Ghosts On Facebook

f you check in to Facebook these days, you might have a haunted feeling!

The originators of Ghostletters, a collaborative writing group where members write as fictional or historical characters, have taken their clever creation to the level of social networking.  Not that there weren't plenty of historical characters and not a few fictional ones on Facebook already.  Many of you reading this have "friended" Edward II of England, Melisande d'Outremer, Hugh le Despenser, James "The Black" Douglas and Harold Godwinson.  And let's not forget Crispin Guest!

The new Ghostletters on Facebook simply takes the impersonations one more step.  These impersonations, more like Edward II abouve than Crispin Guest who speaks in the persona of his author, are in addition to Facebook members real communications.  For instance, rather than sharing the doings of his anonymous author, Chauncey the Bottle Imp uses his own vernacular to converse with other Ghostletters impersonators.

This all just started, but you can go to the Ghostletters community page on Facebook.  Read what Friar Jak, a walrus, a street kid from 10th century Winchester, a black and silver cat, a lady of medieval England, a young woman disguised as a Union soldier, and several others have to say for themselves.  You can respond to their status updates, chat with them, send them messages, poke them, and even invite them to play games with you.  That is, your own persona. your own historical or fictional character.

To do this in persona you will have to have a separate account for each character.. unless you just make sure you always indicate who is doing the talking.  I, for example, set up Stigand of Wintonceaster (stiganowintonceaster on Facebook) the 10th century street kid who will tell you about his dog Brothor and ask you for food.  I set up a free Yahoo mail account for Stigand, then registered on Facebook.  He set out to find people to friend.  I manage him, other characters and my own Facebook by opening more than one browser window at al time, signed in for each.

Sometime soon I will collect some of these fascinating characters' conversations and share them here.

Have fun!

Kerrick Tells a Ghost Story

On Ghostletters every year one of our stalwart members, David Webb, in the persona of Sam Malone, bar owner extraordinnaire, extends an invitation to all to come to Cheers and have a free drink.. if they tell a ghost story. We have had any number of interesting ghost stories, from kings and demons and even the Vice President of Hell. Here is Kerrick's offering. Do come join us on Ghostletters, won't you?

"But how do we get there?" Kerrick Trevalyan examined the scrap of parchment his harp master, O'Quill, had handed him, saying something about an invitation to a feast of some sort.

O'Quill shrugged. "Walk into Leofwen's alehouse and imagine we are walking into this other place of libation?"

The boy considered the Irish bard. "I guess that is as good a way as any. The worst that can happen is that we just go where we live anyway." He glanced at the parchment again. "Are we supposed to bring anything?"

O'Quill, fortyish, starting to spread a bit in the midriff, his dark hair unkempt, shook his head. ""It says the drinks are free, so it does, and I think that means we do not need any money. Good thing, too, as quite skint I am and have been for some time. D'ye have any yourself yourself?"

Kerrick frowned. "I do. But I need it. Do we take the harps?"

Pulling himself up to his not considerable height, the man said disgustedly, "I shall not be parted from my dear one, lad, and well ye know it."

The boy, his own hair a mousy brown, his eyes dark and shining, and his harp carved with arcane symbols. shrugged. "When do we go?"

With a Bill & Ted shake of his head, O'Quill replied, "Now then, how about now?" He hefted his harp, took Kerrick's elbow, and advance with him to the animal skin that served as a door to the alehouse where no one knew its name. He lifted the skin, and they, in unison, stepped through.

The two men from the tenth century stepped into a place like neither had ever beheld before. They seemed to be in a large room, paneled in wood, with wooden tables and chairs, a shining counter, and colorful lamps that glowed with a brighter light than any candle. People were
scattered about, some at the counter, some at tables, and a few standing.

"Don't bother, they're here," a woman wearing an abbreviated apron muttered.

In the room there was a distinct odor of malted beverages. "Ah, the sweet perfume of the best of alehouses," O'Quill cried rapturously. He propelled Kerrick to the bar,a s he later learned the counter was called.

"Hey, I gotta card you, kid," Woody called to Kerrick.

"Forget it, Woody. "The kid is either over a thousand years old or doesn't really exist." He extended his hand to shake. "You are our first guests from the Spiritual Telegraph. Welcome to Cheers! I'm Sam Malone."

"Malone is it? A fine Irish name, as is me own, O'Quill," the harp bearing multicolored clothing wearing Irishman declared.

Sam shook his hand. "Is this your son?" he asked, indicating Kerrick.

O'Quill considered the boy a moment. "One never knows, does one?" he grinned.

Kerrick had blushed. "No, I'm not. I'm Kerrick Trevalyan. I am from a small town in Cornwall."

Norm joked, "Oh thank God. When you came in with those harps, I thought you were angels and my time was up."

Sam quipped back, "When that time comes, the messengers will have pitchforks, not harps."

Norm raised his glass in a toast of agreement.

O'Quill was looking around. "Now then, was it a drink you were offering, my lad?"

Carla interjected, "Do you plan to tell a ghost story? The drinks are only for people.. and other things.. that tell stories."

O'Quill settled his gaze on Kerrick, "This lad sees the departed, my darlin', so he can tell you all the tales your heart desires."

Cliff asked, "You SEE ghosts? Really?"

Kerrick's blush had deepened. He frowned at his master. "Well I do not like for everyone to know. It's a curse."

O'Quill shook his head, "Indeed not, lad. 'Tis a gift." He cast his eyes about the group around the bar and explained, "He has it from his old grandma, so he does, but he is ashamed of old dearie. So sad."

"Shame on you, kid," Carla rebuked.

Kerrick whined, "I am not ashamed of her. I just do not like to... oh, hell. Let me catch my breath and I will tell you a story.."

Our story is interrupted by the arrival of a Hessian soldier who proves to be both that and a severed head.

The boy in early medieval garb took a deep breath. he was about to start telling his story when some kind of soldier came int he door and proceeded to tell his own story. kerrick was nervous, so he was glad of the interruption. When the man ook off his head and set it on the bar, he jumped behind O'Quill in fright.

O'Quill bowed and saluted to the man and the head. "Joy to ye, lads," he said jauntily. "Now where did that boy get to? Oh there you are."

Woody asked, "It's just a ghost. I thought you said you see them all the time."

Kerrick stammered, "Aye, I do, but they are always still all put together."

"C'mon, kid, tell us your story," Norm prompted.

"Well, all right," the boy said, eying the head warily.

This happened when I was still living in Cornwall. In fact, I was still a child. I used to go for long walks in the countryside. My grandmother was in charge of me, and she made me uncomfortable so I would slip away to get away from her.

"There ya go with that grandmother bit," Carla complained, having reappeared from the back room. "What was your problem with your poor old Nana, you little twerp?"

Kerrick looked offended. "I don't know what a twerp is, but aren't you being rather rude? I didn't like how my grandmother always talked to me about spirits and demons and little people and that sort of thing. The more I heard the more I felt like I could see the things too. I didn't want to, that's all." He gave Carla a defiant look.

"Well, why didn't you just say so," she responded in a sarcastic voice. She turned and Kerrick could just hear her muttered, "Twerp."

Sam glared at Carla's back. "Go ahead, kid," he prompted.

Kerrick began again.

Like I said, I would get out and wander the countryside. One time I came across a little brook near a standing stone. A little boy was playing there. He was dirty and his clothes were in shreds. He had a black eye and he didn't look like he got enough to eat. I hailed him. He looked scared and started to run away. I had some bread and cheese
with me, so I reached into my pouch and held the bread out to him. He hesitated and then started to inch back. he was too hungry to run but too scared to come close. So I went to the brook, slipped off my shoes, sat with my feet in the water and started to eat. I pretended he wasn't even there.

Well, that worked. I could hear him coming closer and he finally plopped down next to me. I offered him the bread, and he took it and wolfed it down ravenously. I brought out the cheese and gave it to him too. i figured I could get all needed, but this might be the last time he ate for a while. I sat with him for a while until he had eaten all I gave him. Then I asked him his name. He said, "Merryn." I asked him where he lived and he just shrugged. Then I asked him who hit him and blackened his eye. He looked really scared.

I changed the subject and he calmed down. I asked him if he played there often, and he nodded. I told him i would come back in a couple of days with more food.

I did. I came two days later and then several more times. The more time we spent together the more he came to trust me. He finally whispered in my ear, though there was no one around, that I should come with him and he would show me who had hit him. I let him take my hand and lead me through the fields and the woods. We came to a run down cottage. As soon as we got there I heard a child's scream from inside the cottage, then a man's loud voice. "That's my da. He is mad at my sister, Karenza. I am afraid he will do to her what he did to me."

I was really angry. In fact, I wasn't really thinking straight. I bunched up my fists and ran into the hut. It took some time for my eyes to get used to the dimness inside, but when I could see I couldn't understand what i saw.

"What was it?" Woody asked anxiously. "Was the bastard beating up the little girl?

"Nay. There was an old man, aye, but no little girl. There was an old woman though. She had a club in her hand and was about to strike the old man. He cried out to her, 'Karenza, no!"

I looked at the woman who was beating the very old man. I asked, "Are
you the grandmother of the boy and the girl, Merryn and Karenza?"

She had been glaring at me. Now she sneered. "I am no one's grandmother. My name is Karenza. My brother's name was Merryn. At least it was until this bastard beat him to death." I looked at her and then at the old man. She went on, "You just stay out of this, boy. This old man deserves his beating and more."

I didn't understand. How could the old woman be Merryn's sister? I went back out into the yard, but Merryn was gone. I called to him, but he did not answer. At last the old woman came back out. "Are you still snooping about?" I told her I was looking for Merryn. She shook her head. "I will take you to him." She set out through the woods and across the fields with me tailing not far behind. We ended up at the same brook near a standing stone where I had met Merryn. She stopped and pointed a bony finger at the spot where we had sat and he ate the food I brought. "The brook is fuller than it was then. Our da, after he killed him buried Merryn just there. Now be off with you.

"Did you ever go back to the spot?" Carla asked, drawn into the story.

"I did. many, many times. Every time I went there I left a little bread or cheese. I suppose the animals that lived nearby got it, but I like to think ;he did. Even the dead deserve our kindness. maybe more even than the living."

Kerrick sighed and smiled.

"Now how about that drink?" O'Quill said, leaning in to the bar.

Sam protested, "The kid told the story. He gets the drink."

"But he's a kid! he's under age." Norm said just as O'Quill was about to make some retort.

"Exactly what I was after sayin'. The lad's under age. It's a barbarcx notion, but it's true so he is. But we can't waste the drink now can we? So hand it over, my good man, and thanks."

Sam looked at Kerrick. "That was a good story, kid. And it really happened, huh?" he nodded to Woody to draw O'Quill a Guinness.

"Aye, it really happened."

"Give the kid a soda or somethin', Woody," Sam said.

Carla leaned towards Cliff and whispered, "You realize a fictional character just told Sam his story really happened, don't you." She sniggered and went over to take the orders of some new people who had come in.

FINIS

About Ghostletters

Creative writing at its most engaging.

Ever wondered what Sherlock Holmes might have to say to Pippi Longstocking? Or General George Patton to one of the earliest members of the Irish Republican Army? Or Albert Einstein to the Vice President of Hell? Ghostletters is where just those conversations can take place.

Each member portrays one or more historical, fictional or original characters, through email posts to the group or through storytelling of the narrative kind. For writers this is a unique opportunity to explore characterization. For anyone creative this is an opportunity to have some bona fide fun!

We have been around since 1995 and have boasted some redoubtable writers in our membership.. and we have had a hoot, pure and simple.

Feel free to join to read for a while before you declare a character or characters. Get to know us first, then jump in when you want to.

Join at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ghostletters/.

Letters from Ghosts

o all novelists come to see their characters as more real than they themselves are? i have.

I started Ghostletters, an email group, almost fifteen years ago. In it subscribers post as historical or fictional characters, never as themselves. For these very many years we have had every conceivable type of character, both original and derived fictional characters, and historical figures from Richard III to Samuel Clemens.

Today one of our number in his guise of a humorous little blue demon posted a tribute to a former member, Lisa Schmidt, who recently died. The tribute was lovely, speaking about how the mind and heart of the individual called Lisa had made worlds with us that will stay with all of us who knew her and loved the characters she "played" with. I happened to be on "sabbatical" from the group for most of the time Lisa was on it, so I read the little demon's words with a touch of envy for not having a share in that magic.

We lost another bright creative light on the group about a year ago. Anne Fraser was a bubbling font of laughter and creativity. I only knew her briefly, but others had spent long years in her company in the guise of a French vampire queen, an Elizabethan actor, and numerous other choice creations.

We miss Lisa and Anne of course. But for some reason the loss of the gray matter that created and shared Clem and Connell and Genevieve and Gabriel Tallant is striking me harder. I already knew my whole purpose in writing my own first novel was that one day I realized I would not be here forever. I thought of my king and queen and my Irish minstrels and could not bear the fact that when I was gone, so would all of them. I had to give them a separate home from my memory. Now I can hope that at least some people feel they know Lawrence, Shannon, and the rest.

What's hitting me after reading the post today on Ghostletters is that in many ways I can cope with the idea of my own passing better than I can with the snuffing out of the neurons that store my stories. I wonder if this is true of other novelists? Even if you write about historical figures, the essence of their personalities and lives that you made from the sketchy details of their reality makes them more real than real somehow.

I think of Lymond who lives on after Dorothy Dunnett, his author. He is keenly real to me. Is that what it means to succeed by giving a concept flesh? I hope Dunnett knew that there were people who would keep him alive, for long after she slipped off this mortal coil.

I think of all your characters, too numerous to list, that include Piers and Simon and Llewelyn and Brian and Elizabeth and Amparu and Patrick and Richard and Robin and... and... all of whom will reside in my head and heart though your location on this Earth is unknown to me.

I hope I can take Lawrence and the others with me wherever I go after I die, or if that is nowhere, that in some form they will remain alive and vibrant when I am nothing more than a name on a book cover. After all, they are more real than I am in the long run.

Get Lost, Won't You?

I mentioned in my most recent post that I was starting a fun little event on my oldest Internet project, the fourteen-year old Yahoogroup Ghostletters. The idea was to invite people to play survivors of a plane crash on a deserted island, á la LOST. The big difference would be, as with Ghostletters itself, that all the participants would be historical or fictional characters, and certainly not limited to humans... or even earthlings.

Only a few days in and the event is already a roaring success! Not only have some pretty darn interesting characters showed up on the island, we now have four or fice different ways they got there!

Here's a sample:

1. There is a wookie starship that just made sure the airplane that crashed did not kill any of the passengers.


2. Watching them is some sort of secret military installation whose may be one of possible causes of the crash.


3. An Irish Republican Army soldier from the 1920s thinks an explosive he had in his duffle did the damage.


4. Admiral Richard E. Byrd, the famous Antarctic explorer, who was flying the plane, thinks one of the engines stalled.


5. A white cat owned by each and every one of Henry VIII's wives finds herself in an unusually large sandbox.


6. More than one of the other survivors floated in.. a medieval era healer was shipwrecked and a tipsy bottle imp came in a corked bottle of Irish whiskey.


7. A well-known Breton mercenary froma certain wonderful novel I could name thinks he is dreaming.


8. There are three nuns looking for people to help.


9. Three people just evicted from their Georgia rental house, which they trashed before they left, think they are in Florida.


10. And it's just a matter of time until more turn up.

Taking a swig from the whiskey bottle, the IRA soldier gets an unexpected mouthful of Chauncey the Bottle Imp, whose Irish patois is even thicker than his own. The Breton mercenary chalks the event up to it being such an odd dream.. and what is that flashing over on that hill? Sun on a sword blade? Or light reflecting off binoculars?

Now how can you resist? You can come and read and jump in when the spirit moves you. Or you can jump in now. Just go to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ghostletters and get in on the fun.

We call it creative writing at its most engaging.. how about at its most just plain a gas?

The King Gets Arrrested: An Apochryphal Tale

[Explanatory note: In an early draft of "The Kings Goes to Juliana"written for Ghostletters a line that was supposed to say "It was Juliana with the pitcher ofwine and two cups" was typed as "two cops". This apocryphal talecomes from that typo. The Juliana story line was, thankfully, never meant to make it into the novel.]

The distracted King, in an effort to drive his lustful thoughts outwith alcohol, had called for wine to be brought to his chambers.When at last he heard the soft rap on the door, he went to open it tothe servant who would be carrying a pitcher of wine and one cup. Butwhen the King pulled open the door, he saw instead that it wasJuliana with a pitcher of wine.. and two COPS. He glanced at thecourtesan, then the men, clad in black leather leggings… we wouldcall them pants.. and black leather jackets. Each had a white helmetof a type that Lawrence had never seen before. And the visors seemedto be some sort of mirrored black glass that covered across the facehiding the eyes.

Lawrence looked at Juliana, who was I n a fair state of deshabille.He asked her, "What is the meaning of this, lady?"

At the word "lady" the two o officers exchanged smirks. Then thetaller one turned to the King.
"We need you to step outside. Do you have any weapons we should knowabout?"

The King looked puzzled. "What? Weapons? Of course I do. I havea sword and my dagger." He only then realized the impropriety of theman's question and drew himself up to his full height. "He took astep backwards.

Both cops drew their sidearms and the younger warned theKing, "Listen, man, we don't want no funny stuff."

Lawrence looked at the tiny cannons and guessed their purposealthough it was hard to imagine there could be much damage from thetiny cannonballs the weapons would send forth. He watched one of theofficers edge around him. The man demanded, "Where are the weapons,sir?" He caught site of the King's scabbard and sword and the beltwith the dagger attached hanging from the bedpost and walked over to secure them.

Lawrence wheeled and took a defensive stance. "How dare thee,varlet! Thou mayst not touch the King's sword!" He advanced on theman. He felt a hard wooden stick come around and held hard againsthis throat. The older cop had him in a strong choke hold.
"The King?" the man said menacingly. "You mean you're Elvis? WellElvis is about to leave the building."

Juliana had simply stood and watched it all, her arms across herample but only partially covered bosom.

Lawrence, half conscious was dragged from his rooms and out of thebuilding where the younger cop threw him against some sort of metalhorseless cart. "Put your hands on the car," he demanded.

The King dazed, complied. Juliana followed the men out of thebuilding. The older cop turned to her. "This the guy, ma'am?" Shenodded.

The younger cop, who had pulled Lawrence's arms behind him and cuffedhis wrists, went around to the back of the cart and opened a hatchand put the sword and belts inside, closing it. The older cop wentto a door toward the front and reached into an open window to pullout some small box attached to a lighted panel in the middle of thearea in front of what looked like chairs. He pushed a button on thebox and said into it, "Three Adam nine."

The King's eyes grew large as the tiny box responded, "Three AdamNine, go ahead."

The cop referred to a sheaf of paper and reported, "We are here onTrent between Maison de Soleil and Derby on a 768 frank."

The magic voice responded, "Affirmative. Is the scene secure?"

The cop nodded uselessly but spoke. "Affirmative. We have the RPhere. The subject had a sword and a dagger but we were able toconfiscate them."

The raspy voice asked, "Do you need to run a name?"

Three Adam nine, if that was his name, spoke into the box while theyounger cop took out a similar sheaf of papers and went over to talkto Juliana. "Affirmative. The subject is male, Caucasian, darkblonde and blue with facial hair. He is about 6' 3" . Last nameD'Arnett – david apostrophe adam robert nora edward tom tom. Firstof Lawrence, common spelling. Middle K for King.. No distinguishing marks. We are contacting him about the failureto comply with a constraining order. He did resist us, so we mayhave to bring him in. Can you check for wants and warrants?"

Juliana smirked. The King started to demand the meaning of thisagain but saw her look and shook his head. "Constraining order? Ibe the only man about these parts who can issue any orders."

The younger cop got an "I've heard it all before" look and laughed.
The voice on the magic box said, "D'Arnett Lawrence K. Birth date 1-3-46. One warrant, out of Wessex, a 10-66 for conquering. Non-extraditable. Break."
The cop replied "Go ahead."

Juliana explained, with a saucy tone, "I didst swear out aconstraining order, my lord. For failure to bed me."

Lawrence stood frozen to the spot. "What? How? Failure to bedthee? I dost not understand."
Juliana shot back, "Well thou wrote the laws here.. thou ought toknow what they be, my lord."
The two cops exchanged looks. The older one inquired, "Made thelaws??"

The box squealed and the voice came on quieter. "Uh.. there'ssomething noted in his record. Break."

The King shook his head. "I thinkest not that I approved that one.I dost not administer every little thing."

Just then the magic box squawked and the older cop listenedintensely. "Oh, affirmative. We didn't know. We will release theprisoner. 10-4. " He came over and turned the King around tounlock the cuffs. The King massaged his wrists.
"Sorry, your majesty. We did not realize you have diplomaticimmunity. Sorry, ma'am. We can't arrest him. "

Juliana spoke up defiantly, "But surely e'en the King must obey thelaw!"

The cop shrugged his shoulders. "No, sorry ma'am. You'll have totalk that one over with him. The King is above the law. I wish youhad looked into that before you pulled the department into this.You know he has a wife, don't you?

Juliana pouted and stomped up the stairs into the building. Lawrencefollowed the form as it disappeared through the open doorway. Helooked at the older cop.

"Listen, your majesty, it's none of my business, but we have somehistory with that one. You might want to take advantage of afreebie, if you know what I mean. She's pretty tenacious."
The King said, "Tellest me about it." He gave the men an irritatedlook and followed the woman into the building. The officers lookedat each other, shrugged, and got into their car and drove away. Theyounger cop took the talking box and said into it, "Three Adam nine..we're clear. The 768. Will be out on paper. Lots and lots of paper."

"Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do..."