced. Just relax. He’s just doing this to irritate you.

“And where is my Mocha?” Clockwork turned around to glare at a battered Fenton Thermos resting on a shelf, where the voice had come from.

“I didn’t get you one. I never will. So shut up and let me get on with my afterlife.” Clockwork replied angrily (obviously, he was sick and tired of listening to the psychotic ghost talk or hurl abuse at anything he could think of). Clockwork obviously needs to wait until the caffeine kicks in before he talks to someone, otherwise he gets stressy.

There was a tense silence, and Clockwork thanked everything he could think of that the evil ghost had shut up.

“Not even a normal coffee?”

“Shut up!”